And as he laughed, I wondered whether he had begun to ask himself questions about the obfuscations that might have been his lot.
That night, in the inn they call the Pilgrim, the landlord required that each of us sign the Visitors' Book and gave us a workman's supper of beef, potatoes, and ale. Mr. Burke and I discussed the day's proceedings. He saw nothing untoward in the speech or attitude of Miss Gambon, expressing only surprise that he had not been told he had been born at sea.
“By Jove!” he said, over and over, and then, in a typically forgiving remark, “Perhaps she thought it would have been too much for a small chap to bear. Especially with his mama being buried at sea—although I confess that I should have been very intrigued at such a notion.”
I learned that what I had seen of the house represented no more than a third of the establishment, that behind the very large trees at the end of the terrace the main building spread longer and wider.
“How came your aunt by such a fine place?” I asked.
This innocent man replied that it had been in her husband's family “for centuries”—that, as he understood matters, the Gambons had been yeoman farmers, meaning that they had not been tenants; they had supported themselves throughout history, with their own livestock and their own produce.
By now, Mr. Burke gave the appearance of fatigue, and I knew that the day must have been exhausting for him. I did not try him further in family matters or the question of his beautiful daughter's affections. Instead I sent him to bed early, with a warning that the hackney was to come at nine o'clock, so that we might get back to Yeovil in time for the London train.
Next morning I rose at six o'clock, prepared myself for the day, and set out on a walk to the places we had visited the day before. They were but a mile distant and it had dawned a beautiful morning. As I strode down the lane to Mr. Burke's childhood home, I saw that a good hansom cab had drawn up outside—an unusual sight, I surmised, in that countryside. Concealing myself behind a tree, I watched, and soon I saw Miss Gambon appear, dressed for town. She carried a small case, such as people use for documents; this was a person bound on business. Harris, the surly manservant, helped her to ascend, and then he climbed to the box beside the driver, and the cab went up the lane and took the road for Bristol. I thought it unusual that a lady so old should take a journey so elaborate so early in the day.
In this pretty corner of England's West Country, Charles O'Brien was thrust into confusion. He had believed that his beloved's father had been taken from Tipperary Castle as an infant. According to the story Mr. O'Brien heard Oscar Wilde tell in Paris, the mother had previously vanished mysteriously, in the company of a strange woman who showed up unannounced.
The grief-stricken father, Terence Burke the First, so to speak, had searched high and low for her but never found her; she had vanished. Oscar Wilde had met her when she was at the height of her dazzling career.
Now Charles was confronted with an entirely different tale—of a child born at sea, and of a secretive old woman who obviously told lies (“I never leave the house anymore”).
Victorian literature and theater abound in such intrigue over inheritance. Even now, disputes over land ownership and testatory challenges break out in Irish courts all the time: “Where there's a will,” they say, “there's a lawsuit.”
Essentially, Mr. O'Brien found himself in the center of such a plot. Even though he never says so, how could he not have speculated many times as to why Terence Burke—and especially Terence Burke's spirited daughter—never bothered to pursue such a potentially huge inheritance in Ireland? Whether they admit to it, many of the English have long had a romantic love affair with Ireland. To them it was always a land of castles and charm, of horses and great drinking feats, of misty hills and dreams.
It's possible that the Burkes, father and daughter, suspended the romance because they feared the circumstances, and then simply did not let on to Charles O'Brien. To claim an Irish estate at a time of such turbulence over land might have struck the gentle Mr. Burke as, to say the least, risky. Nor would his daughter, who cared for him deeply, have wanted her father to feel stress of any kind—especially if it had been generated by somebody she had already dismissed as an insanitary and unreliable ass.
My journey back to London in Mr. Burke's company had the pleasantness of friends accustomed to traveling with each other. When we had seated ourselves in the train, he thanked me for this excursion into his past.
“I have been greatly moved by it,” he said. “My daughter shall know how this has added to my life.”
Upon this he fell silent, and we both contemplated the passing countryside.
The orderly hedgerows and green leafy richness, though not as wild and inspiring as those in my beloved native land, soothed my eye and encouraged my reflection. How could I reconcile the two opposing stories of Mr. Terence Burke's origins? Where and how had he been born? In a safe confinement bed within that beautiful house in Tipperary or tossed in a schooner's bunks upon the notorious Bay of Biscay? Who was his mother, and what had become of her? Had she gone on to achieve fame through her beauty and acting brilliance or does she lie “full fathom five” in a watery grave off the rocky coasts of Europe? Was my judgment of the old woman accurate? I found her furtive and uneasy. How would all of this affect the possible advancement of my affections with my heart's desire? I dreaded that she might blame me for having stirred up an intrigue within her steady life.
Thus did my thoughts grow morbid. As to the general oddity of the thing, I felt not at all dismayed. Such tales seem ordinary to me; I had long heard stories of family mystery within my parents' home, and on my travels it seemed the very fodder upon which people feasted—a mainstay of table conversation.
For example, I recollected that in the town of Roscommon, they celebrate a notorious woman, by name Lady Betty. According to the legend, when she was a young wife, her husband died, leaving her with an infant son. They eked out a dreadful existence until the boy reached the age of fourteen, when he emigrated, promising to send his mother money from the New World. She never heard from him again, and she continued in disappointment and havoc, dwelling in an abandoned hovel with rags for her bed.
One winter night, as the story goes, a handsome and wealthy young stranger called and asked for a roof under which to stay out of the rain and cold. While he slept, Lady Betty killed him for his money. In his pockets, she discovered papers that informed her she had murdered her own son—who had come back rich and successful to salvage his mother.
Lady Betty screamed her sorrow up and down the streets of the town, and she was sentenced to hang. But the hangman took ill; and, as several hangings had been arranged for that day, Lady Betty volunteered to become the executioner in exchange for her own reprieve. So effective did she prove that she gained a salary from the King and apartments in the jail.
Across such lowering topics did my thoughts flow as we steamed through the pretty English countryside on that sunny day. The prospect of meeting Mr. Burke's beautiful daughter, the permanent resident of all my thoughts for almost four years now, did not cheer me as it should have done. I knew of a certainty that she must greatly disapprove of her father being taken through such a tiring experience without her foreknowledge.
When we reached Mr. Burke's home in Westminster, nobody was there; the maid, Mary from Cork, had her afternoon of liberty, and we sat, pleased to rid ourselves of our weariness. Mr. Burke provided a bottle of Madeira and we set to it, and thereby did I forgo my pledge to myself that I would not imbibe strong drink in this important adventure. But one glass always requires a supporter, notoriously so with delicious Madeira.
Cried Mr. Burke, “A bird never flew on one wing.”
“But sir, my old tutor, my dear Buckley—he used to say those very words.”
“A good tutor, an excellent tutor!”
Soon, Mr. Burke went to fetch the next bottle of the sweet beauty. He survived a little mishap (I heard the noise of furniture being
accosted) and returned triumphant. Between us, we managed to extract a difficult and recalcitrant cork; we filled each other's glasses to the brim and drank yet another toast to “New Friends”—and, I added, “To Great Estates.”
Mr. Burke sat back in his chair in a manner of great comfort and said, “I should like to sing to you.”
I applauded.
He said, “I shall sing ‘Greensleeves.’ Do you know that it was written by King Henry the Eighth?”
I marveled, and he began.
“ ‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong—’ ” There he halted abruptly, saying, “I have forgot the tune.” His eyes were droopy.
I said, “Sir, would you like to sleep awhile?”
He laughed, saying, “My dear friend”—and my heart soared; I had won his approval.
“Permit me to sing you a lullaby,” I said, at which he took my hand in a most touching manner and held it as a child might. I knelt beside his chair, and began to sing; and I have a good voice—of that I am certain, on account of the many compliments that I have received. Indeed, he found my lullaby affecting, for soon Mr. Burke began to snore, and Madeira, I know from my father's life, produces loud snoring.
At that, somebody must have opened the door from the street, because some instinct made me look up. There I saw Miss Burke standing in her own parlor, gazing at me, as I knelt beside her father's chair, holding and stroking his hand and singing a lullaby to him in the Irish language (I had learned it of Cally) while her father snored with his head back and his mouth open. Two empty bottles that had lately contained Madeira stood nearby.
It became an ugly circumstance. Notwithstanding my fine clothing, and the efforts I had made to make myself look a gentleman, she continued to see me as the “lout” (her word) whom she had last encountered on the streets in Paris. I tried to explain, but she would have none of it.
“Your father and I have been to his childhood home,” I said. “He has been much enjoying—”
“What?!” She was capable of such explosion as I had not seen in my placid household. “My father is not permitted to travel. And you have led him to drink—and drink can prove fatal to his health!”
“But he has enjoyed—”
She all but shouted. “What?! ‘Enjoying’? ‘Enjoyed’? Is ‘enjoy’ the main word in your lexicon, sir?!”
Her father did not cease snoring, even though voices had become raised.
“You lout! You—you scandal! Leave this house now.”
In the interest of order and calm I moved very quickly to quit that room and house. On the street outside I continued my hectic pace until I had traveled some distance. Then I paused, and found a bench with a view upon the river, where I reflected upon the latest great misunderstanding.
I admit that I began to shed tears. It all seemed so unfortunate, and my case seemed so futile. Not for one moment had this young woman, who seemed even more beautiful than in Paris, and with a new poise, I thought—not for one moment had she allowed any judgment of me other than the forms she had already settled in her mind.
For a time, all other thoughts departed my mind as I contemplated my own condition. There I sat, at forty-four years of age, a time when other men have maturing and loving children—and some even close to grandchildren—and I had surrendered my life to a dream of love that would never reach fulfillment. I had money in the bank, because I had saved prudently, and because I had a generous father; across the land of Ireland, people knew and liked me, even loved me; I did not frighten children, offend ladies, or cause distress to clergymen; even now, I remained as diligent to my parents as when I had wanted to please them as eagerly as any small child; my knowledge of diverse and useful matters was wide and copious; I was instructed in art and science, in poetry and healing; important people knew my name and found pleasure in my company.
And yet this young woman of twenty-two years could not find it in herself to look at me beyond her own prejudice of me.
Perhaps, I thought, I carry a mark on my forehead. Perhaps some wrinkle of my complexion, like a hidden sign, says to the world, “Here is a man to be kicked. He will not retribute.” Perhaps my anointed function in the world chose me to be a butt to some people, in order that they might express unpleasantness safely upon somebody who could be trusted not to damage them in return. If so, that is a useful purpose to them, and I must bear it.
As he always did when distressed, Charles went straight to his parents' house—to unexpected developments.
His mother's letters and journals, not known to her son, and never read by him, became available in 2003. She recorded his arrival, how the family gathered around him to hear what had happened, and to commiserate. Her papers also reveal what happened next. First, she received a letter.
Dear Mrs. O'Brien,
I am given to understand by mutual friends that you are the mother of one Charles O'Brien, who lately visited my father in London and took him upon an excursion to the county of Somerset.
It would prove of inestimable value to me should you provide me with a means of reaching your son. I should also feel most grateful were you to provide me with the name of a lawyer in Ireland whom you recommend without qualification.
Yours Faithfully and in hope,
April Burke.
Amelia O'Brien couched her reply in terms meant to smoke out April Burke's intentions and yet offer no clue that she knew anything of the young woman.
Dear Madam,
Forgive my impersonal greeting, but I am unaware from your manner of signature whether to address a married lady or not.
If you will tell me some reason for your needing to reach my son, Charles, I shall be happy to pass on any communication. He leads a busy life, he is much in demand, and at his request all correspondence will pass through his father or myself. May I also ask the names of the “mutual friends” whom you mention?
As to the unqualified recommendation of a lawyer, I fear that my husband, who addresses these matters, refuses to believe that such a creature exists as a lawyer whom he or anybody feels he can “recommend without qualification.” He also asks me to state that before giving a name he must “take the cloth to the tailor”— meaning that the nature of the legal business must guide the recommendation.
Yours Faithfully,
Amelia O'Brien.
The letter contains a number of slap-downs—the failure of April Burke to identify her single status (a matter of manners and breeding) and a certain bridling at the younger woman's importuning a total stranger. Nevertheless, within days came an answer.
Dear Mrs. O'Brien,
Thank you for the favor of your prompt reply. Your name was given to me by the Countess of Athlone, with whom I believe you are well acquainted, and she gave me a most warm opinion of you.
As to the body of my letter, I fear that I put the cart before the horse, as the expression goes. Your son has directed me to my possible ownership in an Irish estate of which he has knowledge, and I required further details from him. Then, in order to pursue such a claim, if indeed it should exist, I reasoned that I must need an Irish solicitor versed in land matters.
My gratitude to you bears repetition.
Yours Faithfully,
April Burke (Miss).
Amelia O'Brien wrote back (in her superb copperplate handwriting) and recommended her husband's legal firm in Limerick—Stokes and Somerville, on Catherine Street. In subsequent exchanges of correspondence back and forth, for six weeks, travel arrangements were made that would bring April Burke to Ireland and have Charles O'Brien show her the house in Tipperary. She arrived at the O'Brien household on the afternoon of Saturday, 1 October 1904, accompanied by Mary, the maid from Cork. Here is Amelia O'Brien's journal entry describing the occasion:
It is late; the night outside is beautiful. We are still warm with the summer. And we have had such times. If a day can be so crammed with new matter as to last a hundred hours, this was such a day. Charles came home last Wednesday. He has grown thin, and I do n
ot like that. I fear that this unrequited love he suffers has now begun to hurt his body as well as his soul.
Bernard took him riding to Kilshane, whose wood Charles so loves. They had a long talk. Bernard reports that Charles seems almost unable to contain his excitement at the prospect of this young woman staying under our roof. Is my son too boyish, too unformed, for a man his age?
She arrived, this Miss Burke, this afternoon. I mean to gather my thoughts here so that I may try to understand her. But I have been much disposed to a strong dislike of her on account of her view of Charles. And her behavior toward him. Also, if she has not the acuteness of mind to perceive my son's innate goodness and innocence, I should not wish him to throw his life away on a hope of her.
I did not like the nearly peremptory tone of her letters to me. And I thought the freedom which she felt to approach me had in it something of the “user.”
So it was that I expected to meet a conniving young woman. Careless of the feelings of others. Willing and prepared to make use of those whom she had but lately injured. Not at all a prospect to be cherished.
And I fear to say that I found a conniving and icy young woman. With little heart and no interest at all in my dear son—except, I fear, as to how she may use him in her own interests. In my life I cannot remember a time when I have taken so against another woman. She glanced this way and that, assessing us and not finding us wanting. But rather she conveyed surprise that we did not live in some mud hut like savages on the Equator.
My Bernard has charms beyond most men, and he failed to touch her. She did not smile at his sallies, she did not laugh at his jokes. (I, who have heard them many, many times, can still be prostrated by them.) Perhaps worst of all, she gave no impression that she might find the company of any of us to have value in any wise. This is a dreary and cunning young woman. Of great beauty, I grant, but I should not choose her company were she and I alone in a boat at sea.
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