The O'Donoghue Part 11

"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 doc.u.ment; 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 n.o.bly, 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."

"d.a.m.n 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 of life. Now, however, the whole household felt the change. The riotous laughter of the kitchen was silenced, the loud speaking hushed, the doors banged by the wind, or the ruder violence of careless hands, were closed noiselessly--every thing betokened that sorrow was there. O'Donoghue himself paced to and fro in the chamber of the old tower, now, stopping to cast a glance down the glen, where he still hoped to see Mark approaching, now, resuming his melancholy walk in sadness of heart.

In the darkened sick-room, and by the bed, sat Sir Archibald, concealed by the curtain, but near enough to give a.s.sistance to the sick boy should he need it. He sat buried in his own gloomy thoughts, rendered gloomier, as he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutter-ings of the youth, whose fever continued to increase upon him. The old ill-tempered cook, whose tongue was the terror of the region she dwelt in, sat smoking by the fire, nor noticed the presence of the aged fox hound, who had followed Kerry into the kitchen, and now lay asleep before the fire. Kerry himself ceased to hum the s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs and ballads, by which he was accustomed to beguile the weary day. There was a gloom on every thing, nor was the aspect without doors more cheering.

The rain beat heavily in drifts against the windows; the wind shook the old trees violently, and tossed their gnarled limbs in wild confusion, sighing with mournful cadence along the deep glen, or pouring a long melancholy note through the narrow corridors of the old house. The sound of the storm, made more audible by the dreary silence, seemed to weigh down every heart. Even the bare-legged little gossoon, Mickey, who had come over from Father Luke's with a message, sat mute and sad, and as he moved his naked foot among the white turf ashes, seemed to feel the mournful depression of the hour.

"'Tis a dreadful day of rain, glory be to G.o.d!" said Kerry, as he drew a fragment of an old much-soiled newspaper from his pocket, and took his seat beside the blazing fire. For some time he persevered in his occupation without interruption; but Mrs. Branaghan having apparently exhausted her own reflections, now turned upon him to supply a new batch.

"What's in the news, Kerry O'Leary? I think ye might as well read it out, as be mumbling it to yourself there," said she, in a tone seldom disputed in the realm she ruled.

"Musha then," said Kerry, scratching his head, "the little print bates me entirely; the letters do be so close, they hav'n't room to stir in, and my eyes is always going to the line above, and the line below, and can't keep straight in the furrow at all. Come here, Mickey, alanah!

'tis you ought to be a great scholar, living in the house with his reverence. They tell me," continued he, in a whisper to the cook--"they tell me, he can sarve ma.s.s already."

Mrs. Branaghan withdrew her dudeen at these words, and gazed at the little fellow with unmixed astonishment, who, in obedience to the summons, took his place beside Kerry's chair, and prepared to commence his task.

"Where will I begin, sir?"

"Begin at the news, av coorse," said Kerry, somewhat puzzled to decide what kind of intelligence he most desired. "What's this here with a large P in the first of it?"

"Prosperity of Ireland, sir," said the child.

"Ay, read about that, Mickey," said the cook, resuming her pipe.

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With a sing-song intonation, which neither regarded paragraph nor period, but held on equably throughout a column, the little fellow began--

"The prospect of an abundant harvest is now very general throughout the country; and should we have a continuance off the heavenly weather for a week or so longer, we hope the corn will all be saved."

As the allusion made here by the journalist, was to a period of several years previous, the listeners might be excused for not feeling a perfect concurrence in the statement.'

"Heavenly weather, indeed!" grunted out the cook, as she turned her eyes towards the windows, against which the plashing rain was beating--Mike read on.

"Mr. Foran was stopped last night in Baggot-street, and robbed of his watch and clothes, by four villains who live in Stoney-batter; they are well known, and are advised to take care, as such depredations cannot go long unpunished. The two villains that broke into the house of the Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the house-maid, will be turned off 'Lord Temple's trap,' on Sat.u.r.day next; this, will be a lesson to the people about the Cross-Poddle, that we hope may serve to their advantage."

"Sir Miles M'Shane begs to inform the person who found his shoe-buckle after the last levee, that he will receive one and eight pence reward for the same, by bringing it to No. 2, Ely-place; or if he prefer it, Sir Miles will toss up who keeps the pair. They are only paste, and not diamond, though mighty well imitated."

"Paste!" echoed Mrs. Branahan; "the lying thieves!" her notions on the score of that material being limited to patties and pie-crusts.

"The 'Bucks' are imitating the ladies in all the arts of beautifying the person.--Many were seen painted and patched at the d.u.c.h.ess's last ball.

We hope this effeminacy may not spread any farther.--It is Mr. Rigby, and not Mr. Harper, is to have the silk gown. Sir George Rose is to get the red ribbon for his services in North America."

"A silk gown and a red ribbon!" cried Mrs. Branaghan. "Bad luck to me, but they might be ashamed of themselves."

"Faix, I never believed what Darby Long said before," broke in Kerry.

"He tould me he saw the bishop of Cork in a black silk petticoat like a famale. Is there no more murders, Mickey?"

"I don't know, sir, barrin' they're in the fashionable intelligence."

"Well, read on."

"Donald, the beast, who refused to leave his cell in Trim gaol at the last a.s.sizes, and was consequently fired at by a file of infantry, had his leg amputated yesterday by Surgeon Huston of this town, and is doing remarkably well."

"Where's the sporting news?" said Kerry. "Is not this it, here?" as he pointed to a figure of a horse above a column.

"Mr. Connolly's horse, Gabriel, would have been in first, but he stopped to eat Whaley, the jockey, when he fell. The race is to be run again on Friday next. It was Mr. Daly, and not Mr. Crosbie, horse-whipped the attorney over the course last Tuesday. Mr. Crosbie spent the day with the Duke of Leinster, and is very angry at his name being mentioned in the wrong, particularly as he is bound over to keep the peace towards all members of the bar for three years."

"Captain Heavyside and Mr. Malone exchanged four shots each on the Bull this morning. The quarrel was about racing and politics, and miscellaneous matters."

"It is rumoured that if the Chief Justice be appointed from England, he will decline giving personal satisfaction to the Master of the Rolls; but we cannot credit the report--"

"The Carmelites have taken Banelagh-house for a nunnery."

"That's the only bit in the paper I'd give the snuff of my pipe for,"

said Mrs. Branaghan. "Read it again, acushla."