Volume I Part 24 (2/2)

”Yes, and it was because my father had been his dearest friend that Miss Barrington insisted on my remaining here. She told me, over and over again, of the joy her brother would feel on meeting me--”

”Where are you going,--what's the matter?” asked Withering, as a man hurriedly pa.s.sed out of the house and made for the river.

”The master is taken bad, sir, and I 'm going to Inistioge for the doctor.”

”Let me go with you,” said Conyers; and, only returning by a nod the good-bye of Withering, he moved past and stepped into the boat.

”What an afternoon to such a morning!” muttered he to himself, as the tears started from his eyes and stole heavily along his cheeks.

CHAPTER XVII. A SHOCK

If Conyers had been in the frame of mind to notice it, the contrast between the neat propriety of the ”Fisherman's Home,” and the disorder and slovenliness of the little inn at Inistioge could not have failed to impress itself upon him. The ”Spotted Duck” was certainly, in all its details, the very reverse of that quiet and picturesque cottage he had just quitted. But what did he care at that moment for the roof that sheltered him, or the table that was spread before him? For days back he had been indulging in thoughts of that welcome which Miss Barrington had promised him. He fancied how, on the mere mention of his father's name, the old man's affection would have poured forth in a flood of kindest words; he had even prepared himself for a scene of such emotion as a father might have felt on seeing one who brought back to mind his own son's earlier years; and instead of all this, he found himself shunned, avoided, repulsed. If there was a thing on earth in which his pride was greatest, it was his name; and yet it was on the utterance of that word, ”Conyers,” old Barrington turned away and left him.

Over and over again had he found the spell of his father's name and t.i.tle opening to him society, securing him attentions, and obtaining for him that recognition and acceptance which go so far to make life pleasurable; and now that word, which would have had its magic at a palace, fell powerless and cold at the porch of a humble cottage.

To say that it was part of his creed to believe his father could do no wrong is weak. It was his whole belief,--his entire and complete conviction. To his mind his father embodied all that was n.o.ble, high-hearted, and chivalrous. It was not alone the testimony of those who served under him could be appealed to. All India, the Government at home, his own sovereign knew it. From his earliest infancy he had listened to this theme, and to doubt it seemed like to dispute the fact of his existence. How was it, then, that this old man refused to accept what the whole world had stamped with its value? Was it that he impugned the services which had made his father's name famous throughout the entire East?

He endeavored to recall the exact words Barrington had used towards him, but he could not succeed. There was something, he thought, about intruding, unwarrantably intruding; or it might be a mistaken impression of the welcome that awaited him. Which was it? or was it either of them?

At all events, he saw himself rejected and repulsed, and the indignity was too great to be borne.

While he thus chafed and fretted, hours went by; and Mr. M'Cabe, the landlord, had made more than one excursion into the room, under pretence of looking after the fire, or seeing that the windows were duly closed, but, in reality, very impatient to learn his guest's intentions regarding dinner.

”Was it your honor said that you'd rather have the chickens roast than biled?” said he at last, in a very submissive tone.

”I said nothing of the kind.”

”Ah, it was No. 5 then, and I mistook; I crave your honor's pardon.”

Hoping that the chord he had thus touched might vibrate, he stooped down to arrange the turf, and give time for the response, but none came. Mr.

M'Cabe gave a faint sigh, but returned to the charge. ”When there's the laste taste of south in the wind, there 's no making this chimney draw.”

Not a word of notice acknowledged this remark.

”But it will do finely yet; it's just the outside of the turf is a little wet, and no wonder; seven weeks of rain--glory be to Him that sent it--has nearly desthroyed us.”

Still Conyers vouchsafed no reply.

”And when it begins to rain here, it never laves off. It isn't like in your honor's country. Your honor is English?”

A grunt,--it might be a.s.sent, it sounded like malediction.

”'T is azy seen. When your honor came out of the boat, I said, 'Shusy,'

says I, 'he's English; and there's a coat they could n't make in Ireland for a king's ransom.'”

”What conveyances leave this for Kilkenny?” asked Conyers, sternly.

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