The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago. Lever Charles James

uncle, then?” said the doctor, still louder.

      The word, “uncle,” seemed to strike upon some new chord of his awakened sense: a faint smile played upon his parched lips, and his eyes wandered from the speaker, as if in search of some object, till they fell upon Sir Archy, as he stood at the foot of the bed, when suddenly his whole countenance was lighted up, and he repeated the word, “uncle,” to himself in a voice indescribably sweet and touching.

      “He has na forgotten me,” murmured M’Nab, in a tone of deep emotion. “My ain dear boy – he knows me yet.”

      “You agitate him too much,” said Roach, whose nature had little sympathy with the feelings of either. “You must leave me alone here to examine him myself.”

      M’Nab said not a word, but, with noiseless step, stole from the room. The doctor looked after him as he went, and then followed to see that the door was closed behind. This done, he beckoned to Kerry, who still remained, to approach, and deliberately seated himself in a chair near the window.

      “Tell me, my good fellow,” said he, affecting an air of confidence as he spoke, “an’t they all broke here? Isn’t the whole thing smashed?”

      “Broke – smashed!” repeated Kerry, as he held up both hands in feigned astonishment; “‘tis a droll smash: begorra, I never see money as plenty this many a year. Sure av there wasn’t lashings of it, would he be looking out for carriage-horses, and buying hunters, not to say putting the kennel in order.”

      “Is it truth you are telling?” said Roach, in astonishment.

      “True as my name is Kerry O’Leary. We offered Lanty Lawler a hundred and twenty guineas on Friday last for a match wheeler, and we’re not off of him yet; he’s a big brown horse, with a star on his face; and the cob for the master cost forty pounds. He’ll be here tomorrow, or next day, sure ye’ll see him yourself.”

      “The place is falling to ruin – the roof will never last the winter,” broke in the doctor.

      “Well, and whose fault is it, but that spalpeen Murphy’s, that won’t set the men to work till he gets oak timber from the Black Say – ‘tis the finest wood in the world, they tell me, and lasts for ever and ever.”

      “But, don’t they owe money every where in the country? There isn’t a little shop in Killarney without an account of their’s in it.”

      “Of course they do, and the same in Cork – ay, and in Tralee, for the matter of that. Would you have them not give encouragement to more places nor one? There’s not one of those crayturs would send in their bill – no, though we do be asking for it, week after week. They’re afraid of losing the custom; and I’ll engage now, they do be telling you they can’t get their money by hook or by crook; that’s it – I knew it well.”

      The doctor meditated long on these strange revelations, so very opposite to all he had heard of the circumstances of the O’Donoghues; and while his own convictions were strongly against Kerry’s narrative, that worthy man’s look of simplicity and earnest truth puzzled him considerably, and made him hesitate which side to credit.

      After a long pause, from which the incoherent ravings of the sick boy aroused him, he looked up at Kerry, and then, with a motion of his thumb towards the bed, he muttered —

      “He’s going fast.”

      “Going fast!” echoed Kerry, in a voice very different from his former accent. “Oh, wirra! there’s nothing so bad as death! Distress and poverty is hard enough, but that’s the raal misfortune.”

      A dry sarcastic grin from the doctor seemed to say that poor Kerry’s secret was discovered. The allusion to want of means came too naturally not to be suggested by present circumstances; and the readiness of Doctor Roach’s apprehension clinched the discovery at once.

      “We’ll go down now,” said the doctor; “I believe I know the whole state of the case;” and, with these words of ambiguous meaning he returned to the drawing-room.

      CHAPTER X. AN EVENING AT “MARY” M’KELLY’s

      If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house of the O’Donoghue, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, and whispered words were spoken: a very different scene presented itself at the small hostel of Mary M’Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace, a quarter of a sheep was roasting – while various utensils of cookery, disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour through the apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, and containing covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the room; cups and drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks and spoons, of handsome pattern, were there also – strange and singular spectacle beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself displayed in her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore in her becoming cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her neck. While she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she maintained from time to time a running conversation with a person who sat smoking in the chimney corner. Although screened from the glare of the fire, the light which was diffused around showed enough of the dress and style of the wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. His attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, and supported his legs on another, bespoke the perfection of ease, while in the jaunty manner he held the long pipe-stick between his fingers, could be seen the affectation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well as to feel so.

      “What hour did they mention, Mary?” said he, after a pause of some minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously.

      “The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o’clock at any rate; but sure it’s nigher to ten now. They were to come up on the flood tide. Whisht, what was that? – Wasn’t that like the noise of wheels?”

      “No; that’s the wind, and a severe night it is too. I’m thinking, Mary, the storm may keep them back.”

      “Not a bit of it; there’s a creek down there, they tell me, safer nor e’er a harbour in Ireland; and you’d never see a bit of a vessel till you were straight over her: and sure it’s little they mind weather. That Captain Jack, as they call him, says there’s no time for business like a gale of wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in the bay.”

      “I mind it well, Mary. Faix, I never felt a toast so hard to drink as the one they gave after supper.”

      “Don’t be talking about it,” said Mary, crossing herself devoutly; “they said it out of devilment, sorra more.”

      “Well, may be so,” muttered he sententiously. “They’re wild chaps any way, and they’ve a wild life of it.”

      “Troth, if I was a man, tis a life I’d like well,” said Mary, with a look of resolute determination, well becoming the speech. “Them’s the fine times they have, going round the world for sport, and nothing to care for – as much goold as they’d ask – fine clothes – the best of eating and drinking; sure there’s not one of them would drink out of less than silver.”

      “Faix, they may have iron round their ancles for it, after all, Mary.”

      “Sorra bit of it – the jail isn’t built yet, that would howld them. What’s that noise now? That’s them. Oh, no; it’s the water running down the mountain.”

      “Well, I wish they’d come any way,” said Lanty; “for I must be off early to-morrow – I’ve an order from the ould banker here above, for six beasts, and I’d like to get a few hours’ sleep before morning.”

      “‘Tis making a nice penny you are there, Lanty,” said Mary, with a quizzical look from the corner of her eye.

      “A good stroke of business, sure enough, Mary,” replied he, laughingly. “What d’ye think I did with him yesterday morning? I heerd here, ye know, what happened to the grey mare I bought from Mark O’Donoghue – that she was carried over the weir-gash and drowned. What does I do, but goes up to the Lodge and asks for Sir Marmaduke; and says I, ‘I’m come, sir, to