Читать книгу The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago - Charles James Lever - Страница 11

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It was strange that, although the old man and his tender daughter should have sustained no other ill results from their adventure, than the terror which even yet dwelt on their minds, the young and vigorous youth, well trained to every accident of flood or field, felt it most seriously.

The exertions he made to overtake Sir Marmaduke and his daughter, followed by the struggle in the swollen stream, had given such a shock to his frame, that ere day broke the following morning, he was in a fever. The mental excitement conspiring with fatigue and exhaustion, had brought on the symptoms of his malady with such rapidity, that it was evident, even to the unaccustomed observers around him, his state was precarious.

Sir Archibald was the first person at the sick youth's bed-side. The varied fortunes of a long life, not devoid of its own share of vicissitude, had taught him so much of medical skill, as can give warning of the approach of fever; and as he felt the strong and frequent pulse, and saw the flushed and almost swollen features before him, he recognized the commencement of severe and dangerous illness.

Vague and confused images of the previous night's adventure, or visions of the dark valley and the tempest, occupied all the boy's thoughts; and though he endeavoured, when spoken to, to preserve coherency and memory, the struggle was unavailing; and the immediate impression of a question past, his mind wandered back to the theme which filled his brain.

“How was it then?” said Sir Archy, who, as he sat beside the sick bed, questioned the youth about his adventure. “You said something of a horse?”

“Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! It was fine to see her as the spray fell over her like a veil, and she shook the drops from her hair.”

“Whence came she? Who was the lady?”

“Take care—take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with a steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning—the storm is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the black valley.”

“Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your head will ache if you take not rest—keep quiet.”

“Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck—There—there,” cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it—seize it—my feet are slipping—the rock moves—I can hold no longer; there—there,” and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow.

Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure medical aid.

It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between the curtains of his bed.

“Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?”

“No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M 'Nab, with a gravity even deeper than usual.

“That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.”

“Dinna fash about these things now,” said M'Nab with impatience, “It's that poor callant, Herbert—he's very ill—it's a fever he's caught. I'm thinking.”

“Oh Herbert!” said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of money-calamity. “What of him?”

“He's in a fever; his mind is wandering already.”

“Not a bit of it; it's a mere wetting—a common cold: the boy fell into the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all.”

“I am no speaking of Mark just now,” said M'Nab tartly, “but of the other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done quickly.”

“Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he'll get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself.”

Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between his teeth as he went—

“We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs?—he's a cannie chiel, is auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever,” and with this sensible reflection he proceeded on his way.

Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room.

“Well, Herbert, lad,” said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering the grey light to fall on the youth's features, “what is the matter? your uncle has been routing me up with a story about you.”

He ceased suddenly, as his eyes beheld the change a few hours had wrought in the boy's appearance: “His eyes, deep-buried in their orbits, shone with an unnatural lustre—his cheeks were pale and sunken, save where a bright patch of florid red marked the centre of each; his lips were dry and shrivelled, and had a slight tremulous motion, as if he were muttering to himself.

“Poor fellow,” said the father, “how dreadfully ill he looks. Have you any pain, my boy?”

The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly accent, but could not hear or understand the words; and as his eyes glistened with delight, he stole his burning hand from beneath the bed-clothes, and held it out, all trembling, towards his father.

“How sudden this has been: you were quite well last night, Herbert.”

“Last night!” echoed the boy, with a strange emphasis on the only words he had caught up.

“No, by the way, it was the night before I mean. I did not see you last night; but, cheer up, my dear boy; we've sent for Roach—he'll put you to rights at once. I hope Mark may reach home before the doctor goes. I'd like to have his advice about that strain in the back.”

These last words were uttered in soliloquy, and seemed to flow from a train of thought very different from that arising from the object before him. Sunk in these reflections, he drew near the window, which looked out upon the old court-yard behind the house, and where now a very considerable crowd of beggars had assembled to collect the alms usually distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with an ample canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of containing a sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to support the owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily engaged in stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as luck, or the preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling over their portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M'Nab hurriedly presented himself in the midst of them—an appearance which seemed to create no peculiar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased alacrity of their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to move off.

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The ODonoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the ragged mob, and let down the window-sash to watch the scene.

“'Tis going we are; God be good to us!”

“Ye needn't be cursing that way,” said an old hag, with a sack on her back, large enough to contain a child.

“Eyah! the Lord look down on the poor,” said a little fat fellow, with a flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet; “there's no pity now at all, at all.”

“The heavens be your bed, any way,” said a hard-featured little woman, with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification from the mere words.

“Blessed Joseph! sure it isn't robbers and thieves we are, that ye need hunt us out of the place.”

Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an undergrowl of the “Scotch naygur”—“the ould scrape-gut,” and other equally polite and nattering epithets.

“This is no a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards; awa wi' ye—awa wi' ye at once.”

“Them's the words ye'll hear in heaven yet, darlint,” said an old fiend of a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished by a single tooth. “Them's the very words St. Peter will spake to yourself.”

“Begorra, he'll not be strange in the other place anyhow,” muttered another. “'Tis there hell meet most of his countrymen.”

This speech was the signal for a general outburst of laughter.

“Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils; ye'r a disgrace to a Christian country.'

“Throth we wear breeches an us,” said an old fellow on crutches; “and sure I hear that's more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes from.”

Sir Archy's passion boiled over at this new indignity. He stormed and swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with passion; but the effect on his hearers was totally lost The only notice they took was an occasional exclamation of—

“There it is now! Oh, blessed father! hear what he says! Oh, holy mother! isn't he a terrible man?”—comments by no means judiciously adapted to calm his irritation. Meanwhile symptoms of evacuating the territory were sufficiently evident. Cripples were taken on the backs and shoulders of their respective friends; sacks and pouches were slung over the necks. Many a preparatory shake of the rags showed that the wearer was getting ready for the road, when Sir Archy, suddenly checking himself in the full torrent of his wrath, cried out—

“Bide a wee—stay a minit, ye auld beasties—I hae a word to say to some amang ye.”

The altered tone of voice in which he spoke seemed at once to have changed the whole current of popular feeling; for now they all chimed in with—

“Arrah, he's a good man after all; sure 'tis only a way he has”—sentiments which increased in fervency as Sir Archibald took a tolerably well-filled purse from his pocket, and drew out some silver into his hand, many exclaiming—

“'Tis the kind heart often has the hard word; and sure ye can see in his face he isn't cruel.'

“Hear till me,” cried Sir Archy aloud, as he held up a shilling before their wistful eyes, “there's mony a ane among ye, able to earn siller. Which o' ye now will step down to Killarney, and tell the docter he's wanted up here wi a' despatch? Ye maun go fast and bring him, or send him here to-night; and if ye do, I'll gie ye this piece o' siller money when ye come back.”

A general groan from that class whose age and infirmities placed them out of the reach of competitorship, met this speech, while from the more able section, a not less unequivocal expression of discontent broke forth.

“Down to Killarney,” cried one; “begorra, I wonder ye didn't say Kenmare when ye war about it—the devil a less than ten miles it is.”

“Eyah! I'll like to see my own four bones going the same road; sorra a house the whole way where there's a drop of milk or a pratie.”

“That's the charity to the poor, I suppose,” said the fat fellow of the night-cap. “'Tis wishing it I am, the same charity.”

“We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope,” said a cripple in a bowl.

“Did ever man hear or see the like o' this?” exclaimed M'Nab, as with uplifted hands he stared in wonderment around him. “One wad na believe it.”

“True for you, honey,” joined in one of the group. “I'm fifty-three years on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin' us to do a hand's turn, afore.”

“Out of my sight, ye worthless ne'er-do-weels; awa wi ye at once and for ever. I'll send twenty miles round the country, but I'll hae a mastiff here, 'ill worry the first o' ye that dares to come near the house.”

“On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste nor yourself.”

“Begorra, he won't be uglier any how.”

And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours of war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and anger.

A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed over head, made him look up, and he just caught a glimpse of O'Donoghue as he retired from the window; for in his amusement at the scene, the old man forgot the sick boy and all about him, and only thought of the ridiculous interview he had witnessed.

“His ain father—his ain father!” muttered Sir Archy, as with his brows contracted and his hands clasped behind his back, he ruminated in sadness on all he saw. “What brings ye back again, ye lazy scoundrels? How dare ye venture in here again?”

This not over-courteous interrogatory was addressed to poor Terry the Woods, who, followed by one of Sir Marmaduke's footmen, had at that instant entered the yard.

“What for, are ye come, I say? and what's the flunkie wanting beside ye?”

Terry stood thunderstruck at the sudden outbreak of temper, and turned at once to the responsible individual, to whom he merely acted as guide, to make a reply.

“And are ye tramping it too?” said M'Nab, with a sneering accent as he addressed the footman. “Methinks ye might hae a meal's meat out o' the goold lace on your hat, and look mair like a decent Christian afterwards. Ye'r out of place maybe.”

These last words were delivered in an irony, to which a tone of incredulity gave all the sting; and these only were intelligible to the sleek and well-fed individual to whom they were addressed.

In all likelihood, had he been charged with felony or highway robbery, his self-respect might have sustained his equanimity; any common infraction of the statute-law might have been alleged against him without exciting an undue indignation; but the contemptuous insinuation of being “out of place”—that domestic outlawry, was more than human endurance could stomach; nor was the insult more palatable coming from one he believed to be a servant himself. It was therefore with the true feeling of outraged dignity he replied—

“Not exactly out of place jest now, friend; though, if they don't treat you better than your looks show, I'd recommend you trying for a new situation.”

Of a verity, Sir Archibald's temper was destined to sore trials that morning; but this was a home thrust, for which no forethought could have prepared him.

“I hope I am no' going to lose my senses,” said he, as he pressed his hands on either side of his temples. “May the Lord keep me from that worst of a' human calamities.”

This pious wish, uttered with real, unfeigned fervency, seemed to act like a charm upon the old man's temper, as though the very appeal had suggested a calmer and more patient frame of mind. It was, then, with all the dignity of his natural character, when unclouded by momentary flashes of passion, that he said—

“What may be your errand here this morning?”

Few and simple as the words were, there was that in their quiet, unassuming delivery, which in a second recalled the footman to a full consciousness of his impertinent mistake. He saw at once the immeasurable gulph, impassible to any effort of assumption or insolence, which separated them, and with the ready tact of his calling, he respectfully took off his hat, and held forth a sealed letter, without one word of reply or apology.

Sir Archibald put on his spectacles, and having carefully read the superscription, turned back towards the house without speaking.

“Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue,” said he, as he entered the parlour where the chief was already seated at his breakfast, while Kerry O'Leary, a short distance behind his chair, was relating the circumstances of the last night's adventure.

“Is it from Mark?” said the old man eagerly; and then glancing at the writing, he threw it from him in disappointment, and added, “I am getting very uneasy about that lad.”

“Had ye no' better read the letter; the messenger wha brought it seems to expect an answer,” interposed M'Nab.

“Messenger!—eh—not by post? Is Hemsworth come back?” exclaimed O'Donoghue, with an evident degree of fear in his manner.

“No, sir,” said Kerry, guessing to what topic his master's thoughts were turning; “the Captain is not coming, they say, for a month or six weeks yet.”

“Thank God,” muttered O'Donoghue; “that scoundrel never leaves me a night's rest, when I hear he's in the neighbourhood. Will you see what's in it, Archy?—my head is quite confused this morning; I got up three hours before my time.”

Sir Archibald resumed his spectacles, and broke the seal. The contents were at some length it would seem, for as he perused the letter to himself, several minutes elapsed.

“Go on, Kerry,” said O'Donoghue; “I want to hear all about this business.”

“Well, I believe your honour knows the most of it now; for when I came up to the glen, they were all safe over, barrin' the mare; poor Kittane, she was carried down the falls, and they took her up near a mile below the old bridge, stone dead; Master Mark will fret his heart out when he hears it.”

“This is a very polite note,” interposed Sir Archy, as he laid the letter open before him, “from Sir Marmaduke Travers, begging to know when he may be permitted to pay his personal respects to you, and express his deep and grateful sense—his own words—of your son's noble conduct in rescuing his daughter at the hazard of his life. It is written with much modesty and good sense, and the writer canna be other than a true gentleman.”

“Travers—Travers,” repeated O'Donoghue; “why that's the man himself. It was he bought the estate; he's Hemsworth's principal.”

“And if he be,” replied M'Nab, “canna an honest man ha'e a bad servant? There's nothing about Hemsworth here. It's a ceevil demand from one gentleman to anither.”

“So it is, then, Sir Marmaduke, that has been staying at the lodge these some weeks past. That was Mark's secret—poor dear boy, he wouldn't tell me, fearing it would annoy me. Well, what is it he wants.”

“To visit you, O'Donoghue.”

“What nonsense; the mischiefs done already. The mortgage is forclosed; and as for Carrignacurra, they can do nothing before the next term; Swaby says so, at least.”

“Can ye no' comprehend. It is no law document; but a ceevil way to make your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke wad pay his respects to ye.”

“Well, let him come,” said O'Donoghue, laughing; “he's sure to find me at home. The sheriff takes care of that for him. Mark will be here to-morrow or next day; I hope he won't come before that.”

“The answer must be a written one,” said M'Nab; “it wad na be polite to gie the flunkie the response.”

“With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to indite it. Miles O'Donoghue are the only words I have written for many a year”—and he added, with a half bitter laugh—“it would have been as well for poor Mark, if I had forgotten even that same.”

Sir Archibald retired to write the answer, with many a misgiving as to the substance of the epistle; for while deeply gratified at heart, that his favourite, Herbert, had acquitted himself so nobly, his own pride was mortified, as he thought over the impressions a visit to the O'Donoghue household might have on the mind of a “haughty Southern,” for such in his soul he believed him.

There was no help for it, however; the advances were made in a spirit so very respectful, every line breathed such an evident desire, on the writer's part, to be well received, that a refusal, or even a formal acceptance of the proffered visit, was out of the question. His reply, then, accepted the intended honour, with a profession of satisfaction; apologising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score of ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom many inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear, but quaint, old-fashioned characters of the writer's time, and signed, “O'Donoghue,” was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square envelope, and with it in his hand, M'Nab re-entered the breakfast room.

“Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, before I seal it up?” asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance.

“No, no; I am sure it's all right and proper. You mentioned, of course, that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back every day.”

“I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy to see him, and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' him.”

“Damn me if I do, then, Archy,” broke in the old man roughly. “For so great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out of place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it go, however, and there's an end to it.”

“I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Killarney; that bit of a brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain road, and we may expect the docter here to-night;” and with these words, Sir Archy departed to send off his epistle; and the O'Donoghue leaned back in his easy chair, sorely wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day.