The Rebels of Ireland

  He spent the morning with one of the farmhands. He was unloading a cartload of turves, brought down from a bog to the north, when he saw the figure in the distance, riding towards the house. His father was inside, and for a moment he wondered whether he should run out to meet young Smith, to let him know that his secret was safe and that he wouldn’t be giving him away. But after a moment’s hesitation, he decided that this might make Fintan suspicious and that it would be better to leave everything exactly as he’d planned it. So he turned round instead and went into the house, and found his father and told him that a stranger was approaching.

  It was his father, therefore, who went out through the door to greet the young man and call to the groom to take his horse, while Orlando, pretending to be shy, remained inside in the shadows of the hallway.

  From where he stood, it seemed to Orlando as if he were gazing along a tunnel towards the great gash of bright sunlight of the open doorway. He heard the voices outside, saw shadows move briefly before the entrance, then saw two figures, his father leading, blocking out the sunlight. They were inside, moving towards him. This was his moment.

  “Well,” he heard his father say, “here he is.”

  And then, blinking slightly as the sunlight came pouring in again though the doorway behind them, he found himself staring with horror and evident astonishment at the face of young Smith.

  For it wasn’t young Smith at all. It was somebody else entirely.

  It had been Doyle who began the business. When Martin Walsh had gone to see him about the letter from Peter Smith, he had answered without hesitation.

  “The Smiths are of good reputation, Cousin Martin. The father is a worthy man, and a man of substance. And a good Catholic, too, you’ll wish to know, although others can inform you of that better than I. He has two sons, however. For which of them does he ask your daughter?”

  “The name he gives is Patrick.”

  “Ah.” Doyle shook his head. “That won’t do. It’s Walter you want: the older one. He isn’t betrothed, so far as I have heard.”

  “The objection to Patrick?”

  Doyle drew a long breath and let the air out slowly between his teeth.

  “No crime, Cousin. No great wickedness. The younger son, of course. But his character . . .” He paused. “He was sent to a seminary, you know. But he never completed his studies. He never completes anything. A lack of steadfastness. A weakness, I’d say, which he masks with his gallant manners.”

  “Gallant?”

  “Oh yes.” The merchant grinned as he launched into a little parody of the courtly style. “He is a very paragon of all the noble virtues. He rides, and shoots an arrow, runs like a deer. He writes a verse and sings in tune, and dances. They say that women melt before his eyes.”

  “I see,” said Martin grimly.

  “Patrick is Smith’s first offer, Cousin. But Walter is your man. He is capable and industrious, and a very pleasant fellow. Smith will be only too glad to contract a marriage with the Walsh family, so you may dictate the terms.”

  Doyle was able to give Martin Walsh a good deal of other useful information, and Walsh had parted from him with his last words singing in his ears.

  “Remember, Cousin Walsh, don’t let him fob you off with Patrick.”

  When Walsh had called upon Smith, he had asked to see both his sons and had quickly decided for himself that Doyle’s assessment had been right. Patrick, he considered, was ambitious, but ingratiating and soft. Walter, who, though polite, made fewer efforts to please, was clearly his own man. When he informed Smith that he preferred Walter, a look of fleeting concern had crossed the merchant’s face.

  “Yet she and Patrick so delight in each other,” he protested, “they are like two turtle doves.”

  “She scarcely knows him,” Walsh replied firmly.

  “Ah.” Smith had looked a little strange, but quickly recovered himself. “That must be considered further,” he had said.

  There had been some negotiations over the next two weeks, but it had seemed to Martin Walsh that his cousin Doyle’s assessment had been correct and that Smith would yield his better son rather than lose the chance of the connection with the Doyles. Meanwhile, he had several conversations with young Walter and found him admirable in every respect. In due course, the betrothal had been arranged to everyone’s satisfaction—or so he had thought.

  Orlando hardly knew what to say or think. All that day and the next, he said very little. Indoors and at meals, he sat on his three-legged stool and stared at Walter Smith like an idiot. Fortunately, his father took this for childish shyness and thought nothing of it. But all the time Orlando was wondering: Did Anne know about this? Shouldn’t he tell her, and if so, how? On the Sunday evening, after Walter Smith had departed, he went to his father.

  “I should like to write to Anne, Father.”

  “A letter to your sister. I am glad to hear of it,” Walsh kindly replied. “You may add your word to the letter I am already writing.”

  This was not what Orlando had in mind, but there was nothing he could do about it. And so, below his father’s neatly organised script, the following message appeared in Orlando’s childish hand:

  “Father says I may rejoice with you, since you are betrothed to Walter Smith. He seems a fine gentleman, but I had never seen him before.” He had done his best to use more ink on the last few words, so that they would stand out more boldly. His father glanced at it, briefly remarked upon his poor penmanship, but made no other comment.

  After that, there was nothing more Orlando could do. He did his lessons with the old priest as usual. The house was quiet.

  The sudden arrival of Anne ten days later took everyone by surprise. After receiving the letter from her father and Orlando, she had left Bordeaux, without permission or anyone’s knowledge, the very same day. Pawning a gold crucifix and chain her father had given her, she had used the money to travel to the coast, where she had found a ship bound for Dublin. Her father hardly knew whether to be impressed by her courage or furious at her disobedience.

  Then she told him she was in love with Patrick. And so shaken was he by her vehemence that he even wrote to Lawrence to ask his advice. He was even more distressed because, until that moment, he had not known she had any strong feelings about the young man at all; and even his natural anger and hurt at her deception had been overwhelmed by the sight of her tears. “I was thinking only of your happiness, my child,” he assured her. And yet, whatever pain she was suffering now, he knew that in fact his decision was correct. She might be in love with Patrick, but in the long run, he wouldn’t make her happy. Walter would. Gently and earnestly, he tried to make this clear to her. “There are times when it is not wise, Anne, to let your head be ruled by your heart,” he urged her. But she was not really listening to him. “At least meet Walter and come to know him,” he suggested. But she only wanted to see Patrick, her own true love, and poor Martin Walsh, wishing more than ever that his dear wife was still alive, was not sure whether to allow this or not. A week went by. She moped about the house. They had several unsatisfactory conversations. He wondered whether to send her back to the seminary. He also considered whether he should summon Walter Smith to visit so that she could see for herself what a good fellow he was; but he feared that she might reject him so firmly that the young man wouldn’t want her anymore. Should he change his own mind about Patrick? He knew that would be a mistake, but it was terrible for him to see his daughter in such pain and to feel that he was failing her. The second week, she became pale and listless, and he was about to send for a physician.

  Then Lawrence arrived.

  He had come with remarkable speed. To his own surprise, Martin was actually glad to see him. Lawrence did remark that he assumed his sister had been soundly whipped; but when his father had been shocked, he had said no more on the subject. And indeed, from that moment, his presence had been a blessing.

  He had been quiet and very calm. With his sister, he had been gentle,
offering no reproofs, but asking only that, each day, they might pray together. He kept a friendly eye on young Orlando, took him for one or two long walks, and even went out hunting rabbits with him.

  For Orlando, the arrival of Anne had come as a relief. Within hours, he had been closeted with her and told her all he knew about Walter Smith.

  “I didn’t tell about your meetings,” he assured her.

  “I know. And I shan’t tell anyone how you helped, either. Though as to my seeing Patrick,” she shook her head, “it hardly seems to matter now anyway.”

  Although he knew all about her conversations with his father, and saw her tears, Orlando learned little more from his sister for several days. It was clear that she did not want to discuss it with him. Then one afternoon she called him to her and quietly told him: “There is something, little brother, you can do.”

  The next morning, he rode out alone. He had no lessons that day, and his father was too preoccupied to take much notice. He rode his pony down the road across the Plain of Bird Flocks, and by midmorning he was in sight of the city. Crossing the Liffey by the old bridge, he entered the gate and made his way across Winetavern Street, where the house of the Smiths was. At the entrance to the yard at the back, he found a servant boy and asked him if Patrick Smith was there. Learning that he was, he asked the boy to tell him that a friend of his was waiting outside. A few minutes later, the young man appeared.

  When Orlando saw him, he almost cried out for pleasure. Patrick Smith looked so exactly as he remembered him, not changed at all. Handsome, smiling, his soft brown eyes registering their pleasure at seeing Orlando.

  “You have probably heard, Orlando, that my brother and not I is to be betrothed to your sister,” he said gently.

  “She is back. She is at the house.”

  “She is here?” He looked astonished. “Come, let’s walk down onto the quay. Tell me everything.”

  So Orlando told him about his sister’s tears, and her arguments with her father.

  “She wants to marry you,” he blurted out. It was hard to tell whether Patrick looked more shaken or pleased by this news. “She wants to see you, but my father does not give his permission. You must meet her in secret.”

  “I see. You must understand, Orlando, that my father has also forbidden me to see your sister.”

  Orlando gazed at him in astonishment.

  “But you’ll come?” He could not imagine that the handsome young hero would allow such a small thing to stand in his way. “You want to see her?”

  “Oh, I do. You may be sure.”

  “I shall tell her you will come, then?” And he explained how the meeting could be arranged.

  “I shall need to ride out without my father’s knowledge. Or my brother’s.” He paused a moment, glancing along the quay. “I shall come as soon as I can get away. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day or two after. Very soon.”

  “I’ll wait for you there,” said Orlando.

  And wait he did. The place was well-chosen—a disused chapel, seldom visited, by the edge of the Walsh estate. Rather than have Anne wait out there each day, which might have seemed suspicious, Orlando would wait. As soon as Patrick Smith arrived, Orlando would run back to the house, which wasn’t far, to fetch her, and then keep watch outside while they met.

  The next day, he waited three hours until dusk. The day after it was raining, but he waited all the same and walked home soaked. The third day, the weather was fine but there was no sign of Patrick Smith. The next day, the same.

  “Why doesn’t he come?” Anne cried. “Doesn’t he care for me?”

  “He’ll come. He said he would,” Orlando cried. And the next day, he waited once more. “Perhaps I should ride into Dublin again,” he said that evening.

  “No, he is not coming,” Anne said quietly. “Wait no more.” And soon after that, he heard her weeping. But though she became sad and listless, he did wait at the chapel several more days. But from then until Lawrence arrived and upset the routine, there was no sign of Patrick Smith, nor any word from him.

  The first day that Lawrence took him for a walk, he had been anxious to get back so that he could run out to the meeting place again; but Lawrence kept him too long. He also asked Orlando several questions.

  They were all very friendly, about his studies and trivial things, to put him at his ease. At one point he told Orlando: “I am worried about Anne. It grieves me to see her in such pain. Do you think she truly cares for this Patrick?”

  “I think she does,” said Orlando.

  “And Walter Smith—what did you think of him?”

  Orlando gave him the best account he could of the young man, from what he had seen during his visit. “I think he is a good enough man,” he admitted, and Lawrence nodded approvingly.

  “How does he compare with Patrick, though?” he enquired.

  “Oh, well . . .” He was just about to answer when he spotted the cunning trap, and inwardly cursed his elder brother. “I can’t really tell. Anne says that Patrick is taller.”

  “You have not seen him yourself?” The dark eyes were piercing. Lawrence seemed to see every guilty secret in his mind.

  “She was with our mother when they met, but I was not there,” Orlando answered with a shake of the head. A clever answer, which was even true. “Hmm,” said Lawrence.

  He did not bring up the subject again. Not long after that, he had gone into Dublin for the day. It was the following morning that Orlando overheard his father in conversation with him.

  “You tell her yourself,” he heard his father say irritably.

  “It is for the best, I assure you,” Lawrence’s voice replied. “I shall be kind.”

  And so, it seemed, he was.

  “I was sitting on the bench in front of the house, just sitting there in the sun,” Anne told Orlando afterwards, “when he came and sat beside me. He was kind. He talked of love.”

  “Lawrence talked of love?”

  “Yes. It seems he was once in love. Think of that!” She smiled, then frowned. “I believe he was speaking the truth.”

  “He is on your side against Father?”

  “Oh no. He spoke of Patrick. He said that first love is strong, but that we may not come to see whether a lover’s character will truly suit us until we have known them for a long time. ‘Then how are those to find happiness who are betrothed to a person they scarcely know?’ I asked him.”

  “He had no answer for that?”

  “He did. ‘Their parents are better judges than themselves—or hope they are,’ he said. Then he laughed. I was quite surprised. ‘And Father thinks that Walter would suit me better?’ I said. ‘There is no question of family fortune here,’ he says. ‘They are brothers, after all. It’s a question of character. You love Patrick at present, but in years to come, I promise you,’ and he gave me one of his earnest looks, ‘it is Walter who will be a good husband and bring you a far greater happiness than you imagine.’ That’s what he told me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked him if Father would compel me to marry Walter. ‘No,’ he cries, ‘not at all. He will not. Ask him yourself. He wishes you to return to France until the spring. When you return, you shall meet Walter and come to know him. But if then he is not to your liking, if you do not think I mean that you could love and honour him, then the betrothal shall be undone.’”

  “He said nothing else?”

  “Yes. After I had been silent a little while, he took my arm and smiled and said to me: ‘Remember, Anne, this little rhyme, for there’s much wisdom in it.

  Head over heart,

  The better part.

  Heart over head,

  Better dead.

  I assure you I know it to be true.’ ”

  “That was all?”

  “No. There was one thing more. I shan’t be seeing Patrick again.”

  “He forbade you? I’ll go to Dublin and bring him here if you like,” Orlando cried.

  “You don’t unders
tand.” She grimaced. “He’s gone. He’s not here anymore. He’s left on a ship.”

  “Where to?”

  “Who knows? England, France, Spain—America, for all I know. He’s been sent away and won’t be back until I’ve married someone else—I can promise you that.”

  “Is it Peter Smith’s doing? Surely Patrick himself didn’t just . . .”

  “No. Don’t you see? It was Lawrence. Behind my back he’d already arranged it all. Oh, I could see it. I could see it all. I hate him,” she suddenly screamed. Then she burst into tears.

  But three days later, quietly enough, she left with Lawrence to return to France. There was, after all, nothing else that she could do.

  With Anne and Lawrence gone again, the house reverted to its habitual peace in the great quiet of Fingal. Orlando resumed his studies. Martin Walsh went into Dublin once or twice a week. On Sundays, they went across to Malahide Castle, where the priest said mass or conducted a service discreetly within the old stone house. September was warm. The weather was fine. Martin Walsh, enjoying the genial calm of his estate, had not gone into Dublin for some days, when one afternoon, just as he was about to go into the house after a walk, Orlando saw the figure of their cousin Doyle riding towards him. The big man dismounted quickly and gave Orlando a friendly nod.

  “Is your father here? Ah. Here he is,” he continued as Martin Walsh appeared at the door. “I’ve news for you, Cousin—unless you’ve already heard?”

  “I’ve heard nothing.” He glanced at Orlando and gave Doyle a questioning look.

  “The boy may hear it. All the world will know soon enough. It’s the news from Ulster.” He took a long breath. “The Earl of Tyrone has gone.”