  Kate O'Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert's failure than she had let appear to the youth, or even confessed to herself. It was not that the character of his ambition enlisted her sympathies, or engaged her interest. Far from it: she thought too meanly of such triumphs, and knew not how far they shed an influence on a future career. The habits of her education, all her early prejudices, disposed her to regard the life of a soldier as the only one becoming a gentleman. The passion for military glory, which the great victories of the Republic and the Consulate had spread throughout Europe, penetrated into every remote village of the continent, and even the prison-like walls of the convent did not keep out the spirit-stirring sounds of drum and trumpet, the tramp of marching hosts, and the proud clangor of war. It was a time when the soldier was every thing. There was but one path in life by which to win honour, rank, fame, and fortune. Even the humblest might strive, for the race was open to all; or, in the phrase of the period, every conscript left a spare corner in his knapsack for his future “baton de marÉchal.” All she had ever seen of foreign society, partook of this character. For, strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristocracy, a new and splendid chivalry was founded—a chivalry, whose fascinations covered many a wrong, and made many a bad cause glorious by the heroism it evoked! The peaceful path in life was, then, in her estimate, the inglorious one. Still, her proud nature could not brook defeat in any thing. It was not without its influence upon the hearts and minds of her house, that the eagle figured as their crest. The soaring bird, with outstretched wing, careering high above his compeers, told of a race who once, at least, thought no ambition above their daring; and she was worthy of the haughtiest of her ancestors. Too proud to enter into any detail of Herbert's failure, she dismissed the subject as briefly as she could, and made her appearance in the drawing-room without any perceptible change of manner; nor did she appear to take any notice of the announcement made by Sir Marmaduke to his son, that Hemsworth, who had just arrived from Scotland, would join the family circle at dinner. Kate had never seen him, but his name was long associated in her mind with anecdotes of oppression and cruelty to her uncle—of petty insults and annoyances which the letters from Carrig-na-curra used constantly to tell of, and of which her relatives abroad had often descanted in her hearing. The picture she had drawn of him in her own mind was not a flattering one—composed of features and ingredients which represented all that was base, low-minded, and treacherous—a vulgar sycophant, and a merciless tyrant. What was her astonishment, almost her chagrin, to discover, that Hemsworth entered the room a gentleman-like person, of about five-and-forty, tall, and well-formed, with regular features, rather melancholy in their expression than otherwise, and with a voice singularly low, soft, and pleasing, his manner a mixture of well-bred ease, and that excessive deference so often seen in those who have passed a long portion of life about persons of rank superior to their own, but without the slightest trace, that she could discover, of any thing subservient. With all her disposition to be critical, she could find little fault with either his manner or his conversation, nor could she detect any appearance of affectation. On the contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt himself among friends, and need set no limits to his natural frankness. On the several topics he talked, he spoke with good sense and fairness; and even when the often agitated question of the state of Ireland was alluded to, he surprised Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, speaking of the people in terms of kindliness and even affection—lauding the native virtues of their character, and dwelling with pleasure on the traits which advantageously distinguish them from the peasantry of other lands. She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by degrees, with interested attention, and, at last, with actual delight, to the narrative he gave of the social condition of Ireland; in which he laboured to show that a mistaken estimate of the people by England—a misconception of the national character, a contempt of it, perhaps—had perpetuated usages, which, by their injustice, had excited the hatred and animosity of the country, and led to that condition of insulting depreciation on one side, and proud defiance on the other, which the two people exhibited towards each other. So well and ably did he sustain his part—so powerfully support each position by reference to some fact with which his ample memory supplied him—that Sir Marmaduke was eventually obliged to confess himself vanquished, though unconvinced—who ever was, when worsted?—and Frederick, chagrined at the favour Kate bestowed on the speaker, merely remarked as he concluded— “Very conclusive and satisfactory, I have no doubt, it is; but, in my mind, all you have said goes to prove, that we English are a very inferior nation, and very unworthily placed in rule and governance over a people so much our superiors.” Kate's eyes flashed with an unwonted fire, and for an instant she felt almost unable to control the temptation to answer this taunt; but a quiet smile of half acquiescence on Hemsworth's face so adequately expressed what she wished but dared not say, that she merely returned the smile, and was silent. Had Hemsworth's whole object been on that evening to disabuse Kate O'Donoghue of her dislike to him—to obliterate all memory of the wrongs with which she had heard him charged towards her family—he could not have chosen a more successful path. There was the very degree of firmness and decision she admired in the manner he gave his opinions, and yet all the courtesy of one who would not be supposed capable of advancing them as incontrovertible or irrefutable. They were merely his sentiments—his mode of seeing and estimating particular events, of which another might judge differently. For all he advanced he was ready to show his reasons—they might be shallow, they might be inconclusive—but they were his, and, fortunately for his chance of winning her favour, they were her opinions also. “So you think we shall have no outbreak, Hemsworth,” said Sir Marmaduke, as they sat at tea. “I scarcely go so far,” said he, gravely. “There are too many reasons for an opposite fear, to say so much, even if the Secretary of State did not assure us that the danger is over. The youth of Ireland will always be dangerous, when left without a career, or a road to their ambition; and from them, any peril that may now be apprehended will certainly come. Many young men of the best families of the country, whose estates are deeply incumbered—heavy mortgages and large dowries weighing them down—are ready to join in any bold attempt which promises a new order of things. They see themselves forgotten in the distribution of all patronage—excluded from every office—-sometimes for reasons of religion—sometimes for family, even for a mere name's sake. They are ready to play a bold game, where losing is only quicker ruin, and to gain would be a glorious victory.” “But what could a few rash and desperate young men like these effect against a power so great and so consolidated as England?” “Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a Government; but a world of injury to the prospect of future quiet. The rebellion of a week—ay, a day—in Ireland, will sow the seeds of fifty years of misery, and retard the settlement of peaceful relations at least another century. Had the Minister made the same concessions here he was glad to accord to Scotland—had he, without insulting a nationality, converted it into a banner under which loyalty was only rendered more conspicuous—you might have, perchance, seen a different order of things in Ireland.” “For the life of me, I cannot see the evils and wrongs these people labour under. I have a very large Irish acquaintance in London, and pleasanter, happier fellows cannot exist than they are.” “All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the Guards,” said Hemsworth, with a smile, which, with all its blandishment, very thinly covered over the sarcasm of his remark. Frederick's face flushed angrily, and he turned away without speaking. “Should we not ask pardon of the ladies for this subject of our conversation?” said Hemsworth. “I am sure neither Miss Travers nor Miss O'Donoghue deem the topic interesting or amusing.” “On the contrary, sir, I believe I may reply for both of us,” said Kate, “whatever concerns the fortunes of a country we have so near at heart, has all our sympathy; and, as an Irish girl, I feel grateful for your explanation of motives which, while I appreciate, I should still be unable so satisfactorily to account for.” “How happy I am to meet my countrywoman's approval,” said Hemsworth, bowing courteously, and with a marked emphasis directing his speech to Kate. The manner in which he spoke the words was so palpably intended for herself, that she felt all the charm of a flattery to which the disparity of their years imparted force. Soon after tea, Sir Marmaduke retired with Hemsworth to his study. Frederick took his leave at the same time, and Sybella and Kate were left alone together. “I have a long letter to write this evening, my dear Sybella,” said Kate, after they had talked some time. “Poor Herbert has failed in his examination, and I have promised to break the news to my uncle. Not so difficult a task as the poor boy deems, but one to which he is himself unequal.” “Does he then feel it so deeply?” said Sybella, timidly. “Too much, as regards the object of the ambition; but no more than he ought as a defeat. It is so bad to be beaten, Sybella,” said she, with a sharp distinctness on each word. “I shall hate the sight of that University until he carries off the next prize; and then—then I care not whether his taste incline him for another effort;” and so saying, she embraced her friend, and they parted for the night. The epistle which Kate had promised to conclude was in itself a lengthy one—written at different intervals during the week before the examination, and containing a minute account of his progress, his hopes and his fears, up to that very moment. There was little in it which could interest any but him to whom it was addressed, and to whom every allusion was familiar, and the reference to each book and subject thoroughly known—what difficulties he had found here, what obscurity there—how well he had mastered this, how much he feared he might have mistaken the other—until on the evening of the first day's examination, when the following few lines, written with a trembling hand, appeared:— “They say I shall gain it. H——— called my translation of Horace a brilliant one, and asked the Vice-Provost to listen to my repeating it. I heard. I gave it in blank verse. Oh, my dearest uncle, am I deceiving myself, and deceiving you? Shall I be able to write thus to-morrow night?” Then came one tremulous line, dated, “Twelve o'clock:”— “Better and better—I might almost even now say, victory; but my heart is too much excited to endure a chance.” “And it remains for me, my dear uncle,” wrote Kate after these words, “to fulfil the ungrateful task of bearing bad tidings; and I, who have never had the good fortune to bring you happiness, must now speak to you of misfortune.— My dear cousin has failed.” She followed these few lines by the brief narrative Herbert had given her—neither seeking to extenuate his errors, nor excuse his rashness—well knowing in her heart that Sir Archy would regard the lesson thus conveyed, an ample recompense for the honour of a victory so hardly lost. “It is to you he looks for comfort—to you, sir, whom his efforts were all made to please, and for whose praise his weary nights and toilsome days were offered. You, who know more of the human heart than I do, can tell how far so severe a discouragement may work for good or evil on his future life; for myself, I feel the even current of prosperity is but a sluggish stream, that calls for no efforts to stem its tide; and were his grief over, I'd rather rejoice that he has found a conflict, because he may now discover he has courage to meet it. “Even I, to follow a theme as dispiriting, even I, grow weary of pleasure, and tired of gaiety. The busy world of enjoyment leaves not a moment free for happiness, and already I am longing to be back in the still valley of Glenflesk. It is not that Dublin is not very brilliant, or that society has less of agreeability than I expected—both have exceeded my anticipations; nor is it, that I have not been what we should call in France 'successful' in my 'debut'—far from that, I am the fashion, or, rather, half the fashion—Sybella dividing public favour with me;—but, somehow, nobody contradicts me here—no one has courage to tell me I'm wrong—no one will venture to say, what you have often said, and even oftener looked, that 'I talked of what I knew nothing;' and, in fact, my dear uncle, every one is so very much in love with me, that I am beginning to detest them, and would give the world to be once more at home, before I extend the hatred to myself, which I must inevitably end by doing, if nobody anticipates me in the sentiment. “You told me I should prove faithless to you. Well, I have refused heaven knows how many 'brilliant offers,' for such even the proposers called them. Generals of fourscore, guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in the church, sergeants learned in the law, country gentlemen in hordes, two baronets, and one luckless viscount, have asked for the valueless hand that writes these lines; and yet—and yet, my dear chevalier, I shall still write myself at the bottom of this page, Kate O'Donoghue. I have no doubt you are very vain of my constancy, and will be so when you read this; and it is right you should be, for, I promise you, in my 'robe, couleur de cerise,' looped with white roses, and my 'chapeau de paysanne,' I am a very pretty person indeed—at least, it seems a point the twelve judges agree upon, and the Master of the Rolls tells me, 'that with such long eye- lashes I might lift my eyes very high indeed.' “And now, my dear, kind uncle, divide your sorrow between your niece who is dying of vanity, and your nephew who is sick of grief—continue your affection to both—and believe me, in all sincerity of heart, your own fond and faithful, “Kate O'Donoghue.” “I have met Hems worth, and, strange to say, found him both pleasant and agreeable.” Such were the concluding lines of an epistle, in which few, who did not possess Sir Arches acuteness, could successfully trace any thing of the real character of the writer. |
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