The O'Donoghue Part 25

The O'Donoghue pondered for a second or two, endeavouring to frame some distinct notion from these scanty materials, and then said--

"Send Master Mark to me." At the same instant he drew aside the curtain, and broke the seal of the letter. The first few lines, however, seemed to satisfy his curiosity, although the epistle was written in a close hand, and extended over three sides of the paper; and he threw it carelessly on the bed, and lay down again once more. During all this time, however, Kerry managed to remain in the room, and, while affecting to arrange clothes and furniture, keenly scrutinized the features of his master. It was of no use, however. The old man's looks were as apathetic as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten the missive Kerry had endowed with so many terrors and misfortunes.

"Herbert has pa.s.sed a favourable night," said Mark, entering a few moments after. "The fever seems to have left him, and, except for debility, I suppose there is little to ail him. What!--a letter! Who is this from?"

"From Kate," said the old man listlessly. "I got as far as 'My dear uncle;' the remainder must await a better light, and, mayhap, sharper eyesight too--for the girl has picked up this new mode of scribbling, which is almost unintelligible to me."

As the O'Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached the window, and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face changed colour more than once. Breaking off, he said--

"You don't know, then, what news we have here? More embarra.s.sment--ay, by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first sight. The French armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low Countries, and city after city falling into their possession; and so, the convents are breaking up, and the Sacre Cour, where Kate: is, has set free its inmates, who are returning to their friends. She comes here."

"What!--here?" said the O'Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at intelligence so strange and unexpected. "Why, Mark, my boy, that's impossible--the house is a ruin; we haven't a room; we have no servants, and have nothing like accommodation for the girl."

"Listen to this, then," said Mark, as he read from the letter:--"You may then conceive, my dear old papa--for I must call you the old name again, now that we are to meet--how happy I am to visit Carrig-na-curra once more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech wood in the glen, and the steep path beside the waterfall, and the wooden railings to guard against the precipice. Am I not right? And there's an ash tree over the pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed it to pluck the berries for me, and fell in, too. There's memory for you!"

"She'll be puzzled to find the wood now," said the O'Donoghue, with a sad attempt at a smile. "Go on, Mark."

"It's all the same kind of thing: she speaks of Molly c.o.o.ney's cabin, and the red boat-house, and fifty things that are gone many a day ago.

Strange enough, she remembers what I myself have long since forgotten.

'How I long for my own little blue bed-room, that looked out on Keim-an-eigh P----"

"There, Mark--don't read any more, my lad. Poor dear Kate!--what would she think of the place now?"

"The thing is impossible," said Mark, sternly; "the girl has got a hundred fancies and tastes, unsuited to our rude life; her French habits would ill agree with our barbarism. You must write to your cousin--that old Mrs. Bedingfield--if that's her name. She must take her for the present, at least; she offered it once before."

"Yes," said the old man, with an energy he had not used till now, "she did, and I refused. My poor brother detested that woman, and would never, had he lived, have entrusted his daughter to her care. If she likes it, the girl shall make this her home. My poor Harry's child shall not ask twice for a shelter, while I have one to offer her."

"Have you thought, sir, how long you may be able to extend the hospitality you speak of? Is this house now your own, that you can make a proffer of it to any one?--and if it were, is it here, within these damp, discoloured walls, with ruin without and within, that you'd desire a guest--and such a guest?"

"What do you mean, boy?"

"I mean what I say. The girl educated in the midst of luxury, pampered and flattered--we heard that from the Abbe--what a favourite she was there, and how naturally she a.s.sumed airs of command and superiority over the girls of her own age--truly, if penance were the object, the notion is not a bad one."

"I say it again--this is her home. I grieve it should be so rude a one--but, I'll never refuse to let her share it."

"Nor would I," muttered Mark, gloomily, "if it suited either her habits, or her tastes. Let her come, however; a week's experience will do more to undeceive her than if we wrote letters for a twelvemonth."

"You must write to her, Mark; you must tell her, that matters have not gone so well with us latterly--that she'll see many changes here; but mind, you say how happy we are to receive her."

"She can have her choice of blue bed-rooms, too--shall I say that?" said Mark, almost savagely. "The damp has given them the proper tinge for her fancy; and as to the view she speaks of, a.s.suredly there is nothing to baulk it: the window has fallen out many a day ago, that looked on Keim-an-eigh."

"How can you torture me this way, boy?" said the old man, with a look of imploring, to which his white hairs and aged features gave a most painful expression. But Mark turned away, and made no answer.

"My uncle," said he, after a pause, "must answer this epistle.

Letter-writing is no burthen to him. In fact, I believe, he rather likes it; so here goes to do him a favour. It is seldom the occasion presents itself."

It was not often that Mark O'Donoghue paid a visit to Sir Archibald in his chamber; and the old man received him as he entered with all the show of courtesy he would have extended to a stranger--a piece of attention which was very far, indeed, from relieving Mark of any portion of his former embarra.s.sment.

"I have brought you a letter, sir," said he, almost ere he took his seat--"a letter which my father would thank you to reply to. It is from my cousin Kate, who is about to return to Ireland, and take up her abode here."

"Ye dinna mean she's coming here, to Carrig-na-curra?"

"It is even so! though I don't wonder at your finding it hard of belief."

"It's mair than that--it's far mair--it's downright incredible."

"I thought so, too; but my father cannot agree with me. He will not believe that this old barrack is not a baronial castle; and persists in falling back on what is past, rather than look on the present, not to speak of the future."

"But she canna live here, Mark," said Sir Archy, his mind ever dwelling on the great question at issue. "There's no'a spot in the whole house she could inhabit. I ken something of these French damsels, and their ways; and the strangers that go there for education are a' worse than the natives. I mind the time I was in Paris with his Royal------" Sir Archy coughed, and reddened up, and let fall his snuff-box, spilling all the contents on the floor.

"Gude save us, here's a calamity! It was real macabaw, and cost twa s.h.i.+llings an ounce. I maun even see if I canna sc.r.a.pe it up wi' a piece of paper;" and so, he set himself diligently to glean up the scattered dust, muttering, all the time, maledictions on his bad luck.

Mark never moved nor spoke the entire time; but sat with the open letter in his hand, patiently awaiting the resumption of the discussion.

"Weel, weel," exclaimed Sir Archy, as he resumed his seat once more; "let us see the epistle, and perhaps we may find some clue to put her off."

"My father insists on her coming," said Mark, sternly.

"So he may, lad," replied Sir Archy; "but she may ha'e her ain reasons for declining--dinna ye see that? This place is a ruin. Wha's to say it is no' undergoing a repair--that the roof is off, and will not be on for sax months to come. The country, too, is in a vara disturbed state.

Folks are talking in a suspicious way."

Mark thought of the midnight march he had witnessed; but said nothing.

"There's a fever, besides, in the house, and wha can tell the next to tak' it. The Lord be mercifu' to us!" added he gravely, as if the latter thought approached somewhat too close on a temptation of Providence.

"If she's like what I remember her as a child," replied Mark, "your plan would be a bad one for its object. Tell her the place is a ruin, and she'd give the world to see it for bare curiosity; say, there was a likelihood of a rebellion, and she would risk her life to be near it; and as for a fever, we never were able to keep her out of the cabins when there was sickness going. Faith, I believe it was the danger, and not the benevolence, of the act charmed her."

"You are no' far wrang. I mind her weel--she was a saucy cutty; and I canna forget the morning she gave me a bunch o' thistles on my birth day, and ca'ed it a 'Scotch bouquey.'"

"You had better read the letter in any case," said Mark, as he presented the epistle. Sir Archy took it, and perused it from end to end without a word; then laying it open on his knee, he said--

"The la.s.sie's heart is no' far wrang, Mark, depend upon it. Few call up the simple memories o' childish days, if they have no' retained some of the guileless spirit that animated them. I wad like to see her mysel',"

said he, after a pause. "But what have we here in the postscript?"--and he read aloud the following lines:--

"I have too good a recollection of a Carrig-na-curra household, to make any apology for adding one to the number below stairs, in the person of my maid, Mademoiselle Hortense, from whose surprise and astonishment at our Irish mountains I antic.i.p.ate a rich treat. She is a true Parisian, who cannot believe in any thing outside the Boulevards. What will she think of Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary?--and what will they think of her?"

"Lord save us, Mark, this is an awfu' business; a French waiting woman here! Why, she might as weel bring a Bengal tiger! I protest I'd rather see the one than the other."

"She'll not stay long; make your mind easy about her; nor will Kate either, if she need such an attendant."

"True enough, Mark, we maun let the malady cure itsel'; and so, I suppose, the la.s.sie must even see the nakedness o' the land wi' her ain eyes, though I'd just as soon we could 'put the cover on the parritch,'

as the laird said, 'and make the fules think it brose.' It's no ower pleasant to expose one's poverty."

"Then you'll write the letter," said Mark, rising, "and we must do what we can, in the way of preparation. The time is short enough too, for that letter was written almost a month ago--she might arrive this very week."

As he spoke, the shuffling sounds of feet were heard in the corridor outside; the young man sprung to the door, and looked out, and just caught sight of Kerry O'Leary, with a pair of boots under his arm, descending the stairs.

"That fellow, Kerry--listening as usual," said Mark. "I heard him at my door about a fortnight since, when I was talking to Herbert, and I sent a bullet through the pannel--I thought it might cure him."