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O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief

an Irish historical tale of 1798
  
  
  
  

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 17. 
CHAP. XVII.
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CHAP. XVII.

Page CHAP. XVII.

17. CHAP. XVII.

A wolf rapacious, rough and bold,
Whose nightly plunders thinned the fold
Contemplating his ill-spent life,
And cloy'd with thefts, would take a wife.
The loathing lamb with horror hears,
And wearies out her dam with prayers;
But all in vain, the dam best knew
What inexperienced girls should do.

Mrs. Moore's Fables.

The jealousy which Sir Geoffrey had conceived
against the minstrel, who had so boldly, in his
hearing, and in his presence, made love, as he
imagined, to his intended wife, and who had received
such an unequivocal and public proof of
her favour, boiled furiously within his breast, and
although he had, with great effort, suppressed it, so
far as not to throw the company into absolute confusion,
yet he determined to spare no pains in
finding the minstrel, and making him feel his vengeance.

When the company had dispersed, he demanded
an interview with Ellen; for he could
brook no delay in ascertaining whether she knew
the youth she had so openly and so flatteringly
signalized, and whether her doing so had not arisen
from a softer feeling than a preference of his sentiment.
To obtain this interview for him, O'Halloran
had to interfere with his authority, and she
stipulated that it should be in his presence.

She positively denied any knowledge of the minstrel,
or that she had been influenced in his favour


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by any concealed sentiment whatever. Sir Geoffrey
now urged the violence of his passion, which
he confessed occasioned him to be jealous of every
thing she seemed to approve, while he himself
was an object of her dislike.

“Lovely girl,” said he, “in the presence of
your grandfather, only allay my apprehension of
losing you, by promising to become my wife, and
I shall be happy.”

She replied not. Her grandfather urged her to
speak.

“My dear Ellen,” said he, “consult your own
welfare and mine, by accepting a man who loves
you so sincerely, and who has abundantly the
power of promoting your felicity. You know not
how soon the arm of oppression, or the accidents
of war, may deprive you of my protection; and,
oh! think how it would relieve the pangs of my
last hour to reflect, that you had a sure and just
claim to that of a friend I so much value as Sir
Geoffrey.”

“Best and tenderest of parents,” she replied,
“since I must once more speak on this unhappy subject—O!
do not attribute my refusal of a man I cannot
love, to any undutiful feeling towards you. If my
prayers can have any effect with Heaven, you
shall long live to be my protector; but if a dispensation
should take place, on which I tremble to
reflect, if you should be prematurely and violently
taken from me, I shall not long need a protector,
for I feel, that in such a case, thy grave would soon
be mine. Do not, do not, I conjure you, by the memory
of the saint who gave me birth, do not compel
me to do an act which would terminate all my happiness
in this world.”

“Ellen,” said O'Halloran, “you are obstinate;
but you do not know Sir Geoffrey sufficiently, or
you would not scruple to become his wife. Reflect


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on his power, his wealth, his patriotism, his friendship
for me, his love for you; and you cannot but
be convinced that in accepting him for your husband,
you accept a man worthy of you, and provide
a permanent asylum against misfortune and
sorrow. But if any absurd or romantic feeling
renders you perverse on this matter, depend on it
I shall consult your interest better than to indulge
that feeling. It is my duty to do so. Eight days
you shall have to reflect on the subject, at the end
of which time, I shall expect your compliance with
our wishes. If still obstinate, I shall find means to
make you comply. But I trust that your own good
sense will be sufficient, and render it unnecessary
for me to have recourse to such means.”

The harshness and cool determined tone with
which this was uttered overpowered her, for she
saw that her grandfather's resolution to sacrifice
her to the man she detested, was unalterably fixed;
and that the sacrifice must be soon made. She
burst into tears; but remained silent.

“I shall urge you no more at present,” said
O'Halloran, rising to depart, “but remember my
will, and your own interest.”

“Cruel girl,” said Sir Geoffrey, before he left
the room, “why require such exercise of authority
to compel you to be my wife, the wife of one who
bears for you such unbounded love. But at the
expiration of the time fixed by your grandfather,
I hope your sentiments will be more favourable.”

He then seized her hand to kiss it on departing,
which she resisted.

“Leave me, sir,” said she, “nor make me more
wretched, and yourself more hated.”

“Then adieu, my fair one. In another week this
cruelty will be useless,” he replied.

When they had retired, she threw herself on her


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knees, and thus besought the Almighty Protector
of innocence.

“Father of the fatherless, I implore thee, for pity
in my present distress. O! deliver me from this
calamity. Open the eyes of my revered and beloved
grandfather, to see the gulf of wretchedness into
which his mistaken affection would plunge me.—
But if thou hast destined me to this lot, if I do
wrong in opposing his desires, show me my error,
and grant me fortitude and resignation to submit.
In resisting the will of my earthly parent, I
would not resist thine, my Heavenly father! Forgive
me, therefore, if, in the weakness of my nature,
I should resist. Thou hast fixed my affections on an
object, whom surely it cannot be a crime to love,
since it is no crime to love excellence. To him I
have secretly dedicated my heart. O save me from
the guilt of giving my hand to another. Alas! I am,
perhaps, guilty of loving an earthly being too much,
for my heart has cherished his image so fondly,
that it has almost encroached on that adoration
which is alone due to thee. But for mercy-sake do
thou overlook my frailty, and let my Redeemer's
merits plead in my behalf.”

Thus did this pious young lady fly for relief in
the moments of affliction to the consolations of religion,
and found it. Her mind became considerably
calmed, although not sufficiently so to permit
her to enjoy the salutary repose, which her agitated
frame much needed, of “Nature's sweet restorer,
balmy sleep.” During the course of the
night, the distracting idea of becoming the wife of
a man whom she could not esteem, perpetually obtruded
itself on her imagination; but as she could
see no earthly means of avoiding it, without absolutely
rebelling against the authority of her grandfather,
which her habits of duty and her feelings


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of affection towards him, who except on this occasion,
had always treated her with extreme tenderness
and affection, altogether forbade, she resolved
with as much fortitude as she could command, to
submit to her uncontrollable destiny. The struggle,
however, which took place in her mind while
forming this resolution, was too great for her harrassed
frame, and her aunt on visiting her in the
morning, found her in a high fever.

“My dear child,” said that affectionate relative,
“what is the matter? what has occasioned this?”

“Best of my friends,” she replied, “my only
mother, do not grieve for me. My grandfather
has desired me in eight days to prepare my mind
for becoming Sir Geoffrey's wife. I have had a
hard struggle to do so. But the worst is now over.
I will yield to his wishes. It is my duty, although
death itself should be the consequence. I feel I
shall not survive it; for O my stubborn heart has
become the property of another, and I cannot, cannot
help it.”

“My dearest Ellen be comforted,” said Mrs.
Brown, “your grandfather will not, cannot persist
in such harshness. I know your happiness to be
dearer to him than his own. He will withdraw
this cruel mandate. I will reason with him, I will
remonstrate with him, I will show him the cruelty
of his conduct, the absurdity of consulting your
welfare by breaking your heart.”

“Kindest of relatives,” replied Ellen, “while
thus sympathising with me, your tenderness soothes
my spirits. I shall soon get better. But I do not
expect you will succeed in changing my grandfather's
resolution. No, I know he will persevere.
He thinks it his duty, and to that he will cause
every other consideration to yield.”

“But dearest, patient, suffering girl,” said her
aunt, “it is my duty to open his eyes to your true


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interest. I shall this very hour let him know the
worthlessness of the man's character, who has deluded
him into the unfortunate opinion that he
would make you a good husband. I know more
of that man's demerits than even you do, and I
earnestly dissuade you from consenting to become
his wife.”

“Only make my refusal consistent with what I
owe to my grandfather,” replied Ellen, “and I
shall bless you, for you will save me from destruction.”

Mrs. Brown went in search of O'Halloran, whom
she found writing in his study. He laid down his
pen when she entered.

“Sister,” said he, “I want to disburden my mind
to you on a subject, on which I know you will feel
strongly interested. Sir Geoffrey Carebrow, who
has essentially promoted the interests of our cause
in this part of the country, by the pecuniary aid
which he so promptly afforded us, has laid me under
such obligations, that I can refuse him nothing
in my power honourably to grant. You know he
has long solicited the hand of my granddaughter;
but owing to some unfortunate predilection which,
I believe, she entertains for Mr. Barrymore, she
obstinately refuses him. He has been so extremely
urgent of late, that last night I was induced to
lay my injunctions on her to prepare her mind in
eight days to receive him. I know if she consents,
which her sense of duty towards me, I expect will
induce her to do, that she will offer some violence
to her own feelings. But as this violence will only
last while her prepossession in favour of Barrymore
remains; and which can only be until she becomes
better acquainted with Sir Geoffrey's worth, I think
her permanent interests will be consulted by bringing
about this union. On leaving her last night, I assure
you, I felt extremely grieved at being obliged to


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address her in such an authoritative manner. But I
perceived that nothing short of an exertion of authority
would do. It was painful; but I did exert
it; and must continue to do so, until this union, on
which I have so fully set my heart, is accomplished.”

“And why, my brother,” asked Mrs. Brown,
“have you so fully set your heart on this union?”

“I have strong reasons for doing so,” replied her
brother. “Ellen's own ultimate advantage is one,
and you will readily suppose, not a slight one
with me. Sir Geoffrey loves her to distraction;
and will, I am persuaded, make her a good husband.
I am bound to him by strong gratitude for
the pecuniary assistance already mentioned; for
had we not, at that time, received it, we should not
have been in that state of preparation, in which we
now are for taking the field, whenever the French
auxiliaries arrive, who are expected in April or
May next. He has shown his disinterestedness in
this case; or rather he has shown a noble union of
love and patriotism, by stipulating to place the
mortgage deed, by which the money has been secured,
at her disposal, as her own property, whenever
she shall become his wife. This is equivolent
to bestowing the money on the cause of the
people; for the lands so mortgaged, I intended
solely for her use at any rate. Hence on reasoning
with myself, to ascertain my proper course of
action, I concluded, that my duty to Sir Geoffrey,
the benefactor of our country, had superior claims
on my regard, than my inclination, which, I confess,
would induce me to indulge my daughter's
wishes, or, as I should rather say, prejudices on
this subject.”

“My brother,” said Mrs. Brown, “I make no
doubt that you have reasoned correctly enough on
this subject, from what you know of this man's


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character; and that your decision has been conscientious,
I am perfectly convinced, for your decisions
have never been otherwise. But, I believe,
that if you thoroughly knew this man, your determination
would be very different, you would never
resolve to force your dear and only child, who has
ever been so obedient and affectionate to you, into
the possession of a sensualist and a miser, a libertine
in morals, a sceptic in religion, and of late, a hypocrite
in politics; whose ruling passions are lust
and avarice.—His passion for our child has of late
obtained the mastery over even his cherished avarice,
and the seeming readiness with which he assisted
your cause, was nothing but a bribe to secure
your support to his wishes. As to the condition
which he has admitted into the deeds, I can
see no real generosity in it. It was, I believe, only
a lure to gain, if possible, the good opinion of Ellen,
and, perhaps, also to acquire a stronger hold on
your esteem. He loses nothing by it; he secures
your estate at all events; and he thought he might
as well, at the same time, by an appearance of liberality,
secure the good-will of his intended wife.
Hence, he has merely exhibited the shadow without
the least substance of generosity. Ah! Sir, I
and many others know this man too well, to believe
that there is the smallest particle of generosity in
his disposition; and as to patriotism, he is as destitute
of such a noble feeling, as I am of the power
of necromancy. In lending you this money, he
has taken care to have it not only well secured,
but to earn by it yearly four per cent. more than
he could have done had he lent it any where else.
This, one should think, savours more of avarice
than of either generosity or patriotism.”

“In requiring ten per cent.” replied O'Halloran,
warmly, “Sir Geoffrey committed no crime.
Your rigid sticklers for the ancient and corrupt


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laws of Britain, may call him a usurer, but men of
rational philosophical understandings, will never
place a maximum on the value of money more
than on other commodities. Sir Geoffrey has had
the greatness of mind to act in defiance of antiquated
rules and customs; but he has asked no more
for the use of his money, than I think him entitled
to considering the risk he runs on account of the
hazardous complexion of the times, and considering
also the great service his promptitude has rendered
the cause of the country. I am sorry to see
that more minds than Ellen's have imbibed an unwarrantable
prejudice against my friend. He is
called a libertine, because, until he met with a female
with whom he thought he could live happy,
he did not choose to marry; and no doubt evil and
lying reports to the disadvantage of his chastity,
may have been circulated; and because he possesses
an immense fortune, and will not spend it
in frivolity, or live in imitation of aristocratical
splendour and extravagance, but prefers patriarchal
plainness and republican simplicity, he is
called a miser. Such may be the opinion of an
unthinking and unjust world. But it is not from
such a criterion that I estimate men's characters.
I am in the habit, Mrs. Brown, of examining and
judging for myself; ay, and of determining for
myself too, and my determination on this affair is
already fixed. Ellen is my child—and me she
must obey, until Sir Geoffrey Carebrow obtains a
prior right to her obedience.”

Here Mrs. Brown burst into tears. “I weep”
said she, when she had some what recovered from
her emotion, “for your delusion. But, ah! I weep
more for the misery, which, I perceive, awaits
your unfortunate child—O my brother, reflect”—

“I will hear no more,” said O'Halloran, “lest
you stagger my resolution, which, as it is founded


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on reason, I am determined shall never be shakes
by feeling.”

He then hastily left the room, evidently as
much agitated as Mrs. Brown herself. The allotted
eight days elapsed, and Ellen consented to
become a victim; “for,” said she, “I will die before
I disobey him.” Oh! my grandfather, did
you know what I this moment, suffer, you would
have compassion on me!”

She was able to speak no more: she had
fainted. In great consternation, O'Halloran and
Sir Geoffrey called for assistance; for they had
been both present urging her to compliance. She
soon recovered, and on seeing her restored, the
strength of her grandfather's determination, which
her swoon had somewhat shaken, was also restored,
and the day was appointed for the marriage.

The agitation of Ellen's mind now greatly subsided.
She had nothing more for which to hope,
and she awaited the awful hour in the calm silence
of despair. Her aunt was her only comforter;
but she also stood in need of comfort. At her request,
Miss Agnew was invited to the castle, to
encourage and support her afflicted friend, through
the horrors of the approaching ceremony.

On understanding the circumstances of the case,
all the sprightliness of this lively young woman
forsook her; and, although she would not desert
her friend, she determined to partake of no festivity
on the occasion.

“It will be a wedding” said she to O'Halloran,
“that ought to be solemnized as a funeral, with
the emblems of grief, for it will be death to the
happiness of the loveliest maiden in the land.”

“I trust not,” he replied; “the consciousness
of doing her duty, will of itself be a source of
happiness, and her husband's worth, tenderness
and affectionate assiduities, will soon obliterate


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this unreasonable, girlish prejudice against him,
which occasions her present distress. We shall
yet see her the happy, loving wife of a worthy man.”

“In that case, she will not be the wife of this
man,” retorted Miss Agnew, with something of her
usual keenness and levity, mingled with bitterness
and grief.