CHAPTER XXIV. A WALK BY MOONLIGHT
The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step to an acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. Seldom a day passed without some interchange of civilities; and as they progressed in knowledge of each other, they advanced in esteem, so that, ere long, they learned to regard themselves as members of a single family. The conventional usages of society are stronger barriers against friendship than the world deems them. The life of cities supplies a coinage of social intercourse which but very imperfectly represents the value of true feeling; while in remoter and less cultivated regions, men are satisfied to disencumber themselves of this false currency, and deal frankly and openly with each other.
How little now did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir Archy's peculiarities of manner and expression! how seldom did Sybella think Kate's opinions wild and eccentric! and how difficult would it have been to convince the fastidious Guardsman, that the society of St. James's possessed any superiority in tone or elegance over the evenings at “the Lodge.”
The real elements of mutual liking were present here: the discrepancy of character and taste—the great differences of age, and habit of thought—yet moulded into one common frame of esteem from the very appreciation of qualities in others, in which each felt himself deficient. If Kate admired the simple but high-minded English girl, whose thoughts were rarely faulty, save when attributing to others higher and purer motives than the world abounds in, Sybella looked up with enthusiastic delight to the glittering talents of her Irish friend—the warm and generous glow of her imagination—the brilliant flashes of her wit—the ready eloquence of her tongue, and, perhaps, not least of all, the intrepid fearlessness of her nature, inspired her with sentiments of almost awe, which seemed to deepen, and not diminish her affection for Kate O'Donoghue.
It might appear an ungenerous theme to dwell on; but how often are our friendships suggested by self-love?—how frequently are we led to think highly and speak praisingly of qualities the opposite to our own, from the self-satisfaction our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice must, indeed, be a great virtue, when its very shadow can ennoble human nature. Not such, however, were the motives here. Kate's admiration for the unerring rectitude of Sybella's character was as free from taint as was Sybella's heartfelt enthusiasm for the Irish girl. As for Frederick Travers, the same dissimilarity in character which made him at first compare Kate with his sister disadvantageously, now induced him to be struck and fascinated by her qualities. The standard by which he had measured her, she had long since passed, in his estimation; and any idea of a comparison between them would now have appeared ridiculous. It was true many of her opinions savoured of a nationality too strong for his admiration. She was intensely Irish—or at least what he deemed such. The traditions which, as a child, she had listened to with eager delight, had given a bias to her mind that grew more confirmed with years. The immediate circumstances of her own family added to this feeling, and her pride was tinctured with sorrow at the fallen condition of her house. All her affection for her cousins could not blind her to their great defects. In Mark she saw one whose spirit seemed crushed and stunned, and not awakened by the pressure of misfortune. Herbert, with all his kindliness of nature and open-heartedness, appeared more disposed to enjoy the sunshine of life, than to prepare himself to buffet with its storms.
How often she wished she had been a boy; how many a day-dream floated before her of such a career as she might have struck out! Ireland a nation—her “own sons her rulers”—had been the theme of many an oft-heard tale, and there was a poetry in the sentiment of a people recalled to a long-lost, long-sought-for nationality, that excited and exalted her imagination.
Her convent education had stored her mind with narratives of native suffering and Saxon tyranny, and she longed for the day of retribution on the “proud invaders.” Great was her disappointment at finding her cousins so dead to every feeling of this kind; and she preferred the chivalrous ardour of the English soldier to the sluggish apathy of Mark, or the happy indolence of Herbert O'Donoghue.
Had Frederick Travers been an Irishman, would he have borne his country's wrongs so meekly? was a reflection that more than once occurred to her mind, and never more powerfully than on parting with him, the very evening we have mentioned. He had accompanied them, on their return to Carrig-na-curra, which, as the night was fine and the moon nearly at her full, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely accepted an arm when walking, had, by some accident, taken his on this occasion, Sir. Archy leaning on that of Herbert.
The young soldier listened with a high-beating heart, as she related an incident, of which the spot they were traversing had been the scene. It was a faithless massacre of a chieftain and his followers, seduced, under pretences of friendship and a pledge of amity.
“They told him,” said she, “that his young wife, who had been carried away by force, and imprisoned for two entire years, should on this spot be restored to him; that he had but to come, with twelve of his retainers, unarmed, save with their swords, and that here, where we now stand, she should once more become his own. The hour was sunset, and he waited, with anxious impatience, beneath that tall cliff yonder, where you can see the deep cleft. Strange enough, they have added a legend to the true story, as if their wrongs could derive any force from fiction! and they tell you still, that the great rock was never split until that night. Their name for it, in Irish, is 'the rent,' or 'the ruptured pledge.' Do I weary you with these old tales?”
“No, no; go on, I entreat you. I cannot say how the scene; increases its fascinations, from connection with your story.”
“He stood yonder, where the black shadow now crosses the road, and having dismounted, he gave his horse to one of his attendants, and walked, with an anxious heart, up and down, waiting for their approach.
“There was less sympathy among his followers for their chieftain's sorrow than might be expected; for she was not a native born, but the daughter of an English earl. He, perhaps, loved her the more—her very friendlessness was another tie between them.”
“Says the legend so, or is this a mere suspicion on your part?” whispered Travers softly.
“I scarcely know,” continued Kate, with an accent less assured than before. “I believe I tell you the tale as I have heard it; but why may she not have been his own in every sentiment and thought—why not have imbibed the right, from him she learned to love?” The last words were scarcely uttered, when, with a sudden exclamation, less of fear than astonishment, Kate grasped Travers' arm, and exclaimed—“Did you see that!”
“I thought some dark object moved by the road side.”
“I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gain the thicket yonder: he was alone, however.”
“And I am armed,” said Travers, coolly.
“And if you were not,” replied she, proudly, “an O'Donoghue has nothing to fear in the valley of Glenflesk. Let us join my uncle, however, for I see he has left us some distance behind him;” and while they hastened forward, she resumed her story with the same unconcern as before the interruption.
Travers listened eagerly—less, it is true, in sympathy with the story, than in delight at the impassioned eloquence of her who related it. “Such,” said she, as they turned to bid him farewell at the old keep on the road side, “such are the traditions of our land; they vary in time and place, and persons; but they have only one moral through all—what a terrible thing is slavery!”
Travers endeavoured to turn the application of her speech, by some common-place compliment about her own powers of inflicting bondage; but she stopped him suddenly, with “Nay, nay; these are not jesting themes, although you may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and inexperienced as I am; nor will I speak of them again, if they serve but as matter for laughter.”
Amid his protestations of innocence against this charge, which, in his ardour, he pushed farther than calmer judgment might warrant, they shook hands cordially, and parted.
“He's a fine-hearted fellow, too,” thought Kate, as she slowly moved along in silence. “Saxon though he be, there's a chord in his bosom that responds to the touch of truth and honour.”
“Noble girl,” said Frederick, half aloud, “it would be hard to rebuke treason, when spoken from such lips;” then added, with a smile—“It's no fair temptation to expose even a Guardsman to.”
And thus, each speculated on the character of the other, and fancied how, by their own influence, it might be fashioned and moulded to a better form; nor was their interest lessened in each other's fortune from the fact, that it seemed to involve so much of mutual interposition.
“You should not walk this road so late,” said Mark O'Donoghue, almost rudely, as he opened the door to admit them. “The smugglers are on the coast now, and frequently come up the glen at nightfall.”
“Why not have come to be our escort, then?” said Kate, smiling.
“What? With the gay soldier for your guard,” said he, bitterly.
“How knew you that, my worthy cousin?” said Kate, rapidly, and then, with a significant shake of the head, added, in a whisper—“I see there are marauders about.”
Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and turning abruptly away, sought his own room in silence.