He spoke very little on that morning, and scarcely tasted his breakfast. His dress was more careful than usual; and Bella, half by way of saying something, asked if he were going into Dublin.
“Into Dublin! I suppose I am, indeed,” said he, curtly, as though giving a very obvious reply. “Maybe,” added he, after a few minutes,—“maybe you forget this is the seventeenth, and that this is the day for the sale.”
“I did remember it,” said she, with a faint sigh, but not daring to ask how his presence there was needed.
“And you were going to say,” added he, with a bitter smile, “what did that matter to me, and that wasn't wanted. Neither I am,—I 'm neither seller nor buyer; but still I 'm the last of the name that lived there,—I was Kellett of Kellett's Court, and there 'll never be another to say the same, and I owe it to myself to be there to-day,—just as I 'd attend a funeral,—just as I 'd follow the hearse.”
“It will only give you needless pain, dearest father,” said she, soothingly; “pray do not go.”
“Faith, I'll go if it gave me a fit,” said he, fiercely. “They may say when they go home, 'Paul Kellett was there the whole time, as cool as I am now; you 'd never believe it was the old family place—the house his ancestors lived in for centuries—was up for sale; there he was, calm and quiet If that is n't courage, tell me what is.'”
“And yet I 'd rather you did not go, father. The world has trials enough to tax our energies, that we should not go in search of them.”
“That's a woman's way of looking at it,” said he, contemptuously.
“A man with a man's heart likes to meet danger, just to see how he 'll treat it.”
“But remember, father—”