CHAPTER XVIII. SOME DOINGS OF MR. DRISCOLL.
“There it is, Bella,” said Kellett, as he entered the cottage at nightfall, and threw a sealed letter on the table. “I hadn't the courage to open it. A fellow came into the office and said, 'Is one Kellett here? This is a letter from Mr. Davenport Dunn.' He was Mister, and I was one Kellett. Wasn't I low enough when I couldn't say a word to it?—wasn't I down-in the world when I had to bear it in silence?”
“Shall I read it for you?” said she, gently.
“Do, darling; but before you begin, give me a glass of whiskey-and-water. I want courage for it, and something tells me, Bella, I'll need courage too.”
“Come, come, papa, this is not like yourself; this is not the old Albuera spirit you are so justly proud of.”
“Five-and-thirty years' hard struggling with the world never improved a man's pluck. There was n't a fellow in the Buffs had more life in him than Paul Kellett. It was in general orders never to sell my traps or camp furniture when I was reported missing; for, as General Pack said, 'Kellett is sure to turn up to-morrow or the day after.' And look at me now!” cried he, bitterly; “and as to selling me out, they don't show me much mercy, Bella, do they?”
She made no reply, but slowly proceeded to break the seal of the letter.
“What a hurry ye're in to read bad news!” cried he, peevishly; “can't you wait till I finish this?” And he pointed to the glass, which he sipped slowly, like one wishing to linger over it.
A half-melancholy smile was all her answer, and he went on,—
“I'm as sure of what's in that letter there as if I read it. Now, mark my words, and I'll just tell you the contents of it: Kellett's Court is sold, the first sale confirmed, and the Master's report on your poor mother's charge is unfavorable. There's not a perch of the old estate left us, and we're neither more nor less than beggars. There it is for you in plain English.”