CHAPTER XXX.
FINNIGAN'S MARE.
"I do not set my life at a pin's fee."—Hamlet.
Helen's preparations for departure were rapidly accomplished; she had no voluminous wardrobe to pack, no circle of farewell visits to pay. Moreover, she was possessed by a feverish desire to escape, as far as possible, from maddening pianos, piles of uncorrected exercise books, and the summons of the inexorable school bell. She set out for Crowmore on the appointed date, with a delightful sense of recovered freedom, but—as far as her unknown relatives were concerned—strictly moderate expectations. Precisely a week after she had received her uncle's invitation, behold her rumbling across dear, dirty Dublin, in a dilapidated four-wheeler, drawn by a lame horse—her tender heart would not suffer her to expostulate with the driver on their snail's pace, and as the result of her benevolence, she missed her train by five minutes, and had the satisfaction of spending a long morning, in contemplating the advertisements in the Broadstone terminus! At length, after four hours' leisurely travelling, she was deposited at a shed labelled "Bansha," the nearest station to Crowmore. Bag in hand, she stepped down on the platform and looked about her; she was apparently the only passenger for that part of the world, and there was no one to be seen, except a few countrymen lounging round the entrance—the invariable policeman, and one porter. She gazed about anxiously, as the train steamed slowly away, and discovered that she was the cynosure of every eye, save the porter's, and he was engrossed in spelling out the address on her trunk.
"You'll be for the Castle, miss?" he remarked at last, straightening his back as he spoke.
"No, for Crowmore, Mr. Sheridan's," she replied, walking out through the station-house over into the station entrance, in the vague hopes of finding some conveyance awaiting her, and her baggage—but all that met her anxious eyes was a little knot of countrymen, who were gossiping round a rough rider, on a heavy-looking brown colt.
"Shure, Mr. Sheridan's and the Castle is all wan, miss," said the porter, who accompanied her, carrying her bag. "The young ladies wor here this morning, in a machine from Terryscreen, they expected you on the twelve,—and when you were not on that, they made sure you were coming to-morrow—they'll be here thin."
This was but cold comfort to Helen. "How far is it to Crowmore?" she asked.
"Well, it's a matter of in or about six mile."
"And how am I to get there?"