Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)», sayfa 11
“I really could wish that you, who are so far better qualified than I am to explain – ”
“So I will; I intend, my dear sir. Now, when can you dine with me? You must come this week; next I shall be obliged to be in London. Shall we say Wednesday? Wednesday be it Above all, take care that he doesn’t even meet any of that dangerous faction, – those Morgans. They are the very people to try a game of ascendancy over a young man of great prospects and large fortune. O’Growl wants a few men of standing to give an air of substance and respectability to the movement. Lord Witherton will be most kind to your young friend, but you must press upon him the necessity of being presented at once. We want to make him a D.L., and if he enters Parliament, to give him the lieutenancy of the county.”
While all these various criticisms were circulating, and amid an atmosphere, as it were, impregnated by plots and schemes of every kind, Cashel stood a very amused spectator of a scene wherein he never knew he was the chief actor. It would indeed have seemed incredible to him that he could, by any change of fortune, become an object of interested speculation to lords, ladies, members of the Government, Church dignitaries, and others. He was unaware that the man of fortune, with a hand to offer, a considerable share of the influence property always gives, livings to bestow, and money to lose, may be a very legitimate mark for the enterprising schemes of mammas and ministers, suggesting hopes alike to black-coats and blacklegs.
Perhaps, among the pleasant bits of credulity which we enjoy through life, there is none sweeter than that implicit faith we repose in the cordial expressions and flattering opinions bestowed upon us, when starting in the race, by many who merely, in the jockey phrase, “standing to win” upon us, have their own, and not our interest before them in the encouragement they bestow.
The discovery of the cheat is soon made, and we are too prone to revenge our own over-confidence by a general distrust, from which, again, experience, later on, rallies us. So that a young man’s course is usually from over-simplicity to over-shrewdness, and then again to that negligent half-faith which either, according to the calibre of the wearer, conceals deep knowledge of life, or hides a mistaken notion of it. Let us return to Cashel, who now stood at the table, around which a considerable number of the party were grouped, examining a number of drawings, which Mr. Pepystell, the fashionable architect, had that day sent for Roland’s inspection; houses, villas, castles, cottages, abbeys, shooting-boxes, gate-lodges, Tudor and Saxon, Norman and Saracenic, – everything that the morbid imagination of architecture run mad could devise and amalgamate between the chaste elegance of the Greek and the tinkling absurdity of the Chinese.
“I do so love a cottage ornée,” said Mrs. White, taking up a very beautiful representation of one, where rose-colored curtains, and a group on a grass-plot, with gay dresses and parasols, entered into the composite architecture. “To my fancy, that would be a very paradise.”
“Oh, mamma! isn’t that so like dear old Kilgoran!” said a tall, thin young lady, handing an abbey, as large as Westminster, to another in widow’s black.
“Oh, Maria! I wonder at your showing me what must bring up such sad memories!” said the mamma, affectedly, while she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
“If she means her father’s house,” said Lady Janet to Linton, “it’s about as like a like as – Lord Kilgoff to the Farnese Hercules, or his wife to any other lady in the peerage.”
“You remember Kilgoran, my Lord,” said the lady in black to the Chief Justice; “does that remind you of it?”
“Very like, – very like, indeed, madam,” said the old judge, looking at a rock-work grotto in a fish-pond.
“What’s this?” cried another, taking up a great Saxon fortress, with bastions and gate-towers and curtains, as gloomy and sombre as Indian-ink could make it.
“As a residence I think that is far too solemn-looking and sad.”
“What did you say it was, sir?” asked the judge.
“The elevation for the new jail at Naas, my Lord,” replied Linton, gravely.
“I ‘m very glad to hear it. We have been sadly crippled for room there latterly.”
“Do you approve of the Panopticon plan, my Lord?” said Mrs. White, who never omitted a question when a hard word could be introduced.
“It is, madam, – you are perfectly correct,” said the obsequious old judge, – “very much the same kind of thing as the Pantechnicon.”
“Talking of Panopticon, where ‘s Kilgoff?” whispered Linton to one of the hussars.
“Don’t you see him yonder, behind the harp? How that poor woman must be bored by such espionnage!”
“If you mean to build a house, sir,” said Lady Janet, addressing Cashel, with a tone of authority, “don’t, I entreat of you, adopt any of these absurd outrages upon taste and convenience, but have a good square stone edifice.”
“Four, or even five stories high,” broke in Linton, gravely.
“Four quite enough,” resumed she, “with a roomy hall, and all the reception-rooms leading off it. Let your bedrooms – ” “Be numerous enough, at all events,” said Linton again.
“Of course; and so arranged that you can devote one story to families exclusively.”
“Yes; the garçons should have their dens as remote as possible from the quieter regions.”
“Have a mass of small sitting-rooms beside the larger salons. In a country-house there’s nothing like letting people form their own little coteries.”
“Wouldn’t you have a theatre?” asked Mrs. White.
“There might be, if the circumstances admitted. But with a billiard-room and a ball-room – ”
“And a snug crib for smoking,” whispered one of the military.
“I don’t see any better style of house,” said Linton, gravely, “than those great hotels one finds on the Rhine, and in Germany generally. They have ample accommodation, and are so divided that you can have your own suite of rooms to yourself.”
“Mathews used to keep house after that fashion,” said Lord Kilgoff, approaching the table. “Every one ordered his own dinner, and eat it either in his own apartment or in the dining-room. You were invited for four days, never more.”
“That was a great error; except in that particular, I should recommend the plan to Mr. Roland Cashel’s consideration.”
“I never heard of it before,” said Cashel; “pray enlighten me on the subject.”
“A very respectable country gentleman, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, “who had the whim to see his company without paying what he deemed the heaviest penalty, – the fatigue of playing host. He therefore invited his friends to come and do what they pleased, – eat, drink, drive, ride, play, – exactly as they fancied; only never to notice him otherwise than as one of the guests.”
“I like his notion prodigiously,” cried Cashel; “I should be delighted to imitate him.”
“Nothing easier, sir,” said my Lord, “with Mr. Linton for your prime minister; the administration is perfectly practicable.”
“Might I venture on such a liberty?”
“Too happy to be president of your council,” said Linton, gayly.
A very entreating kind of look from Olivia Kennyfeck here met Cashel’s eyes, and he remarked that she left the place beside the table and walked into the other room; he himself, although dying to follow her, had no alternative but to remain and continue the conversation.
“The first point, then,” resumed Linton, “is the house. In what state is your present mansion?”
“A ruin, I believe,” said Cashel.
“How picturesque!” exclaimed Mrs. Leicester White.
“I fancy not, madam,” rejoined Cashel. “I understand it is about the least prepossessing bit of stone and mortar the country can exhibit.”
“No matter, let us see it; we ‘ll improvise something, and get it ready for the Christmas holidays,” said Linton. “We have – let us see – we have about two months for our preparation, and, therefore, no time to lose. We must premise to the honorable company that our accommodation is of the simplest; ‘roughing’ shall be the order of the day. Ladies are not to look for Lyons silk ottomans in their dressing-rooms, nor shall we promise that our conservatory furnish a fresh bouquet for each fair guest at breakfast.”
“Two months are four centuries!” said Mrs. White; “we shall accept of no apologies for any shortcomings, after such an age of time to prepare.”
“You can have your fish from Limerick every day,” said an old bluff-looking gentleman in a brown wig.
“There ‘s a capital fellow, called Tom Cox, by the way, somewhere down in that country, who used to paint our scenes for the garrison theatricals. Could you make him out, he ‘d be so useful,” said one of the military.
“By all means get up some hurdle-racing,” cried another.
Meanwhile, Roland Cashel approached Olivia Kennyfeck, who was affecting to seek for some piece of music on the pianoforte.
“Why do you look so sad?” said he, in a low tone, and seeming to assist her in the search.
“Do I?” said she, with the most graceful look of artless-ness. “I ‘m sure I did n’t know it.”
“There again, what a deep sigh that was; come, pray tell me, if I dare to know, what has grieved you?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing whatever. I ‘m sure I never felt in better spirits. Dear me! Mr. Cashel, how terrified I am, there’s that dreadful Lady Janet has seen us talking together.”
“Well, and what then?”
“Oh, she is so mischievous, and says such horrid, spite-ful things. It was she that said it – ”
“Said what, – what did she say?” cried he, eagerly.
“Oh, what have I done?” exclaimed she, covering her face with her hands. “Not for the world would I have said the words. Oh, Mr. Cashel, you, who are so good and so generous, do not ask me more.”
“I really comprehend nothing of all this,” said Cashel, who now began to suspect that she had overheard some speech reflecting upon him, and had, without intending, revealed it; “at the same time, I must say, if I had the right, I should insist on knowing what you heard.”
“Perhaps he has the right,” muttered she, half aloud, as if speaking unconsciously; “I believe he has.”
“Yes, yes, be assured of it; what were the words?”
“Oh, I shall die of shame. I ‘ll never be able to speak to you again; but don’t look angry, promise that you ‘ll forget them, swear you ‘ll never think of my having told them, and I’ll try.”
“Yes, anything, everything; let me hear them.”
“Well,” – here she hung her head till the long ringlets fell straight from her fair forehead, and half concealed the blushing cheek, which each moment grew redder, – “I am so terrified, but you ‘ll forgive it, – I know you will, – well, she said, looking towards you, ‘I am not acquainted with this young gentleman yet, but if I should have that honor soon I ‘ll take the liberty to tell him that the worthy father’s zeal in his service is ill-requited by his stealing the affections of his youngest daughter.’” Scarcely were the words uttered, when, as if the strength that sustained her up to that moment suddenly failed, she reeled back and sank fainting on a sofa.
Happily for Cashel’s character for propriety, a very general rush of ladies, old and young, to the spot, prevented him taking her in his arms and carrying her to the balcony for air; but a universal demand for sal volatile, aromatic vinegar, open windows, and all the usual restoratives concealed his agitation, which really was extreme.
“You are quite well now, dearest,” said her mamma, bathing her temples, and so artistically as to make her pale face seem even more beautiful in the slight dishevelment of her hair. “It was the heat.”
“Yes, mamma,” muttered she, quite low.
“Hem! I thought so,” whispered Lady Janet to a neighbor. “She was too warm.”
“I really wish that young ladies would reserve these scenes for fitting times and places. That open window has brought back my lumbago,” said Lord Kilgoff.
“The true treatment for syncope,” broke in the Dean, “is not by stimulants. The want of blood on the brain is produced by mechanical causes, and you have merely to hold the person up by the legs – ”
“Oh, Mr. Dean! Oh, fie!” cried twenty voices together.
“The Dean is only exemplifying his etymology on ‘top side t’other way,’” cried Linton.
“Lord Kilgoff’s carriage stops the way,” said a servant. And now, the first announcement given, a very general air of leave-taking pervaded the company.
“Won’t you have some more muffling? – nothing round your throat? – a little negus, my Lord, before venturing into the night air.” – “How early!” – “How late!” – “What a pleasant evening!” – “What a fine night!” – “May I offer you my arm? – mind that step – goodbye, good-bye – don’t forget to-morrow.” – “Your shawl S is blue – that’s Lady Janet’s.” – “Which is your hat?” —
“That’s not mine. Thanks – don’t take so much trouble.” – “Not your carriage, it is the next but one – mind the draught.” – A hundred good-nights, and they are gone! So ends a dinner-party, and of all the company not a vestige is seen, save the blaze of the low-burned wax-lights, the faded flowers, the deranged furniture, and the jaded looks of those whose faces wreathed in smiles for six mortal hours seek at last the hard-bought and well-earned indulgence of a hearty yawn!
CHAPTER XIII. TUBBER-BEG
He was, the world said, a jovial fellow,
Who ne’er was known at Fortune to repine;
Increasing years had rendered him more mellow,
And age improved him – as it did his wine.
Sir Gavin Gwynne.
The Shannon, after expanding into that noble sheet of water called Lough Derg, suddenly turns to the southward, and enters the valley of Killaloe, one of the most beautiful tracts of country which Ireland, so rich in river scenery, can boast. The transition from the wide lake, with its sombre background of gray mountain and rocky islands, bleak and bare, to the cultivated aspect of this favored spot, is like that experienced in passing from beneath the gloom of lowering thunder-clouds into light and joyous sunshine. Rich waving woods of every tint and hue of foliage, with here and there some spreading lawns of deepest green, clothe the mountains on either side, while in bright eddies the rapid river glides in between, circling and winding as in playful wantonness, till in the far distance it is seen passing beneath the ancient bridge of Killaloe, whose cathedral towers stand out against the sky.
On first emerging from the lake, the river takes an abrupt bend, round a rocky point, and then, sweeping back again in a bold curve, forms a little bay of deep and tranquil water, descending towards which the rich meadows are seen, dotted with groups of ancient forest trees, and backed by a dense skirting of timber. At one spot, where the steep declivity of the ground scarce affords footing for the tall ash-trees, stands a little cottage, at the extremity of which is an old square tower; this is Tubber-beg.
As you sail down the river you catch but one fleeting glance at the cottage, and when you look again it is gone! The projecting headlands, with the tall trees, have hidden it, and you almost fancy that you have not seen it. If you enter the little bay, however, and, leaving the strong current, run into the deep water under shore, you arrive at a spot which your memory will retain for many a day after.
In front of the cottage, and descending by a series of terraces to which art has but little contributed, are a number of flower-plots, whose delicious odors float over the still water, while in every gorgeous hue are seen the camellia, the oleander, and the cactus, with the tulip, the ranunculus, and the carnation, – all flourishing in a luxuriance which care and the favored aspect of this sheltered nook combine to effect. Behind and around, on either side, the dark-leaved holly, the laurustinus, and the arbutus are seen in all the profusion of leaf and blossom a mild, moist air secures, and forming a framework in which stands the cottage itself, its deep thatched eave, and porch of rustic-work trellised and festooned with creeping plants, almost blending its color with the surrounding foliage. Through the open windows a peep within displays the handsomely disposed rooms, abounding in all the evidences of cultivated taste and refinement. Books in several of the modern languages are scattered on the table, music, drawings of the surrounding scenery, in water-color or pencil, – all that can betoken minds carefully trained and exercised, and by their very diversity showing in what a world of self-stored resources their possessors must live; the easel, the embroidery-frame, the chess-board, the half-finished manuscript, the newly copied music, the very sprig of fern which marks the page in the little volume on botany, – slight things in themselves, but revealing so much of daily life!
If the cottage be an almost ideal representation of rustic elegance and simplicity, its situation is still more remarkable for beauty; for while Art has developed all the resources of the ground, Nature, in her own boundless profusion, has assembled here almost every ingredient of the picturesque, and as if to impart a sense of life and motion to the stilly calm, a tumbling sheet of water gushes down between the rocks, and in bounding leaps descends towards the Shannon, of which it is a tributary.
A narrow path, defended by a little railing of rustic-work, separates the end of the cottage from the deep gorge of the waterfall; but through the open window the eye can peer down into the boiling abyss of spray and foam beneath, and catch a glimpse of the bridge which, formed of a fallen ash-tree, spans the torrent.
Traversed in every direction by paths, some galleried along the face, others cut in the substance of the rock, you can pass hours in rambling among these wild and leafy solitudes, now lost in shade, now emerging again, to see the great river gliding along, the white sails dotting its calm surface.
Well did Mr. Kennyfeck observe to Roland Cashel that it was the most beautiful feature of his whole demesne, and that its possession by another not only cut him off from the Shannon in its handsomest part, but actually deprived the place of all pretension to extent and grandeur. The spreading woods of Tubbermore were, as it seemed, the background to the cottage scene, and possessed no character to show that they were the property of the greater proprietor.
The house itself was not likely to vindicate the claim the locality denied. It was built with a total disregard to aspect or architecture. It was a large four-storied edifice, to which, by way of taking off from the unpicturesque height, two wings had been planned: one of these only was finished; the other, half built, had been suffered to fall into ruin. At the back, a high brick wall enclosed a space intended for a garden, but never put into cultivation, and now a mere nursery of tall docks and thistles, whose gigantic size almost overtopped the wall. All the dirt and slovenliness of a cottier habitant – for the house was occupied by what is misnamed “a caretaker” – were seen on every hand. One of the great rooms held the family; its fellow, on the opposite side of the hall, contained a cow and two pigs; cabbage-stalks and half-rotting potato-tops steamed their pestilential vapors beneath the windows; while half-naked children added the discord, the only thing wanting to complete the sum of miserable, squalid discomfort, so sadly general among the peasantry.
If one needed an illustration of the evils of absenteeism, a better could not be found than in the ruinous, damp, discolored building, with its falling roof and broken windows. The wide and spreading lawn, thick grown with thistles; the trees broken or barked by cattle; the gates that hung by a single hinge, or were broken up piecemeal for firing, – all evidenced the sad state of neglectful indifference by which property is wrecked and a country ruined! Nor was the figure then seated on the broken doorstep an unfitting accompaniment to such a scene, – a man somewhat past the middle period of life, whose ragged, tattered dress bespoke great poverty, his worn hat drawn down over his eyes so as partly to conceal a countenance by no means prepossessing; beside him lay a long old-fashioned musket, the stock mended by some rude country hand. This was Tom Keane, the “caretaker,” who, in all the indolent enjoyment of office, sat smoking his “dudeen,” and calmly surveying the process by which a young heifer was cropping the yearling shoots of an ash-tree.
Twice was his name called by a woman’s voice from within the house before he took any notice of it.
“Arrah, Tom, are ye asleep?” said she, coming to the door, and showing a figure whose wretchedness was even greater than his own; while a certain delicacy of feature, an expression of a mild and pleasing character, still lingered on a face where want and privation had set many a mark. “Tom, alanah!” said she, in a tone of coaxing softness, “sure it’s time to go down to the post-office. Ye know how anxious the ould man is for a letter.”
“Ay, and he has rayson, too,” said Tom, without stirring.
“And Miss Mary herself was up here yesterday evening to bid you go early, and, if there was a letter, to bring it in all haste.”
“And what for need I make haste?” said the man, sulkily. “Is it any matther to me whether he gets one or no? Will I be richer or poorer? Poorer!” added he, with a savage laugh; “be gorra! that wud be hard, anyhow. That’s a comfort old Oorrigan hasn’t. If they turn him out of the place, then he’ll know what it is to be poor!”
“Oh, Tom, acushla! don’t say that, and he so good to us, and the young lady that was so kind when the childer had the measles, comin’ twice – no, but three times a day, with everything she could think of.”
“Wasn’t it to please herself? Who axed her?” said Tom, savagely.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” sighed the woman. “Them’s the hard words, – ‘to please herself!’”
“Ay, just so! When ye know them people as well as me, you ‘ll say the same. That’s what they like, – to make themselves great among the poor; giving a trifle here, and a penny there; making gruel for this one, and tay for that; marchin’ in as if they owned the house, and turning up their noses at everything they see. ‘Why don’t you sweep before the door, Nancy?’ – ‘Has the pig any right to be eating there out of the kish with the childer?’ – ‘Ye ought to send that child to school’ – and, ‘What’s your husband doing?’ – That’s the cry with them. ‘What’s your husband doing? Is he getting the wheat in, or is he at the potatoes?’ Tear and ages!” cried he, with a wild energy, “what does any one of themselves do from morning till night, that they ‘re to come spyin’ after a poor man, to ax ‘Is he workin’ like a naygur?’ But we ‘ll teach them something yet, – a lesson they ‘re long wanting. Listen to this.”
He took, as he spoke, a soiled and ragged newspaper from his pocket, and after seeking some minutes for the place, he read, in a broken voice: —
“‘The days to come’ – ay, here it is – ‘The days to come. – Let the poor man remember that there is a future before him that, if he have but courage and boldness, will pay for the past. Turn about’s fair play, my lords and gentlemen! You ‘ve had the pack in your own hands long enough, and dealt yourselves all the trumps. Now, give us the cards for a while. You say our fingers are dirty; so they are, with work and toil, black and dirty! but not as black as your own hearts. Hurrah! for a new deal on a bran-new table: Ireland the stakes, and the players her own stout sons!’ Them’s fine sintiments,” said he, putting up the paper. “Fine sintiments! and the sooner we thry them the better. That’s the real song,” said he, reciting with energy, —
“‘Oh! the days to come, the days to come,
When Erin shall have her own, boys!
When we ‘ll pay the debts our fathers owed,
And reap what they have sown, boys!’”
He sprang to his feet as he concluded, shouldering his musket, strode out as if in a marching step, and repeating to himself, as he went, the last line of the song. About half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to a low wicket which opened on the high road, a little distance from which stood the small village of Derraheeny, the post-town of the neighborhood. The little crowd which usually assembled at the passing of the coach had already dispersed, when Tom Keane presented himself at the window, and asked, in a tone of voice subdued almost to softness, —
“Have you anything for Mr. Corrigan this morning, ma’am?”
“Yes; there are two letters and a newspaper,” replied a sharp voice from within. “One-and-fourpence to pay.”
“She did n’t give me any money, ma’am, but Miss Mary said – ”
“You can take them,” interrupted the post-mistress, hastily handing them out, and slamming the little window to at the same instant.
“There’s more of it!” muttered Tom; “and if it was for me the letters was, I might sell my cow before I ‘d get trust for the price of them!” And with this reflection he plodded moodily homeward. Scarcely, however, had he entered the thick plantation than he seated himself beneath a tree, and proceeded to take a careful and strict scrutiny of the two letters; carefully spelling over each address, and poising them in his hands, as if the weight could assist his guesses as to the contents. “That’s Mr. Kennyfeck’s big seal. I know it well,” said he, gazing on the pretentious coat-of-arms which emblazoned the attorney’s letter. “I can make nothing of the other at all. ‘Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg, Derraheeny,’ – sorra more!” It was in vain that he held it open, lozenge fashion, to peep within; but one page only was written, and he could not see that. Kennyfeck’s letter was enclosed in an envelope, so that here, too, he was balked, and at last was fain to slip the newspaper from its cover, – a last resource to learn something underhand! The newspaper did not contain anything peculiarly interesting, save in a single paragraph, which announced the intention of Roland Cashel, Esq., of Tubbermore Castle, to contest the county at the approaching general election. “We are informed,” said the writer, “on competent authority, that this gentleman intends to make the ancestral seat his chief residence in future, and that already preparations are making to render this princely mansion in every respect worthy of the vast fortune of its proprietor.”
“Faith, and the ‘princely mansion’ requires a thing or two to make it all perfect,” said Tom, with a sardonic laugh; while in a lower tone he muttered, – “maybe, for all the time he ‘ll stay there, it’s not worth his while to spend the money on it.” Having re-read the paragraph, he carefully replaced the paper in its cover, and continued his way, not, however, towards his own home, but entering a little woodland path that led direct towards the Shannon. After passing a short distance, he came to a little low edge of beech and birch, through which a neat rustic gate led and opened upon a closely shaven lawn. The neatly gravelled walk, the flower-beds, the delicious perfume that was diffused on every side, the occasional peeps at the eddying river, and the cottage itself seen at intervals between the evergreens that studded the lawn, were wide contrasts to the ruinous desolation of the “Great House;” and as if unwilling to feel their influence, Tom pulled his hat deeper over his brows, and never looked at either side as he advanced. The part of the cottage towards which he was approaching contained a long veranda, supported by pillars of rustic-work, within which, opening by three large windows, was the principal drawing-room. Here, now, at a small writing-table, sat a young girl, whose white dress admirably set off the graceful outline of her figure, seen within the half-darkened room; her features were pale, but beautifully regular, and the masses of her hair, black as night, which she wore twisted on the back of the head, like a cameo, gave a character of classic elegance and simplicity to the whole.
Without, and under the veranda, an old man, tall, and slightly bowed in the shoulders, walked slowly up and down. It needed not the careful nicety of his long queue., the spotless whiteness of his cambric shirt and vest, nor the perfection of his nicely fitting nankeen pantaloons, to bespeak him a gentleman of the past day. There was a certain suave gentleness in his bland look, an air of easy courtesy in his every motion, a kind of well-bred mannerism in the very carriage of his gold-headed cane, that told of a time when the graces of deportment were a study, and when our modern careless freedom had been deemed the very acme of rudeness. He was dictating, as was his wont each morning, some reminiscence of his early life, when he had served in the Body-Guard of Louis XVI., and where he had borne his part in the stormy scenes of that eventful era. The memory of that most benevolent monarch, the fascinations of that queen whom to serve was to idolize, had sufficed to soften the hardships of a life which, from year to year, pressed more heavily, and were at last, after many a straggle, impressing their lines upon a brow where age alone had never written grief.
On the morning in question, instead of rapidly pouring forth his recollections, which usually came in groups, pressing one upon the other, he hesitated often, sometimes forgetting “where he was,” in his narrative, and more than once ceasing to speak altogether; he walked in revery, and seeming deeply preoccupied.
His granddaughter had noticed this change; but cautiously abstaining from anything that might betray her consciousness, she sat, pen in hand, waiting, her lustrous eyes watching each gesture with an intensity of interest that amounted to actual suffering.
“I fear, Mary,” said he, with an effort to smile, “we must give it up for to-day. The present is too strong for the past, just as sorrow is always an overmatch for joy. Watching for the post has routed all my thoughts, and I can think of nothing but what tidings may reach me from Dublin.”
“You have no fears, sir,” said she, rising, and drawing her arm within his, “that your application could be rejected. You ask nothing unusual or unreasonable, – a brief renewal of a lease where you have expended a fortune.”
