Читать книгу The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago - Charles James Lever - Страница 10

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Although deferred by the accidents of the morning, Sir Marmaduke's visit to the priest was not abandoned, and at length, he and his daughter set out on their excursion up the glen. Their road, after pursuing the highway for about two miles, diverged into a narrow valley, from which there was no exit save by the mode in which it was entered. Vast masses of granite rock, piled heap above heap, hung as it were suspended over their heads, the tangled honey-suckle falling in rich festoons from these, and the purple arbutus glowing like grape-clusters among the leaves. It was a mellow, autumnal day, when the warmth of colouring is sobered down by massive shadows—the impress of the clouds which moved slowly above. The air was hot and thick, and save when an occasional breeze came, wafted from the water, was even oppressive.

The silence of the glen was profound—not a bird was heard, nor was there in the vast expanse of air, a single wing seen floating. As they rode, they often stopped to wonder at the strange but beautiful effects of light that glided now slowly along the mountains—disappeared—then shone again; the giant shadows seeming to chase each other through the dreary valley. Thus, sauntering along they took no note of time, when at last the long low cottage, where the priest lived, came in sight. It was an humble abode, but beautifully situated at the bottom of the glen; the whole valley lying expanded in front, with its bright rivulet and its bold sides of granite. The cottage itself was little better than that of a poor farmer; and save from the ornament of some creepers, which were trained against the walls, and formed into a deep porch at the entrance, differed in no respect from such. A few straggling patches of cultivation, of the very rudest kind, were seen, here and there, but all without any effort at fence or enclosure. Some wild fruit-trees were scattered over the little lawn in front, if the narrow strip of grass that flanked the river could be called such, and here, a small Kerry cow was grazing, the only living thing to be seen.

A little well, arched over with pieces of rock, and surmounted by a small wooden cross, stood close to the road-side, and the wild-thorn that overshadowed it was hung on every side with small patches of rags of every colour and texture that human dress ever consisted of; a sight new to the eyes of the travellers, who knew not, that the shrine was deemed holy, and the tree, the receptacle of the humble offering of those, whose sorrows of mind and body came there for alleviation and succour.

Sir Marmaduke dismounted and approached the door, which lay wide open; he knocked gently with his whip, and as no answer to his summons was returned, repeated it again and again. He now ventured to call aloud, but no one came, and at last, both father and daughter began to suspect there might be no one in the house.

“This is most strange,” said he, after a long pause, and an effort to peep in through the windows, half hid with honey-suckle.

“The place seems totally deserted. Let us try at the back, however.”

As the old baronet wended his way to the rear of the cottage, he muttered a half upbraiding against his daughter for not complying with his desire to have a groom along with them—a want, which now increased the inconvenience of their position. She laughingly defended herself against the charge, and at the same moment sprang down from her saddle, to assist in the search.

“I certainly perceived some smoke from the chimney as we came up the glen and there must have been some one here lately, at least,” said she, looking eagerly around on every side.

“This is indeed solitude,” muttered her father, as he listened for some minutes, during which the stillness had an effect most appalling.

While he was speaking, Miss Travers had drawn near to a low latticed window which lay half open, and as she peeped in, immediately drew back, and beckoned with her hand for her father to approach, intimating by a cautious gesture that he should do so noiselessly. Sir Marmaduke came stealthily to her side, and, leaning over her shoulder, looked into the room. As both father and daughter exchanged glances, they seemed with difficulty to refrain from laughing, while astonishment was strongly depicted on the countenance of each. As they continued to gaze, their first emotion gradually yielded to a look of intense interest at the scene before them.

Seated beside the large turf fire of the priest's kitchen, for such it was, was a youth of some fifteen or sixteen years. His figure, light and well proportioned, was clad in a fashion which denoted his belonging to the better class, though neglect and time had made many an inroad on the Costume. His brow was lofty and delicately formed—the temples marked with many a thin blue rein, which had given ft look of delicacy to the countenance, if the deep glow of health had not lit up his cheeks, and imparted a bright lustre to his eyes. He held before him an open volume, from which he declaimed rather than read aloud, as it seemed, for the special delight and amusement of a small ragged urchin of about nine years old—who, with bare legs and feet, was seated on a little pyramid of turf, right opposite to him.

Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel surprise; the volume was Homer, from which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, the boy was reading—the deep-toned syllables ringing through the low-vaulted chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with the fervid eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt attention of the little fellow who listened. Astonishment, awe, and eager curiosity, blended together in that poor little face, every lineament of which trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination and elevated tone of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not less forcibly realized the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned interest.

The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over what he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried out—

“Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It's like the cry of the big stag-hound at Carrig-na-curra.”

“It is the language of the gods, Mickey—finer and grander than ever man spoke,” replied the youth with fervour. “Listen to this, here;” and then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, as if the words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat spellbound, with clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him.

“What does it mean, Master Herbert?—what is it?” said he, in panting eagerness.

“It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He was putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting on his sword.”

“Yes, yes,” broke in the little fellow, “and wasn't he saying how he'd murther and kill all before him?”

“Bight enough,” said the youth, laughing. “You guessed it well.”

“Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and your eyes wor shinin' like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin' them he was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just tell me that, sir.”

“He went out in his chariot—”

“Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye,” said he, with a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the book.”

The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several minutes without stopping.

“Oh, that's grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “'Tis for all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen—moanin' first, far off on the mountains, and then swellin' into a big roar, and afterwards going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the inimy, master dear?”

“No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.”

“Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief.

“He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his death.”

Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise—it might be, too, of shame—was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said—

“Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney—”

“You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting him finish his speech.

“I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride was clearly confessed.

“I ask pardon,” said the baronet hastily. “It was merely that I might convey my respectful greetings to the worthy father that I asked the question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, and say, that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here.”

“While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth's eyes were fixed with a steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was, there was nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the unequivocal expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of admiration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no fascination. His eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished speaking, and the old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration of the boy.

“You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers,” repeated he once more, to recall the scattered senses of the youth.

“And his daughter?” murmured the other, as he still continued to stare at her.

“Yes, his daughter,” replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. “May I ask if there be no shorter road back to 'the Lodge,' than that yonder? for I perceive it is full two hours later than I suspected.”

“None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but even on foot it is not without danger.”

“Come, then, Sybella; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, to reach home by day-light. We are late enough already.”

“Too late, if you ride not very fast,” replied the youth. “The rain has fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall yonder. I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract. This river rises rapidly, and in a single night's rain I have seen the valley all one lake.”

“What are we to do then?” cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she felt self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and was vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father.

“Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they call 'the pulpit'—you know it, at least you must have seen it, as you came along—then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that time, and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you arrive at the broken bridge—the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the stream there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you are safe upon the high road. Away then; lose no more time, now; a minute is all the space between risk and safety;” and with these words he sprang forward, and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had time or forethought to decline the service.

“May we not know the name of our kind adviser?” asked Sir Marmaduke, as he mounted his horse.

“Hark! there it comes!” said the youth, pointing upwards to the brow of a cliff, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. “The mountain lakes are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! if you care for safety.”

They turned their horses' heads as he spoke, and with a hasty “good bye” they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they travelled the same path, the scene was wonderfully changed; the placid stream that stole along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed onward with a yellow current streaked with white foam; the tiny rivulets that came in slender drops upon the road-side, were now become continuous streams of water, hurrying on to bear their tribute to the river. The sky itself was black and louring, resting midway on the mountains, or drifting past in heavy clouds, while no breeze was stirring below. The many torrents as they fell, filled the air with a low monotonous sound, like the noise of tree tops moved by a distant-storm.

“I thought I heard a voice calling to us,” said Sir Marmaduke, as for the first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones that obstructed the way—“did you hear it?”

“I half thought so, too,” replied his daughter; “but I can see no one near. There it is again!”

They halted and listened; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to loiter longer; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace the words, “come back, come back;” but from some strange dread of communicating fears that might not be real, neither told the other.

“He said the left side of the valley; but surely he mistook: see how the water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry.”

“Let us follow the advice, father,” cried Sybella, “we have no guidance save his; he could not—would not deceive us, Is it not grand! with all its danger, I can admire it.”

As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder broke above their heads, and made the valley tremble with the sound, while, as if by the shock the charged clouds were rent open, and the rain descended in torrents. With the swooping gush of the ocean spray, storm-lashed and drifted, the rain came down, wrapping in misty darkness every object around them. And now, the swollen cataracts tore madly down the mountain sides, leaping from crag to crag, and rending the clayey soil in deep clefts and gashes. Again the thunder pealed out, and every echo sent hack the sound, till the whole glen vibrated with the deafening clamour. Still they sped onward. The terrified horses strained every limb, and dashing madly on—mid rock and rushing water they went, now, clearing at a bound the course of some gushing stream—now, breasting the beating rain with vigorous chest.

The storm increased; the howling wind joined with the deep-toned thunder into one long continuous roar, that seemed to shake the very air itself.

“Yonder!” said the father, as he pointed to the tall dark pinnacle of rock, known by the country people as “the Pulpit”—“yonder!”

Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beating rain, and at last caught sight of the huge mass, around whose summit the charged clouds were flying.

“We must cross the river in this place,” said the old man, as he suddenly checked his horse, and looked with terrified gaze on the swollen stream that came boiling and foaming over to where they stood, with branches of trees and fragments of rock rolling onward in the tide. “The youth told us of this spot.”

“Let us not hesitate, father,” cried the young girl, with a tone of firm, resolute daring she had not used before—“remember what he said, a minute may save or ruin us. Great heaven! what is that?”

A terrific shriek followed her words, and she fell with her head upon her horse's mane; a broad flash of lightning had burst from a dark cloud, and came with vivid force upon her eyeballs.

“Father, dear father, my sight is gone,” she screamed aloud, as lifting up her head she rubbed the orbs now paralyzed by the shock.

“My child, my child!” cried the old man, with the piercing shriek of a breaking heart; “look on me, look towards me. Oh, say that you can see me, now—my brain is turning.”

“Oh God, I thank thee!” said the terrified girl, as once more her vision was restored, and, dimly, objects began to form themselves before her.

With bare head and upturned eyes, the aged man looked up, and poured forth his prayer of thankfulness to heaven. The raging storm beat on his brow unfelt; his thoughts were soaring to the Throne of Mercies, and knew not earth, nor all its sorrows.

A clap of thunder at the moment broke from the dense cloud above them, and then, in quick succession, like the pealing of artillery, came several more, while the forked lightning shot to and fro, and at last, as if the very earth was riven to its centre, a low booming sound was heard amid the clouds; the darkness grew thicker, and a crash followed that shook the ground beneath them, and splashed the wild waves on every side. The spray sprung madly up, while the roaring of the stream grew louder; the clouds swept past, and the tall Pulpit rock was gone! Struck by lightning, it had rolled from its centre, and fallen across the river, the gushing waters of which poured over it in floods, and fell in white sheets of foam and spray beyond it.

“God is near us, my child,” said the old man with fervour; “let us onward.”

Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection—the emblem of a heart's love—and she prepared to follow.

To return was now impossible, the river had already extended the whole way across the valley in the rear; the only chance of safety lay in front.

“Keep by my side, dearest,” said the father, as he rode first into the stream, and tried to head the terrified animal against the current.

“I am near you, father, fear not for me,” said she firmly, her hold heart nerved to the danger.

For some seconds the affrighted horses seemed rooted to the earth, and stood amid the boiling current as if spell-bound; a fragment of a tree, however, in its course, struck the flank of the leading horse, and he sprung madly forward, followed by the other. Now, breasting the stream—now, sinking to the mane beneath it, the noble beasts struggled fiercely on till near the spot, where the Pulpit-rock had left a space between it and the opposite bank, and here, a vast volume of water now poured along unchecked by any barrier.

“To my side—near me, dearest—near me,” cried the father, as his horse dashed into the seething flood and sunk above the crest beneath it.

“I cannot, father—I cannot,” screamed the affrighted girl, as with a bound of terror her horse sprang back from the chasm, and refused to follow. The old man heard not the words—the current had swept him far down into the stream, amid the rent branches and the rolling rocks—“My child, my child,” the only accents heard above the raging din.

Twice did the heroic girl try to face the current, but in vain—the horse plunged wildly up and threatened to fall back, when suddenly through the white foam a figure struggled on and grasped the bridle at the head; next moment, a man leaped forward and was breasting the surge before her—

“Head the stream—head the stream if you can,” cried he, who still held on, while the wild waves washed over him; but the poor horse, rendered unmanageable through fear, had yielded to the current, and was now each moment nearing the cataract.

“Cling to me, now,” cried the youth, as with the strength of desperation he tore the girl from the saddle, while with the other hand he grasped an ash bough that hung drooping above his head. As he did so, the mare bounded forward—the waves closed over her, and she was carried over the precipice.

“Cling fast to me, and we are safe,” cried the youth, and with vigorous grasp he held on the tree, and thus supported, breasted the stream and reached the bank. Exhausted and worn out, both mind and body powerless, they both fell senseless on the grass.

The last shriek of despair broke from the father's heart as the horse, bereft of rider, swept past him in the flood. The cry aroused the fainting girl; she half rose to her feet and called upon him. The next moment they were locked in each other's arms.

“It was he who saved me, father,” said she in accents broken with joy and sorrow; “he risked his life for mine.”

The youth recovered consciousness as the old man pressed him to his heart.

“Is she safe?” were the first words he said as he stared around him vaguely, and then, as if overcome, he fell heavily back upon the sward. A joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and at the instant, several country people were seen coming forward, with Terry at their head.

“Here we are—here we are, and in good time too,” cried Terry; “and if it wasn't that you took a fool's advice, we'd have gone the other road. The carriage is in the glen, my lady,” said he, kneeling down beside Sybella, who still remained clasped in her father's arms.

By this time, some of Sir Marmaduke's servants had reached the spot, and by them the old man and his daughter were assisted toward the high road, while two others carried the poor youth, by this time totally unable to make the least exertion.

“This brave boy—this noble fellow,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he stooped to kiss the pale high forehead, from which the wet hair hung backwards—“Can no one tell me who he is?”

“He's the young O'Donoghue,” replied a half dozen voices together; “a good warrant for courage or bravery any day.”

“The O'Donoghue!” repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring in the confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had heard it.

“Ay, the O'Donoghue,” shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new figure rode up on a small mountain pony. “It oughtn't to be a strange name in these parts. Rouse yourself, Master Herbert, rouse up, my child—sure it isn't a wettin' would cow you this way?”

“What! Kerry, is this you?” said the youth faintly, as he looked around him with half-closed eyelids. “Where's my father?”

“Faix, he's snug at the parlour fire, my darlin', where his son ought to be, if he wasn't turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his kith and kin.”

These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made the boy start from the arms of those who bore him.

“Here's the pony, Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at once; sure there isn't a blackguard there, with lace on his coat, wouldn't be laughing at your old clothes when the light comes.”

Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these words were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing every care and attention on one he deemed his guest.

The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and suffered himself to be placed upon the saddle.

“Now, then, hould fast, and I'll guide him,” said Kerry, as elbowing the crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less than a minute had disappeared in the darkness.

Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and message after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in vain; Kerry and his pony had already gained so much in advance, none could overtake them.

“To-morrow then, my child,” said Sir Marmaduke, “to-morrow will, I hope, enable me to speak my gratitude, though I shall not sleep well to-night—I never rested with so heavy a debt unpaid before.”

And with these words they slowly wended their way homeward.