’Ay—there he goes—Mervyn!
Well!—so—so—pray Heaven,
sorrow and a blight follow him not into this place.’
The rector murmured to himself, and sighed, still
following him with his glance.
Little Lilias, with her hand within his arm, wondered,
as she glanced upward into that beloved face, what
could have darkened it with a look so sad and anxious;
and then her eyes also followed the retreating figure
of that pale young man, with a sort of interest not
quite unmixed with uneasiness.
HOW THE ROYAL IRISH ARTILLERY ENTERTAINED SOME OF
THE NEIGHBOURS AT DINNER.
If I stuck at a fib as little as some historians,
I might easily tell you who won the prizes at this
shooting on Palmerstown Green. But the truth
is, I don’t know; my granduncle could have told
me, for he had a marvellous memory, but he died, a
pleasant old gentleman of four-score and upwards,
when I was a small urchin. I remember his lively
old face, his powdered bald head and pigtail, his
slight erect figure, and how merrily he used to play
the fiddle for his juvenile posterity to dance to.
But I was not of an age to comprehend the value of
this thin, living volume of old lore, or to question
the oracle. Well, it can’t be helped now,
and the papers I’ve got are silent upon the point.
But there were jollifications to no end both in Palmerstown
and Chapelizod that night, and declamatory conversations
rising up in the street at very late hours, and singing,
and ‘hurooing’ along the moonlit
roads.
There was a large and pleasant dinner-party, too,
in the mess-room of the Royal Irish Artillery.
Lord Castlemallard was there in the place of honour,
next to jolly old General Chattesworth, and the worthy
rector, Doctor Walsingham, and Father Roach, the dapper,
florid little priest of the parish, with his silk
waistcoat and well-placed paunch, and his keen relish
for funny stories, side-dishes, and convivial glass;
and Dan Loftus, that simple, meek, semi-barbarous
young scholar, his head in a state of chronic dishevelment,
his harmless little round light-blue eyes, pinkish
from late night reading, generally betraying the absence
of his vagrant thoughts, and I know not what of goodness,
as well as queerness, in his homely features.
Good Dr. Walsingham, indeed, in his simple benevolence,
had helped the strange, kindly creature through college,
and had a high opinion of him, and a great delight
in his company. They were both much given to books,
and according to their lights zealous archaeologists.
They had got hold of Chapelizod Castle, a good tough
enigma. It was a theme they never tired of.
Loftus had already two folios of extracts copied from
all the records to which Dr. Walsingham could procure
him access. They could not have worked harder,
indeed, if they were getting up evidence to prove
their joint title to Lord Castlemallard’s estates.
This pursuit was a bond of close sympathy between
the rector and the student, and they spent more time
than appeared to his parishioners quite consistent
with sanity in the paddock by the river, pacing up
and down, and across, poking sticks into the earth
and grubbing for old walls underground.
