Kitabı oku: «The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XVI. THE FOREIGN LETTER

The arrival of a post-letter at the O’Donoghue house was an occurrence of sufficient rarity to create some excitement in the household; and many a surmise, as to what new misfortune hung over the family, was hazarded between Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O’Leary, as the latter poised and balanced the epistle in his hand, as though its weight and form might assist him in his divination.

After having conned over all the different legal processes which he deemed might be conveyed in such a shape, and conjured up in his imagination a whole army of sheriffs, sub-sheriffs, bailiffs, and drivers, of which the ominous letter should prove the forerunner, he heaved a heavy sigh at the gloomy future his forebodings had created, and slowly ascended towards his master’s bed-room.

“How is Herbert?” said the O’Donoghue, as he heard the footsteps beside his bed, for he had been dreaming of the boy a few minutes previous. “Who is that? Ah! Kerry. Well, how is he to-day?”

“Troth there’s no great change to spake of,” said Kerry, who, not having made any inquiry himself, and never expecting to have been questioned on the subject, preferred this safe line of reply, as he deemed it, to a confession of his ignorance.

“Did he sleep well, Kerry?”

“Oh! for the matter of the sleep we won’t boast of it. But here’s a letter for your honour, come by the post.”

“Leave it on the bed, and tell me about the boy.”

“Faix there’s nothing particular, then, to tell yer honour – sometimes he’d be one way, sometimes another – and more times the same way again. That’s the way he’d be all the night through.”

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 passed 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 embarrassment – 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 Sacré 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 Cooney’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 Abbé – what a favourite she was there, and how naturally she assumed 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, assuredly 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 embarrassment.

“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 shillings an ounce. I maun even see if I canna scrape 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 lassie’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 anticipate 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 lassie 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.”

“I wonder it did na kill him!” exclaimed M’Nab in horror.

“No, no, my hand is too steady for that. I aimed at least two inches above his head – it might have grazed his hair.”

“By my word, I’ll no’ play the eaves-dropper wi’ you, Mark; or, at least, I’d like to draw the charge o’ your pistols first.”

“She can have my room,” said Mark, not heeding the speech. “I’ll take that old tower they call the guard-room; I fancy I shall not be dispossessed for a considerable time,” – and the youth left the chamber to look after the arrangements he spoke of.

“‘Tis what I tould you,” said Kerry, as he drew his stool beside the kitchen fire; “I was right enough, she’s coming back again to live here – I was listening at the door, and heerd it all.”

“And she’s laving the blessed nunnery!” exclaimed Mrs. Branagan, with a holy horror in her countenance – “desarting the elegant place, with the priests, and monks, and friars, to come here again, in the middle of every wickedness and divilment – ochone! ochone!”

“What wickedness and what divilment are you spaking about?” said Kerry, indignantly, at the aspersion thus cast on the habits of the house.

Mrs. Branagan actually started at the bare idea of a contradiction, and turned on him a look of fiery wrath, as she said: —

“Be my conscience you’re bould to talk that way to me! – What wickedness! Isn’t horse-racing, card-playing, raffling, wickedness? Isn’t drinking and swearin’ wickedness? Isn’t it wickedness to kill three sheep a week, and a cow a fortnight, to feed a set of dirty spalpeens of grooms and stable chaps? Isn’t it wickedness – botheration to you – but I wouldn’t be losing my time talking to you! When was one of ye at his duties? Answer me that. How much did one of ye pay at Ayster or Christmas, these ten years? Signs on it, Father Luke hasn’t a word for ye when he comes here – he trates ye with contimpt.”

Kerry was abashed and terrified. He little knew when he pulled up the sluice-gate, the torrent that would flow down; and now, would have made any “amende,” to establish a truce again; but Mrs. Branagan was a woman, and, having seen the subjugation of her adversary, her last thought was mercy.

“Wickedness, indeed! It’s fifty years out of purgatory, sorra less, to live ten years here, and see what goes on.”

“Divil a lie in it,” chimed in Kerry, meekly; “there’s no denying a word you say.”

“I’d like to see who’d dare deny it – and, sign’s on it, there’s a curse on the place – nothing thrives in it.”

“Faix, then, ye mustn’t say that, any how,” said Kerry, insinuatingly: “you have no rayson to spake again it. ‘Twas Tuesday week last I heerd Father Luke say – it was to myself he said it – ‘How is Mrs. Branagan, Kerry?’ says he. ‘She’s well and hearty, your reverence,’ says I. ‘I’ll tell you what she is, Kerry,’ says he, ‘she’s looking just as I knew her five-and-thirty years ago; and a comelier, dacenter woman wasn’t in the three baronies. I remember well,’ says he, ‘I seen her at the fair of Killarney, and she had a cap with red ribbons.’ Hadn’t ye a cap with red ribbons in it?” A nod was the response.

“True for him, ye see he didn’t forget it; and says he, ‘She took the shine out of the fair; she could give seven pounds, and half a distance, to ere a girl there, and beat her after by a neck.’”

“What’s that ye’re saying?” said Mrs. Branagan, who didn’t comprehend the figurative language of the turf, particularly when coming from Father Luke’s lips.

“I’m saying ye were the purtiest woman that walked the fair-green,” said Kerry, correcting his phraseology.

“Father Luke was a smart little man then himself, and had a nate leg and foot.”

“Killarney was a fine place I’m tould,” said Kerry, with a dexterous shift to change the topic. “I wasn’t often there myself, but I heerd it was the iligant fair entirely.”

“So it was,” said Mrs. Branagan; “there never was the kind of sport and divarsion wasn’t there. It begun on a Monday and went through the week; and short enough the time was. There was dancing, and fighting, and singing, and ‘stations,’ up to Aghadoe and down again on the bare knees, and a pilgrimage to the holy well – three times round that, maybe after a jig two hours long; and there was a dwarf that tould fortunes, and a friar that sould gospels agin fever, and fallin’ sickness, and ballad-singers, and play-actors. Musha, there never was the like of it;” and in this strain did, she pour forth a flood of impassioned eloquence on the recollection of those carnal pleasures and enjoyments which, but a few minutes before, she had condemned so rigidly in others, nor was it till at the very close of her speech that she suddenly perceived how she had wandered from her text; then with a heavy groan she muttered – “Ayeh! we’re sinful craytures, the best of us.”

Kerry responded to the sentiment with a fac-simile sigh, and the peace was ratified.

“You wouldn’t believe now what Miss Kate is bringing over with her – faix, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe a monkey,” said Mrs. Branagan, who had a vague notion that France lay somewhere within the tropics.

“Worse nor that.”

“Is it a bear?” asked she again.

“No, but a French maid, to dress her hair, and powder her, and put patches on her face.”

“Whisht, I tell you,” cried Mrs. Branagan, “and don’t be talking that way. Miss Kate was never the one to turn to the likes of them things.”

“‘Tis truth I’m telling ye then; I heerd it all between the master and Master Mark, and afterwards with ould Sir Archy, and the three of them is in a raal fright about the maid; they say she’ll be the divil for impidence.”

“Will she then!” said Mrs. Branagan, with an eye glistening in anticipation of battle.

“The never a day’s peace or ease we’re to have again, when she’s here – ‘tis what the master says. ‘I pity poor Mrs. Branagan,’ says he; ‘she’s a quiet crayture that wont take her own part, and – ‘”

“Won’t I? Be my conscience, we’ll soon see that.”

“Them’s his words – ‘and if Kerry and she don’t lay their heads together to make the place too hot for her, she’ll bully the pair of them.’”

“Lave it to myself – lave it to me alone, Kerry O’Leary.”

“I was thinking that same, ma’am,” said Kerry, with a droll leer as he spoke; “I’d take the odds on you any day, and never ask the name of the other horse.”

“I’ll lay the mark of my fingers on her av she says ‘pays,’” said Mrs. Branagan, with an energy that looked like truth.

Meanwhile, Kerry, perceiving that her temper was up, spared nothing to aggravate her passion, retailing every possible and impossible affront the new visitor might pass off on her, and expressing the master’s sorrows at the calamities awaiting her.

“If she isn’t frightened out of the country at once, there’s no help for it,” said he at last. “I have a notion myself, but sure maybe it’s a bad one.”

“What is it then? – spake it out free.”

“‘Tis just to wait for the chaise – she’ll come in a chaise, it’s likely.”

But what was Kerry’s plan, neither Mrs. Branagan nor the reader are destined to hear, for at that moment a loud summons at the hall door – a very unusual sound – announced the arrival of a stranger; Kerry, therefore, had barely time for a hasty toilet with a pocket-comb, before a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he hastened to receive the visitor.