"Don't be keeping them any longer," he said; "let them get away before the heat of the day. And now I'll give you my last blessing, Winifred my dear, and your kind friend too."
Winifred knelt at the old priest's feet in the morning sunshine. I, being already seated in the car, bent my head. Father Owen solemnly raised his hand—the consecrated hand of God's minister,—looking upward, while his white hair framed his face like an aureola. Fervently he invoked the blessing of Heaven upon me and upon the child, upon our voyage and our arrival. His voice broke as he came to the last words, and he attempted to say no more; while I made a sign to the driver, who drove quickly from the door, followed by a parting howl from Barney and Moira.
I stole a last glance at the lovely Glen of the Dargle, the waterfall in the distance, and the natural bridge spanning the ravine, on which I had first seen Winifred. The thought flashed into my mind that I had come into the paradise of her youth, disturbing its idyllic peace; whether for better or worse was yet to be seen. I consoled myself with the assurance that, in any event, I had acted for the best.
We took the Enniskerry road to Dublin, and the drive was delightful. At one point in the journey we passed between the rude granite sides of that cleft in the mountains known as "The Scalp." As I looked up at them in their stern grandeur I had an uneasy feeling that some of the huge masses of rock, which appeared to be quite loose, might tumble upon our heads. Winifred, who was becoming, if not more cheerful, at least more composed, was greatly interested in "The Scalp," and told me the legend of the place.
"The devil," she said, "was once driving sheep to Dublin, and when he reached this mountain he couldn't get through it. So he gave a great kick with his foot and made the passage for himself and his flocks. And that, 'tis said, is why it is so wild and strange. But of course it isn't true," Winifred concluded, eying the great rocks above us with her wistful eyes. "Still, it is different from other mountains."
"It has an uncouth shape," I agreed; "and I suppose that's what put it into the people's heads that the devil must have had a hand in its formation."
We arrived in Dublin somewhat tired after our drive, which was not, however, so very long; and found ourselves comfortably lodged by night in a hotel on Sackville Street, whence we were to set forth again on our travels in a few days. For I had purposely arranged that we might spend a little time in the capital of Ireland, so that Winifred might get at least a bird's-eye view of it. I could not guess what was passing in her mind as we went out, after resting a while, to stroll about in the lighted streets. She had never been in a city before, and must have been interested in so much that was novel. But she said little: she had not yet recovered her natural buoyancy.
The following morning, however, we set out specially for sight-seeing. We went for a walk in the Phœnix Park, and from a vantage-point near the magazine looked down on the entire city, with its splendid bridges, its domes and spires. We saw the Nelson Pillar and the Wellington Monument, and we roamed at will along the verdant banks of the beautiful Liffey. We saw the Viceregal Lodge and the Corinthian Pillar and the Royal Hospital of Kilmainham. Then, of course, we had to see the churches. It would be tedious indeed to set down here all that we did see.
We were walking along Westmoreland Street one afternoon, just as the sun was setting. There had been a heavy shower, which had relieved the sultriness of an August day, and the ground was damp; but the trees were a brighter green and sent forth a sweeter fragrance for the rain. Winifred said suddenly: