“Will you let me see you to-morrow, or the day after?”
“The day after to-morrow be it. By that time I shall have heard from my mother,” said Conway. And they parted.
Long after Mr. Dunn's handsome equipage had driven away, Charles Conway continued to linger about the neighborhood of the little cottage. The shutters were closed, and no smoke issued from the chimney, and it looked dreary and desolate. Again and again would he draw near the little wicket and look into the garden. He would have given all he possessed to have been able to ask after her,—to have seen any one who could have told him of her,—how she bore up in her dread hour of trial; but none was to be seen. More than once he adventured to approach the door, and timidly stood, uncertain what to do, and then, cautiously retracing his steps, he regained the road, again to resume his lonely watch. And so the noon passed, and the day waned, and evening drew nigh, and there he still lingered. He thought that when night closed in, some flickering light might give sign of life within,—some faint indication of her his heart was full of; but all remained dark, silent, and cheerless. Even yet could he not bear to leave the spot, and it was already far into the night ere he turned his steps towards Dublin.
Let us go back for a moment to Mr. Davenport Dunn, who was not the only occupant of the handsome chariot that rolled smoothly back to town. Mr. Driscoll sat in one corner; the blind carefully down, so as to screen him from view.
“And that was Conway!” said he, as soon as Dunn had taken his seat. “Wasn't I right when I said you were sure to catch him here?”
“I knew as much myself,” said Dunn, curtly.
“Well, and what is he like?—is he a chap easy to deal with?—is he any way deep?”
“He's as proud as Lucifer,—that 's all I can make out of him; and there are few things harder to manage than real pride.”
“Ay, if you can't get round it,” said Driscoll, with a sly twinkle of the eye.
“I have no time for such management,” said Dunn, stiffly.