“I hope I am no' going to lose my senses,” said he, as he pressed his hands on either side of his temples. “May the Lord keep me from that worst of a' human calamities.”
This pious wish, uttered with real, unfeigned fervency, seemed to act like a charm upon the old man's temper, as though the very appeal had suggested a calmer and more patient frame of mind. It was, then, with all the dignity of his natural character, when unclouded by momentary flashes of passion, that he said—
“What may be your errand here this morning?”
Few and simple as the words were, there was that in their quiet, unassuming delivery, which in a second recalled the footman to a full consciousness of his impertinent mistake. He saw at once the immeasurable gulph, impassible to any effort of assumption or insolence, which separated them, and with the ready tact of his calling, he respectfully took off his hat, and held forth a sealed letter, without one word of reply or apology.
Sir Archibald put on his spectacles, and having carefully read the superscription, turned back towards the house without speaking.
“Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue,” said he, as he entered the parlour where the chief was already seated at his breakfast, while Kerry O'Leary, a short distance behind his chair, was relating the circumstances of the last night's adventure.
“Is it from Mark?” said the old man eagerly; and then glancing at the writing, he threw it from him in disappointment, and added, “I am getting very uneasy about that lad.”
“Had ye no' better read the letter; the messenger wha brought it seems to expect an answer,” interposed M'Nab.
“Messenger!—eh—not by post? Is Hemsworth come back?” exclaimed O'Donoghue, with an evident degree of fear in his manner.
“No, sir,” said Kerry, guessing to what topic his master's thoughts were turning; “the Captain is not coming, they say, for a month or six weeks yet.”