Читать книгу The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago - Lever Charles James - Страница 12

“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O’Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.

“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him – that’s certain; but I don’t think there’s much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor’s throat. “You’re nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you’ve given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I’ll be bound, and people have survived it too.”

“I’m better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don’t prosecute that scoundrel, O’Leary. It was all malice – I can swear to that.”

“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.”

“No, no – don’t tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.”

“Come, come, Roach, don’t be angry; it’s all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”

“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature for the best!”

“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. “There’s no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.”

“Where’s the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly remembering the last sight he had of them.

“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty kettles at his tail. They’ll stop him at last; and if they shouldn’t, I don’t suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn’t worth a five pound note – no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he turned away.

The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his invariable signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my conveniency, with the pony, harness and all – ”

“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting. Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his ordinary gait. “There’s a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully; “the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d – d auld beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.”

“The d – d auld beestie,” exclaimed Roach, as he sprung from the sofa and stood before him, “is very much honoured by your flattering mention of him.” Then turning towards the O’Donoghue, he added – “Take your turn out of me now, when you have me; for, by the Father of Physic, you’ll never see Denis Roach under this roof again.”

The O’Donoghue laughed till his face streamed with the emotion, and he rocked in his chair like one in a convulsion. “Look, Archy,” cried he – “see now! – hear me, Roach,” were the only words he could utter between the paroxysms, while M’Nab, the very picture of shame and confusion, stood overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say a word.

“Let us not stand fooling here,” said Mark, gruffly, as he took the Doctor’s arm; “come and see my brother, and try what can be done for him.”

With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself to be led away by the young man, Sir Archy following slowly, as they mounted the stairs.

Although alone, the O’Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene he had just witnessed; nor did he know which to enjoy more – the stifled rage of the Doctor, or the mingled shame and distress of M’Nab. It was, indeed, a rare thing to obtain such an occasion for triumph over Sir Archy, whose studied observance of all the courtesies and proprieties of life, formed so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent habits.

“Archy will never get over it – that’s certain, and begad he shan’t do so for want of a reminder. The d – d auld beestie!” and with the words came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered the room. “Well, lad,” he cried, “have they made it up – what has Sir Archy done with him?”

“Herbert’s better,” said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a look that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father.

“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he may recover?”

“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up with him till four o’clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.”

“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night’s rest; you’ve had a long and tiresome ride to-day.”

“I’m not tired, and I’ll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone of his self-willed habit – one, which his father had never sought to control, from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark broke, at length, by saying – “So, it is pretty clear now that our game is up – the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on.”

“What of Callaghan?” asked the O’Donoghue, in a sinking voice.

“Refused – flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five hundred down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he’d strain a point.”

“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you mention about Kate’s money?”

“No,” said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. “No, sir, I never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for our faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I’ll not suffer it.”

“But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I’ll repay – ”

“Repay!” was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a withering glance at his father.

“Then there’s nothing but ruin before us,” said the O’Donoghue, in a solemn tone – “nothing!”

The old man’s head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up and down the roomy chamber.

“Hemsworth’s clerk hinted something about this old banker’s intention of building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence.

“Building where? – over at ‘the Lodge?’”

“No, here – at Carrig-na-curra – throwing down this old place, I suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead.”

“What!” exclaimed the O’Donoghue, with a look of fiery indignation. “Are they going to grub us out, root and branch? Is it not enough to banish the old lords of the soil, but they must remove their very landmarks also?”

“It is for that he’s come here, I’ve no doubt,” resumed Mark; “he only waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term will give him.”

“I wish he had waited a little longer – a year, or at most, two, would have been enough,” said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then added, with a sickly smile – “You have little affection for the old walls, Mark.”