“We will, if we’re let, tell Nora,”
said Sophy; “but now Frank’s at home,
we must mind him, you know.”
“Make him bring you over: there’ll
be a bed for him; the old house is big enough, heaven
knows.”
“Indeed it is. Well, I’ll do my best;
but tell Nora to be sure and get the fiddler from
Hollymount. It’s so stupid for her to be
sitting there at the piano while we’re dancing.”
“I’ll manage that; only do you bring Frank
to dance with her,” and another tender squeeze
was given—and Peter hurried out to the horses.
And now they were all gone but the Parson. “Mrs
O’Kelly,” said he, “Mrs Armstrong
wants a favour from you. Poor Minny’s very
bad with her throat; she didn’t get a wink of
sleep last night.”
“Dear me—poor thing; Can I send her
anything?”
“If you could let them have a little black currant
jelly, Mrs Armstrong would be so thankful. She
has so much to think of, and is so weak herself, poor
thing, she hasn’t time to make those things.”
“Indeed I will, Mr Armstrong. I’ll
send it down this morning; and a little calf’s
foot jelly won’t hurt her. It is in the
house, and Mrs Armstrong mightn’t be able to
get the feet, you know. Give them my love, and
if I can get out at all to-morrow, I’ll go and
see them.”
And so the Parson, having completed his domestic embassy
for the benefit of his sick little girl, followed
the others, keen for the hunt; and the three ladies
were left alone, to see the plate and china put away.
Though the majority of those who were in the habit
of hunting with the Kelly’s Court hounds had
been at the breakfast, there were still a considerable
number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front of
the house, when Frank and his friends sallied forth.
The dogs were collected round the huntsman, behaving
themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety;
an occasional yelp from a young hound would now and
then prove that the whipper [36] had his eye on them,
and would not allow rambling; but the old dogs sat
demurely on their haunches, waiting the well-known
signal for action. There they sat, as grave as
so many senators, with their large heads raised, their
heavy lips hanging from each side of their jaws, and
their deep, strong chests expanded so as to show fully
their bone, muscle, and breeding.
[FOOTNOTE 36: whipper—an
officer of the hunt whose duty was to
help the hunstman control the hounds]
Among the men who had arrived on the lawn during breakfast
were two who certainly had not come together, and
who had not spoken since they had been there.
They were Martin Kelly and Barry Lynch. Martin
was dressed just as usual, except that he had on a
pair of spurs, but Barry was armed cap-a-pie [37].
Some time before his father’s death he had supplied
himself with all the fashionable requisites for the
field,—not because he was fond of hunting,
