The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Twice did the heroic girl try to face the current, but in vain – the horse plunged wildly up and threatened to fall back, when suddenly through the white foam a figure struggled on and grasped the bridle at the head; next moment, a man leaped forward and was breasting the surge before her —

“Head the stream – head the stream if you can,” cried he, who still held on, while the wild waves washed over him; but the poor horse, rendered unmanageable through fear, had yielded to the current, and was now each moment nearing the cataract.

“Cling to me, now,” cried the youth, as with the strength of desperation he tore the girl from the saddle, while with the other hand he grasped an ash bough that hung drooping above his head. As he did so, the mare bounded forward – the waves closed over her, and she was carried over the precipice.

“Cling fast to me, and we are safe,” cried the youth, and with vigorous grasp he held on the tree, and thus supported, breasted the stream and reached the bank. Exhausted and worn out, both mind and body powerless, they both fell senseless on the grass.

The last shriek of despair broke from the father’s heart as the horse, bereft of rider, swept past him in the flood. The cry aroused the fainting girl; she half rose to her feet and called upon him. The next moment they were locked in each other’s arms.

“It was he who saved me, father,” said she in accents broken with joy and sorrow; “he risked his life for mine.”

The youth recovered consciousness as the old man pressed him to his heart.

“Is she safe?” were the first words he said as he stared around him vaguely, and then, as if overcome, he fell heavily back upon the sward. A joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and at the instant, several country people were seen coming forward, with Terry at their head.

“Here we are – here we are, and in good time too,” cried Terry; “and if it wasn’t that you took a fool’s advice, we’d have gone the other road. The carriage is in the glen, my lady,” said he, kneeling down beside Sybella, who still remained clasped in her father’s arms.

By this time, some of Sir Marmaduke’s servants had reached the spot, and by them the old man and his daughter were assisted toward the high road, while two others carried the poor youth, by this time totally unable to make the least exertion.

“This brave boy – this noble fellow,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he stooped to kiss the pale high forehead, from which the wet hair hung backwards – “Can no one tell me who he is?”

“He’s the young O’Donoghue,” replied a half dozen voices together; “a good warrant for courage or bravery any day.”

“The O’Donoghue!” repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring in the confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had heard it.

“Ay, the O’Donoghue,” shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new figure rode up on a small mountain pony. “It oughtn’t to be a strange name in these parts. Rouse yourself, Master Herbert, rouse up, my child – sure it isn’t a wettin’ would cow you this way?”

“What! Kerry, is this you?” said the youth faintly, as he looked around him with half-closed eyelids. “Where’s my father?”

“Faix, he’s snug at the parlour fire, my darlin’, where his son ought to be, if he wasn’t turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his kith and kin.”

These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made the boy start from the arms of those who bore him.

“Here’s the pony, Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at once; sure there isn’t a blackguard there, with lace on his coat, wouldn’t be laughing at your old clothes when the light comes.”

Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these words were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing every care and attention on one he deemed his guest.

The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and suffered himself to be placed upon the saddle.

“Now, then, hould fast, and I’ll guide him,” said Kerry, as elbowing the crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less than a minute had disappeared in the darkness.

Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and message after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in vain; Kerry and his pony had already gained so much in advance, none could overtake them.

“To-morrow then, my child,” said Sir Marmaduke, “to-morrow will, I hope, enable me to speak my gratitude, though I shall not sleep well to-night – I never rested with so heavy a debt unpaid before.”

And with these words they slowly wended their way homeward.

CHAPTER VII. SIR ARCHY’S TEMPER TRIED

It was strange that, although the old man and his tender daughter should have sustained no other ill results from their adventure, than the terror which even yet dwelt on their minds, the young and vigorous youth, well trained to every accident of flood or field, felt it most seriously.

The exertions he made to overtake Sir Marmaduke and his daughter, followed by the struggle in the swollen stream, had given such a shock to his frame, that ere day broke the following morning, he was in a fever. The mental excitement conspiring with fatigue and exhaustion, had brought on the symptoms of his malady with such rapidity, that it was evident, even to the unaccustomed observers around him, his state was precarious.

Sir Archibald was the first person at the sick youth’s bed-side. The varied fortunes of a long life, not devoid of its own share of vicissitude, had taught him so much of medical skill, as can give warning of the approach of fever; and as he felt the strong and frequent pulse, and saw the flushed and almost swollen features before him, he recognized the commencement of severe and dangerous illness.

Vague and confused images of the previous night’s adventure, or visions of the dark valley and the tempest, occupied all the boy’s thoughts; and though he endeavoured, when spoken to, to preserve coherency and memory, the struggle was unavailing; and the immediate impression of a question past, his mind wandered back to the theme which filled his brain.

“How was it then?” said Sir Archy, who, as he sat beside the sick bed, questioned the youth about his adventure. “You said something of a horse?”

“Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! It was fine to see her as the spray fell over her like a veil, and she shook the drops from her hair.”

“Whence came she? Who was the lady?”

“Take care – take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with a steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning – the storm is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the black valley.”

“Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your head will ache if you take not rest – keep quiet.”

“Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck – There – there,” cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it – seize it – my feet are slipping – the rock moves – I can hold no longer; there – there,” and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow.

Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and having partially succeeded, hastened to the O’Donoghue’s chamber, to confer with the boy’s father on what steps should be taken to procure medical aid.

It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between the curtains of his bed.

“Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?”

“No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M ‘Nab, with a gravity even deeper than usual.

“That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn’t take the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.”

“Dinna fash about these things now,” said M’Nab with impatience, “It’s that poor callant, Herbert – he’s very ill – it’s a fever he’s caught. I’m thinking.”

“Oh Herbert!” said O’Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of money-calamity. “What of him?”

“He’s in a fever; his mind is wandering already.”

“Not a bit of it; it’s a mere wetting – a common cold: the boy fell into the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all.”

“I am no speaking of Mark just now,” said M’Nab tartly, “but of the other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done quickly.”

“Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he’ll get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself.”

Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between his teeth as he went —

“We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs? – he’s a cannie chiel, is auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever,” and with this sensible reflection he proceeded on his way.

Meanwhile the O’Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy’s room.

“Well, Herbert, lad,” said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering the grey light to fall on the youth’s features, “what is the matter? your uncle has been routing me up with a story about you.”