“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.
