Part 26 (1/2)

”Yes, miss. He said he wanted a bit of writing from ye for the captain.”

”It is a long ride. Take him downstairs, Timothy, and give him some beer, while Miss Penelope prepares a reply.”

”Begging your pardon, miss, and with due respect to ye, ma'am, but he's that stiff in his manners, an' tight in his clothes, I doubt if he'd condescend to enter the kitchen.”

”Timothy,” says Miss Priscilla, with much displeasure, ”you have been having hot words with this stranger. What is it all about?”

”There's times, miss, as we all knows, when a worm will turn, and though I'm not a worm, ma'am, no more am I a coward, an' a red coat don't cover more flesh than a black; an' I'm an ould man, Miss Priscilla, to be called a buffer!”

It is apparent to every one that Timothy is nearly in tears.

”A buffer?” repeats Miss Priscilla, with dignity blended with disgust: she treats the word cautiously, as one might something noxious. ”What is a buffer?”

n.o.body enlightens her: though perhaps Terence might, were he not busily engaged trying to suppress his laughter behind a huge j.a.panese fan.

”Perhaps, Timothy,” says Miss Priscilla, gravely, ”as we all seem in ignorance about the real meaning of this extraordinary word, you are wrong in condemning it as an insult. It _may_ be--er--a term of _endearment_.”

At this Terence chokes, then coughs solemnly, and finally, lowering the fan, shows himself preternaturally grave, as a set-off against all suspicions.

”I wouldn't pin my faith to that, miss, if I was you,” says Ryan, respectfully, but with a touch of the fine irony which is bred and born with his cla.s.s in Ireland.

”Well, but as we cannot explain this word, Timothy, and you cannot, perhaps the best thing for you to do will be to go to the originator of it and ask _him_ what he meant by it,” says Miss Penelope, with quite astonis.h.i.+ng perspicacity for _her_.

”Shure I did that same, miss. 'Twas the first thing I said to him, ma'am. 'What do ye mane, ye spalpeen, ye thief o' the world,' says I, 'by miscalling a dacent man out of his name like that?' says I. I gave him all that, miss, and a dale more, though I've forgotten it be now, for the Ryans was always famous for the gift o' the gab!”

”If you said all that to the poor marine, I think you gave him considerably more than you got,” says Miss Penelope, ”and so you may cry peace. Go down now, Timothy, and make it up with him over your beer.”

Timothy, though still grumbling in an undertone death and destruction upon the hated Sa.s.senach, retires duteously, closing the door behind him.

”Now, Penelope,” says Miss Priscilla, with an air of relief, glancing at the pens and ink, at which Monica's heart fails her. She has no doubt whatever about the answer being a refusal, but a sad feeling that she dare make no protest renders her doubly sorrowful.

”Dear me!” says Miss Penelope, leaning back in her chair with pen well poised between her fingers, and a general air of pleased recollection full upon her, ”it sounds quite like old times--doesn't it?--to be invited to the Barracks at Clonbree.”

”Quite,” says Miss Priscilla, with an amused smile.

”You remember when the Whiteboys were so troublesome, in our dear father's time, what life the officers stationed here then, threw into the country round. Such routs! such dances! such kettle-drums! You can still recollect Mr. Browne--can you not, Priscilla?--that fas.h.i.+onable young man!”

”_You_ have the best right to remember him,” returns Miss Priscilla, in a meaning tone. ”It would be too ungrateful of you if you did not, considering what a life you led him.”

And at this the two old ladies break into hearty laughter and shake their heads reproachfully at each other.

”You _know_ you broke his heart,” says Miss Priscilla.

”Tell us about it, auntie,” says Kit, eagerly, who is always sympathetic where romance is concerned; but the old ladies only laugh the more at this, and Aunt Priscilla tells her how her Aunt Penelope was a very naughty girl in her time, and created havoc in the affections of all the young men that came within her reach.

All this delights Aunt Penelope, who laughs consumedly and makes feeble protest with her hands against this testimony.

”Poor fellow!” she says, sobering down presently, and looking quite remorseful. ”It is unkind to laugh when his name is mentioned. He was killed in the Indian Mutiny, long afterwards, in a most gallant charge.”