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

the rank of gentleman, drew near.

      The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak ing; then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore high round his face, he made a respectful salute, and said —

      “A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke Travers, I believe? May I introduce myself, Doctor Roach, of Killarney?”

      “Ah, indeed! Then you are probably come from Mr. O’Donoghue’s house? Is the young gentleman better this evening?”

      Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply.

      “I hope, sir, you don’t apprehend danger to his life?” asked Sir Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he spoke.

      “Indeed I do, then,” said Roach, firmly; “the mischiefs done already.”

      “He’s not dead?” said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his terror.

      “Not dead; but the same as dead: effusion will carry him off some time to-morrow.”

      “And can you leave him in this state? Is there nothing to be done? Nothing you could suggest?” cried the old man, scarcely able to repress his indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor.

      “There’s many a thing one might try,” said Roach, not noticing the temper of the question, “for the boy is young; but for the sake of a chance, how am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients? And indeed slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is slighter still. I think I’ve all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this minute,” said he, slapping his hand on his purse: “one of the late king’s guineas, wherever they had it lying by till now.”

      “I am overjoyed to have met you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke hastily, and by a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested. “I wish for an opinion about my daughter’s health – a cold, I fancy – but to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O’Donoghue’s tonight? I have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may serve both parties, as I fervently hope something may yet be done for the youth.”

      “I’ll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure.”

      “Don’t leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it will be quite time enough when you hear from me: let the youth be your first care, doctor; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to consider your time as given to me now,” and with that he pressed several guineas into the willing palm of the doctor.

      As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the old baronet’s intentions, and with a readiness long habit had perfected, he said —

      “The case of danger before all others, any day. I’ll turn about at once and see what can be done for the lad.”

      Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in a low whispering voice.

      “Never fear – never fear, Sir Marmaduke,” was the reply, as he mounted to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony’s head once more down the glen.

      “Lose no time, I beseech you,” cried the old man, waving his hand in token of adieu; nor was the direction unheeded, for, using his whip with redoubled energy, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which threatened annihilation to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal.

      “Five hundred!” muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked after him. “I’d give half my fortune to see him safe through it.”

      Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he should allege to the O’Donoghue for his speedy return.

      “I’ll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, what! if I said I forgot something – a pocket-book, or case of instruments – any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable reflection, he urged his beast onward.

      The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O’Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman’s ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door.

      “You’re late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, the way you came; and be thankful it’s myself seen you; for, by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you’d carry away more lead in your skirts than you’d like.”

      “What, Kerry? – what’s that you’re saying?” said the astonished doctor; “don’t you know me, man?”

      “Kerry’s my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you’ll just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God’s name. ‘Tis a fair warning I give you; and faix if you won’t listen to my son, you might hear worse;” and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars.

      “Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you’re not going to fire a bullet at me?”

      “‘Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor slugs, as you’ll know soon. I’ll count three, now, and may I never wear boots, if I don’t blaze, if you’re not gone before it’s over. Here’s one,” shouted he, in a louder key.

      “The saints protect me, but I’ll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen the spot.

      “Here’s two!” cried Kerry, still louder.

      “I’m going! – I’m going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.”

      “It’s too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here’s three!” and as he spoke bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out —

      “I’ll give you another yet, begorra! that’s only a true copy; but you’ll get the original now, you ould varmint!”

      A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.

      “Musha, I hope he isn’t dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy – Mister James, get up now – it’s only joking I was. – Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that’s good, I’ve done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who’d think a few grains of shot would kill him.”

      “What’s the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O’Donoghue appeared at Kerry’s side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor.

      “I’m murdered! I’m murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O’Leary murdered me.”

      “Where are you wounded? where’s the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety..

      “I don’t know, I don’t know; it’s inside bleeding I feel.”

      “Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you’re frightened, that’s all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we’ll help him in.”

      But