Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1», sayfa 21

However satisfied of its injustice, Forester made no reply to this burst of passion, but sat without speaking as she resumed: —

“You will say there are knaves in every country, and that this Gleeson was of our rearing; but I deny it, sir. I tell you he was a base counterfeit we have borrowed from yourselves. That meek, submissive manner, that patient drudgery of office, that painstaking, petty rectitude, make up ‘your respectable men;’ and in this garb of character the business of life goes on with you. And why? Because you take it at its worth. But here, in Ireland, we go faster; trust means full confidence, – confidence without limit or bound; and then, too often, ruin without redemption. Forgive me, sir; age and sorrow both have privileges, and I perhaps have more cause than most others to speak warmly on this theme. Now, let me escape my egotism by asking you to eat, for I see we have forgotten our supper all this time.”

From that moment Miss Daly never adverted further to the burden of her brother’s letter, but led Forester to converse about his journey and the people whom, even in his brief experience, he perceived to be so unlike the peasantry of the West.

“Yes,” said she, in reply to an observation of his, “these diversities of character observable in different places are doubtless intended, like the interminable varieties of natural productions, to increase our interest in life, and, while extending the sphere of speculation, to contribute to our own advancement. Few people, perhaps not any, are to be found without some traits of amiability; here there is much to be respected, and, when habit has dulled the susceptibility of first impressions, much also to be liked. But shall I not have the pleasure of showing you my neighbors and my neighborhood?”

“My visit must be of the shortest; I rather took than obtained my leave of absence.”

“Well, even a brief visit will do something; for my neighbors all dwell in cottages, and my neighborhood comprises the narrow strip of coast between this hut and the sea, whose plash you hear this minute. To-morrow you will be rested from your journey, and if the day permits we ‘ll try the Causeway.”

Forester accepted the invitation so frankly proffered, and went to his room not sorry to lay his head upon a pillow after two weary nights upon the road.

Forester was almost shocked as he entered the breakfast-room on the following morning to see the alteration in Miss Daly’s appearance. She had evidently passed a night of great sorrow, and seemed with difficulty to bear up against the calamitous tidings of which he was the bearer. She endeavored, it is true, to converse on matters of indifference, – the road he had travelled, the objects he had seen, and so on; but the effort was ever interrupted by broken snatches of reflection that would vent themselves in words, and all of which bore on the Knight and his fortunes.

To Forester’s account of her brother Bagenal’s devotion to his friend she listened with eager interest, asking again and again what part he had taken, whether his counsels were deemed wise ones, and if he still enjoyed to the fullest extent the confidence of his old friend.

“It is no friendship of yesterday, sir,” said she, with a heightened color and a flashing eye; “they knew each other as boys, they walked the mountains together as young men, speculated on the future paths fate might open before them, and the various ambitions which, even then, stirred within them. Bagenal was ever rash, headstrong, and impetuous, rarely firm in purpose till some obstacle seemed to defy its accomplishment. Maurice – the Knight, I mean – was not less resolute when roused, but more often so much disposed to concede to others that he would postpone his wishes to their own; and once believing himself in any way pledged to a course, would forget all, save the fulfilment of the implied promise. Such were the two dispositions, which, acting and reacting on each other, effected the ruin of both: the one wasted in eccentricity what the other squandered in listless indifference; and with abilities enough to have won distinction for humble men, they have earned no other reputation than that of singularity or convivialism.

“As for Bagenal,” she said, after a pause, “wealth was never but an incumbrance to him; he was one of those persons who never saw any use for money, save in the indulgence of mere caprice; he treated his great fortune as a spoiled child will do a toy, and never rested till he had pulled it to pieces, and perhaps derived the same moral lesson too, – astonishment at the mere trifle which once amused him. But Maurice Darcy, – whose tastes were ever costly and cultivated, who regarded splendor not as the means of vulgar display, but as the fitting accompaniment of a house illustrious by descent and deeds, and deemed that all about and around him should bear the impress of himself, generous and liberal as he was, – how is he to bear this reverse? Tell me of Lady Eleanor; and Miss Darcy, is she like the Knight, or has her English blood given the character to her beauty?”

“She is very like her father,” said Forester, “but more so even in disposition than in features.”

“How happy I am to hear it,” said Miss Daly, hastily; “and she is, then, high-spirited and buoyant? What gifts in an hour like this!”

“You say truly, madam, she will not sink beneath the stroke, believe me.”

“Well, this news has reconciled me to much of your gloomier tidings,” said Miss Daly; “and now let us wander out upon the hills; I feel as if we could talk more freely as we stroll along the beach.”

Miss Daly arose as she spoke, and led the way through the little garden wicket, which opened on a steep pathway down to the shore.

“This will be a favorite walk with Helen, I’m certain,” said she. “The caves are all accessible at low water, and the view of Fairhead finer than from any other point. I must instruct you to be a good and a safe guide. I must teach you all the art and mystery of the science, make you learned in the chronicles of Dunluce, and rake up for you legends of ghostcraft and shipwreck enough to make the fortunes of a romancer.”

“I thank you heartily,” said Forester; “but I cannot remain here to meet my friends.”

“Oh, I understand you,” said Miss Daly, who in reality put a wrong interpretation on his words; “but you shall be my guest. There is a little village about four miles from this, where I intend to take up my abode. I hope you will not decline hospitality which, if humble, is at least freely proffered.”

“I regret deeply,” said Forester, and he spoke in a tone of sorrow, “that I cannot accept your kindness. I stand in a position of no common difficulty at this moment.” He hesitated, as if doubting whether to proceed or not, and then, in a more hurried voice, resumed: “There is no reason why I should obtrude my own petty cares and trials where greater misfortunes are impending; but I cannot help telling you that I have been rash enough, in a moment of impatience, to throw up an appointment I held on the Viceroy’s Staff, and I know not how far the step may yet involve me with my relatives.”

“Tell me how came you first acquainted with the Darcys?” said Miss Daly, as if following out in her own mind a train of thought.

“I will be frank with you,” said Forester, “for I cannot help being so; there are cases where confidence is not a virtue, but a necessity. Every word you speak, every tone of your voice, is so much your brother’s that I feel as if I were confiding to him in another form. I learned to know the Knight of Gwynne in a manner which you may deem, perhaps, little creditable to myself, though I trust you will see that I neither abused the knowledge nor perverted the honor of the acquaintanceship. It was in this wise.”

Briefly, but without reserve, Forester narrated the origin of his first journey to the West, and, without implicating the honor of his relative, Lord Castlereagh, explained the nature of his mission, to ascertain the sentiments of the Knight, and the possibility of winning him to the side of the Government. His own personal adventures could not, of course, be omitted, in such a narrative; but he touched on the theme as slightly as he could, and only dwelt on the kindness he had experienced in his long and dangerous illness, and the long debt of gratitude which bound him to the family.

Of the intimacy that succeeded he could not help speaking, and, whether from his studied avoidance of her name, or that, when replying to any question of Miss Daly’s concerning Helen Darcy, his manner betrayed agitation, certain it is that when he concluded, Miss Daly’s eyes were turned towards him with an expression of deep significance that called the color to his cheek.

“And so, sir,” said she, in a slow and measured voice, “you went down to play the tempter, and were captured yourself. Come, come, I know your secret; you have told it by signs less treacherous than words; and Helen, – for I tell you freely my interest is stronger for her, – how is she disposed towards you?”

Forester never spoke, but hung his head abashed and dejected.

“Yes, yes, I see it all,” said Miss Daly, hurriedly; “you would win the affection of a generous and high-souled girl by the arts which find favor in your more polished world, and you have found that the fascinations of manner and the glittering éclat of an aide-de-camp have failed. Now, take my counsel. But first let me ask, is this affection the mere prompting of an idle or capricious moment, or do you love her with a passion round which the other objects of your life are to revolve and depend? I understand that pressure of the hand; it is enough. My advice is simple. You belong to a profession second to none in its high and great rewards: do not waste its glorious opportunities by the life of a courtier; be a soldier in feeling as well as in garb; let her whose heart you would win, feel that in loving you she is paying the tribute to qualities that make men esteem and respect you; that she is not bestowing her hand upon the mere favorite of a Court, but on one whose ambitions are high, and whose darings are generous. Oh! leave nothing, or as little as you may, to mere influence; let your boast be, and it will be a proud one, that with high blood and a noble name you have started fairly in the race, and distanced your competitors. This is my counsel. What think you of it?”

“I will follow it,” said Forester, firmly; “I will follow it, though, I own it to you, it suggests no hope, where hope would be happiness.”

“Well, then,” said Miss Daly, “you shall spend this day with me, and I will not keep you another; you have made me your friend by this confidence, and I will use the trust with delicacy and with fidelity.”

“May I write to you?” said Forester, “and will you let me hear from you again?”

“With pleasure; I should have asked it myself had you not done so. Now, let us talk of the first steps to be taken in this affair; and here is a bench where we can rest ourselves while we chat.”

Forester sat down beside her, and, in the freedom of one to whom fortune had so unexpectedly presented a confidante, opened all the secret store of his cares and hopes and fears. It was late when they turned again towards “the Corvy,” but the youth’s step was lighter, and his brow more open, while his heart was higher than many a previous day had found him.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE KNIGHT’S RETURN

We must now for a brief space, return to the Knight, as with a heavy heart he journeyed homeward. Never did the long miles seem so wearisome before, often and often as he had travelled them. The little accidental delays, which once he had met with a ready jest, and in a spirit of kindly indulgence, he now resented as so many intentional insults upon his changed and ruined fortune. The gossiping landlords, to whom he had ever extended so much of freedom, he either acknowledged coldly, or repelled with distance; their liberties were now construed into want of deference and respect; the very jestings of the postboys to each other seemed so many covert impertinences, and equivocal allusions to himself; for even so much will the stroke of sudden misfortune change the nature, and convert the contented and happy spirit into a temperament of gloomy sorrow and suspicion.

Unconscious of his own altered feelings, and looking at every object through the dim light of his own calamity, he hurried along, not, as of old, recognizing each well-known face, saluting this one, inquiring after that; he sat back in his carriage, and, with his hat drawn almost over his eyes, neither noticed the way nor the wayfarers.

In this mood it was he entered Castlebar. The sight of his well-remembered carriage drew crowds of beggars to the door of the inn, every one of whom had some special prayer for aid, or some narrative of sickness for his hearing. By the time the horses drew up, the crowd numbered some hundreds of every variety, not only in age, but in raggedness, all eagerly calling on him by name, and imploring his protection on grounds the most strange and dissimilar.

“I knew the sound of the wheels; ax Biddy if I did n’t say it was his honor was coming!” cried one, in a sort of aside intended for the Knight himself.

“Ye ‘re welcome home, sir; long may you reign over us,” said an old fellow with a beard like a pilgrim. “I dreamed I seen you last night standing at the door there, wid a half-crown in your fingers. ‘Ouid Luke,’ says you, ‘come here! – ‘”

A burst of rude laughter drowned this sage parable, while a good-looking young woman, with an expression of softness in features degraded by poverty and its consequences, courtesied low, and tried to attract his notice, as she held up a miserable-looking infant to the carriage window. “Clap them, acushla! ‘t is proud he is to see you back again, sir; he never forgets the goold guinea ye gave him on New Year’s Day! Don’t be pushin’ that way, you rude cray-tures; you want to hurt the child, and it’s the image of his honor.”

“Many returns of the blessed sason to you,” growled out a creature in a bonnet, but in face and figure far more like a man than a woman; “throw us out a fippenny to buy two ounces of tay. Asy, asy; don’t be drivin’ me under the wheels – ugh! it’s no place for a faymale, among such rapscallions.”

“What did they give you, Maurice? how much did you get, honey?” cried a tall and almost naked fellow, that leaned over the heads of several others, and put his face close to the glass of the carriage, which, for safety’s sake, the Knight now let down, while he called aloud to the postboys to make haste and bring out the horses.

“Tell us all about it, Maurice, my boy, – are you a lord, or a bishop?” cried the tall fellow, with an eagerness of face that told his own sad bereavement, for he was deranged in intellect from a fall from one of the cliffs on the coast. “By my conscience, I think I must change my politics myself soon; my best pantaloons is like Nat Fitzgibbon, – it has resigned its sate! Out with a bit of silver here! – quick, I didn’t kiss the King’s face this ten days.”

To all these entreaties Darcy seemed perfectly deaf; if his eyes wandered over the crowd, they noticed nothing there, nor did he appear to listen to a word around him, while he again asked why the horses were not coming.

“We’re doing our best, your honor,” cried a postboy, “but it’s mighty hard to get through these divils; they won’t stir till the beasts is trampling them down.”

“Drive on, then, and let them take care of themselves,” said the Knight, sternly.

“O blessed Father! there’s a way to talk of the poor! O heavenly Vargin! but you are come back cruel to us, after all!”

“Drive on!” shouted out Darcy, in a voice of angry impatience.

The postboys sprang into their saddles, cracked their whips, and dashed forward, while the mob, rent in a hundred channels, fled on every side, with cries of terror and shouts of laughter, according as the distance suggested danger or security. All escaped safely, except the poor idiot, Flury, who, having one foot on the step when the carriage started, was thrown backward, when, to save himself, he grasped the spring, and was thus half dragged, half carried along to the end of the street, and there, failing strength and fear combining, he relinquished his hold and fell senseless to the ground, where the wheel grazed but did not injure him as he lay.

With a cry of terror, the Knight called out “Stop!” and, flinging wide the door, sprang out. To lift the poor fellow up to a sitting posture was the work of a second, while he asked, in accents the very kindest, if he were hurt.

“Sorra bit, Maurice,” said the fellow, whose faculties sooner rallied than if they were habitually under better control. “I was on the wrong side of the coach, that’s all; ‘t is safer to be within. The clothes is not the better of it,” said he, looking at his sleeve, now hanging in stripes.

“Never mind that, Flury; we’ll soon repair that misfortune; it does not signify much.”

“Does n’t it, faith?” said the other, shaking his head dubiously; “‘tis asy talking, but I can’t turn my coat without showing the hole in it. ‘T is only the rich can do that.”

The Knight bit his lip; for even from the fool’s sarcasm he could gather the imputations already rife upon his conduct. Another and a very different thought succeeded to this, and he blushed with shame to think how far his sense of his own misfortune had rendered him indifferent, not only to the kindly feelings, but the actual misery, of others. The right impulses of high-minded men are generally rapid in their action, like the spring of the bent bow when the cord is cut asunder. It did not cost Darcy many minutes to be again the warm-hearted, generous soul nature had made him.

“Come, Flury,” said he to the poor fellow, as he stood ruefully surveying his damaged drapery, “give that among the people there in the town, and keep this for yourself.”

“This is goold, Maurice, – yellow goold!”

“So it is; but you’re not the less welcome to it; tell them, too, that I have had troubles of my own lately; and that’s the reason I hurried on without exchanging a word with them.”

“How do you know, Maurice, but I’ll keep it all to myself?”.

“I’d trust you with a heavier sum,” said the Knight, smiling.

“I know why, – I know why, well enough, – because I’m a fool. Never mind, there’s greater fools nor me going. What did they give you up there for your vote, Maurice, – tell me, how much was it?”

The Knight shook his head, and Flury resumed: “Didn’t I say it? Wasn’t I right? By my ould hat! there’s two fools in the country now; – Maurice Darcy and Red Flury; and Maurice the biggest of the two! Whoop, the more the merrier; there ‘s room for us all!” And with this wise reflection, Flury gave a very wild caper and a wilder shout, and set off at the speed of a hare towards Castlebar.

The Knight resumed his journey, and in a more contented mood. The little incident had called on him for an exertion, and his faculties only needed the demand to respond to the call. He summoned to his aid, besides, every comforting reflection in his power; he persuaded himself that there were some hopes remaining still, and tried to believe the evil not beyond remedy. “After all,” thought he, “we are together; it is not death has been dealing with us, nor is there any stain upon our fair fame; and, save these, all ills are light, and can be borne.”

From thoughts like these he was aroused by the heavy clank of the iron gate, as it fell back to admit the carriage within the park, while a thousand welcomes saluted him.

“Thank you, Darby! – thank you, Mary! All well up at the abbey?”

But the carriage dashed past at full speed, and the answer was drowned in the tumult. The postboys, true to the etiquette of their calling, had reserved their best pace for the finish, and it was at the stride of a hunting gallop they now tore along.

It was a calm night, with a young faint moon and a starry sky, which, without displaying in bright light the details of the scenery, yet exhibited them in strong, bold masses, making all seem even more imposing and grander than in reality; the lofty mountain appeared higher, the dark woods vaster, and the wide-spreading lawn seemed to stretch away into immense plains. Darcy’s heart swelled with pride as he looked, while a pang shot through him as he thought, if even at that hour he could call them his own.

They had now reached a little glen, where the postboys were obliged to walk their blown cattle; emerging from this, they passed a thick grove of beech, and at once came in sight of the abbey. Darcy leaned anxiously from the window to catch the first sight of home, when what was his amazement to perceive that the whole was lighted up from end to end. The great suite of state rooms were a blaze of lustres, which even at that distance glittered in their starry brilliancy, and showed the shadows of figures moving within. He well knew that Lady Eleanor never saw company in his absence, – what could this mean? Tortured with doubts that in his then state of mind took every painful form, he ordered the postilions to get on faster, and at the very top of their speed they tore along, over the wide lawn, across the terrace drive, up the steep ascent to the gate tower into the courtyard.

This was also brilliantly lighted by lamps from the walls, and also by the lights of numerous carriage lamps which crowded the ample space.

“What is this? Can no one tell me?” muttered the Knight, as he leaped from the carriage, and, seizing a livery servant who was passing, said, “What is going on here? What company has the abbey?”

“Full of company,” said the man, in an English accent; “there ‘s my Lord – ”

“Who do you mean?”

“The Earl of Netherby, sir, and Sir Harry Beauclerk, and Colonel Crofton, and – ”

“When did they arrive?” said the Knight, interrupting a catalogue, every name of which, although unknown, sent a feeling like a stab through his heart.

“They came the evening before last, sir; Mr. Lionel Darcy, who arrived the same morning – ”

“Is he here?” cried the Knight; and, without waiting for more, hastened forward.

The servants, of whom there seemed a great number about, were in strange liveries, and unknown to the Knight; nor was it without undergoing a very cool scrutiny from them that Darcy succeeded in gaining admittance to his own house. At last he reached the foot of the great stair, whence the sounds of music and the din of voices filled the air; servants hurried along with refreshments, or carried orders to others in waiting; all was bustle and excitement, in the midst of which Darcy stood only half conscious of the reality of what he saw, and endeavoring to reason himself into a conviction of what he heard. It was at this moment that several officers of a newly quartered regiment passed up, admiring, as they went, the splendor of the house, and the magnificent preparations they witnessed on every side.

“I say, Dallas,” cried one, “you’re always talking of your uncle Beverley: does he do the thing in this style, eh?”

“By Jove!” interposed a short, thick-set major, with a bushy beard and eyebrows, “this is what I call going the pace: do they give dinners here?”

“Yes, that they do,” said a white-faced, ghostly looking ensign; “I heard all about this place from Giles of the 40th; he was quartered six months in this county, and used to grub here half the week. The old fellow is n’t at home now, but they say he’s a trump.”

“Let’s drink his health, Watkins,” cried the first speaker, “here’s champagne going up;” and so saying, the party gathered around two servants, one of whom carried an ice-pail with some bottles, and the other a tray of glasses.

“Does any one know his name, though?” said the major, as he held his glass to be filled.

“Yes, it’s something like – Oh, you know that fellow that joined us at Coventry?”

“Brereton, is it?”

“No, hang it! I mean the fellow that had the crop-eared cob with the white legs. Never mind, here he goes, anyhow.”

“Oh, I know who you mean, – it was Jack Quin.”

“That’s the name; and your friend here is called ‘Gwynne,’ I think. Here, gentlemen, I give you Gwynne’s health, and all the honors; may he live a few centuries more – ”

“With a warm heart and a cool cellar,” added one.

“Pink champagne, and red-coats to drink it,” chimed in the ensign.

“May I join you in that pleasant sentiment, gentlemen?” said the Knight, bowing courteously, as he took a glass from the tray and held it towards the servant.

“Make no apology, sir,” said the major, eying him rather superciliously, for the travelling dress concealed the Knight’s appearance, and distinguished him but slightly from many of those lounging around the doors.

“Capital ginger-beer that! eh?” said the ensign, as, winking at his companions, he proceeded to quiz the stranger.

“I have certainly drunk worse,” said the Knight, gravely, – “at an infantry mess.”

There was a pause before he uttered the last three words, which gave them a more direct application; a stare, half stupid, half impertinent, was, however, all they elicited, and the group moved on, while the Knight, disencumbering himself of his travelling gear, slowly followed them.

“Grim old gentlemen these, ain’t they?” said the major, gazing at the long line of family portraits that covered the walls; “that fellow with the truncheon does not seem to like the look of us.”

“Here’s a bishop, I take it, with the great wig.”

“That’s a chancellor, man; don’t you see the mace? But he’s not a whit more civil-looking than the other; commend me to the shepherdess yonder, in blue satin. But come on, we ‘re losing time; I hear the flourish of a new dance. I say,” said he, in a whisper, “do you see who we’ve got behind us?” And they turned and saw the Knight as he mounted the stairs behind them.

“A friend of the family, sir?” asked the major, in a voice that might bear the equivocal meaning of either impertinence or mere inquiry.

The Knight seemed to prefer taking it in the latter acceptation, as he answered mildly, “I have that honor.”

“Ah! indeed; well, we ‘ve the misfortune to be strangers in these parts; only arrived in the neighborhood last week, and were invited here through our colonel. Would you have any objection to present us? – Major Hopecot of the 5th, Captain Mills, Mr. Dallas, Mr. Fothergill, Mr. Watkins.”

“How the major is going it!” lisped the ensign, while his goggle eyes rolled fearfully, and the others seemed struggling to control their enjoyment of such drollery.

“It will afford me much pleasure, sir, to do your bidding,” said the Knight, calmly.

“Take the head of the column, then,” resumed the major, making way for him to pass; and the Knight entered, with the others after him.

“My father – my dearest father!” cried a voice at the moment, and, escaping from her partner, Helen was in a moment in bis arms. The next instant Lionel was also at his side.

“My dear children! – my sweet Helen! – and Lionel, how well you ‘re looking, boy! Ah! Eleanor, what a pleasant surprise you have managed for me.”

“Then perhaps you never got our letter,” said Lady Eleanor, as she took his arm and walked forward. “I wrote the moment I heard from Lionel.”

“And I, too, wrote you a long letter from London,” said Lionel.

“Neither reached me; but the last few days I have been so busy, and so much occupied. – How are you, Conolly? Delighted to see you, Martin. – And Lady Julia, is she here? I must take a tour and see all my friends. First of all, I have a duty to perform; let me introduce these gentlemen. But where are they? Oh, I see them yonder.” And, as he spoke, he led Lady Eleanor across the room to the group of officers, who, overwhelmed with shame at their discovery, stood uncertain whether they should remain or retire.

“Let me introduce Major Hopecot and the officers of the 5th,” said he, bowing courteously. “These gentlemen are strangers, Lady Eleanor; will you take care that they find partners.”

While the abashed subalterns left their major to make his speeches to Lady Eleanor, the Knight moved round the room with Helen still leaning on his arm. By this time Darcy’s arrival was generally known, and all his old friends came pressing forward to see and speak to him.

“Lord Netherby,” whispered Helen in the Knight’s ear, as a tall and very thin old man, with an excessive affectation of youthfulness, tripped forward to meet him.

“My dear Lord,” exclaimed Darcy, “what a pleasure, and what an honor to see you here!”

“You would not come to me, Knight, so there was nothing else for it,” replied the other, laughing, as he shook hands with a great display of cordiality. “And you were quite right,” continued he; “I could not have received you like this. There ‘s not so splendid a place in England, nor has it ever been my fortune to witness so much beauty.” A half bow accompanied the last words, as he turned towards Helen.

“Take care, my Lord,” said the Knight, smiling; “the flatteries of a courtier are very dangerous things when heard out of the atmosphere that makes them commonplace. We may take you literally, and have our heads turned by them.”

At this moment Lionel joined them, to introduce several of his friends and brother officers who accompanied him from England, all of whom were received by the Knight with that winning courtesy of manner of which he was a perfect master; for, not affecting either the vices or frivolities of youth as a claim to the consideration of younger men, the Knight possessed the happy temper that can concede indulgence without asking to partake of it, and, while losing nothing of the relish for wit and humor, chasten both by the fruits of a life’s experience.

“Now, Helen, you must go back to your partner; that young guardsman looks very sulkily at me for having taken you off – yes, I insist on it. Lionel, look to your friends, and I ‘ll join Lord Netherby’s whist-table, and talk whenever permitted. Where ‘s poor Tate?” whispered he in Lady Eleanor’s ear, as she just came up.