The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago. Lever Charles James
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.
CHAPTER VIII. THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS
How painfully is the sense of severe illness diffused through every part of a household. How solemn is the influence it sheds on every individual, and every object; the noiseless step, the whispered words, the closed curtains, the interruption to the ordinary avocations of life, or the performance of them in gloom and sadness. When wealth and its appliances exist, these things take all the features of extreme care and solicitude for the sufferer; all the agencies of kindness and skill are brought into active exertion, to minister to the rich man in sickness; but when poverty and its evils are present – when the struggle is against the pressure of want, as well as the sufferings of malady, the picture is indeed a dark one.
The many deficiencies in comfort, which daily habit has learned to overlook, the privations which in the active conflict with the world are forgotten, now, come forth in the solitude of the sick house, to affright and afflict us, and we sorrow over miseries long lost to memory till now.
Never since the fatal illness which left O’Donoghue a widower, had there been any thing like dangerous sickness in the house; and like most people who have long enjoyed the blessings of uninterrupted health, they had no thought for such a calamity, nor deemed it among the contingencies