“Ireland!—never—don’t wish to go—must go—old women will die—executor—botheration—and so on.”
“I hope she has left you a good legacy, sir,” replied I.
“Legacy—humph—can’t tell—silver tea-pot—suit of black, and so on. Long journey—won’t pay—can’t be helped—old women always troublesome alive or dead—bury her, come back—and so on.”
I deny my master.
Although Mr Cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. The other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes, to court sleep. I was the only one who wooed it in vain. Day broke, my companions were all in repose, and I discontinued my reveries, and examined their physiognomies. Mr Cophagus was the first to whom I directed my attention. He was much the same in face as when I had left him, but considerably thinner in person. His head was covered with a white night-cap, and he snored with emphasis. The professor of music was a very small man, with mustachios; his mouth was wide open, and one would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. The third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy, full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and his head bent down on his chest, and I observed that he had a small packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the string. I should not have taken further notice, had not the name of T. Iving, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted my attention. It was the name of Melchior’s London correspondent, who had attempted to bribe Timothy. This induced me to look down and read the direction of the packet, and I clearly deciphered, Sir Henry De Clare, Bart., Mount Castle, Connemara. I took out my tablets, and wrote down the address. I certainly had no reason for so doing, except that nothing should he neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out. I had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and then looked round upon the other parties.
“Fine morning, sir,” said he to me, perceiving that I was the only person awake.
“Very,” replied I, “very fine; but I had rather be walking over the mountains of Connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined conveyance.”
“Hah! you know Connemara, then? I’m going there; perhaps you are also bound to that part of the country? but you are not Irish.”
“I was not born or bred in Ireland, certainly,” replied I.
“So I should say. Irish blood in your veins, I presume.”
“I believe such to be the case,” replied I, with a smile, implying certainty.