'Not a word. And even when I wished to touch on it for the sake of a little explanation, he adroitly turned the subject, and spoke of something else. But it is drawing late, and I have some people to see this morning; so come along now into my little library here, and I'll leave you for a while to amuse yourself.'
The priest led me, as he spoke, into a small room, whose walls were covered with books from the floor to the ceiling; even the very door by which we entered had its shelves, like the rest, so that when once inside you could see no trace of it. A single window looked seaward, towards the wide Atlantic, and presented a view of many miles of coast, indented with headland and promontory. Beneath, upon the placid sea, was a whole fleet of fishing-boats, the crews of which were busily engaged in collecting the sea-weed to manure the land. The sight was both curious and picturesque. The light boats, tossing on the heavy swell, were crowded with figures whose attitude evinced all the eagerness of a chase. Sometimes an amicable contest would arise between two parties, as their boat-hooks were fixed in the same mass of tangled weed. Sometimes two rival crews would be seen stretching upon their oars, as they headed out to sea in search of a new prize. The merry voices and the loud laughter, however, that rose above all other sounds, told that good-humour and goodwill never deserted them in all the ardour of the contest.
Long after the priest left me, I continued to watch them. At last I set myself to explore the good father's shelves, which I found, for the most part, were filled with portly tomes of divinity and polemics—huge folio copies of Saint Augustine, Origen, Eusebius, and others; innumerable volumes of learned tractates on disputed points in theology—none of which possessed any interest for me. In one corner, however, beside the fire, whose convenience to the habitual seat of Father Tom argued that they were not least in favour with his reverence, was an admirable collection of the French dramatists—Molière, Beaumarchais, Racine, and several more. These were a real treat; and seating myself beside the window, I prepared, for about the twentieth time in my life, to read La Folle Journée.
I had scarcely got to the end of the second act, when the door was gently opened, and Mary made her appearance—not in the deshabille of the morning, however, but with a trim cotton gown, and smart shoes and stockings; her hair, too, was neatly dressed, in the country fashion. Yet still I was more than half disposed to think she looked even better in her morning costume.
The critical scrutiny of my glance had evidently disconcerted her, and made her, for the moment, forget the object of her coming. She looked down and blushed; she fiddled with the corner of her apron, and at last, recollecting herself, she dropped a little curtsy, and, opening the door wide, announced Sir Simon Bellew.
'Mr. Hinton, I believe,' said Sir Simon, with a slight smile, as he bowed himself into the apartment; 'will you allow me to introduce myself—Sir Simon Bellew.'
The baronet was a tall, thin, meagre-looking old man, somewhat stooped by age, but preserving, both in look and gesture, not only the remains of good looks, but the evident traces of one habituated to the world. His dress was very plain; but the scrupulous exactitude of his powdered cue, and the massive gold-headed cane he carried, showed he had not abandoned those marks of his position so distinctive of rank in those days. He wore, also, large and handsome buckles in his shoes; but in every other particular his costume was simplicity itself. Conversing with an ease which evinced his acquaintance with all the forms of society, he touched shortly upon my former acquaintance with his daughter, and acknowledged in terms slight, but suitable, how she had spoken of me. His manner was, however, less marked by everything I had deemed to be Irish than that of any other person I had met with in the country; for while he expressed his pleasure at my visit to the west, and invited me to pass some days at his house, his manner of doing so had nothing whatever of the warmth and empressement I had so often seen. In fact, save a slight difference in accent, it was as English as need be.
Whether I felt disappointed at this, or whether I had myself adopted the habite and prejudices of the land, I am unable to say, but certainly I felt chilled and repulsed; and although our interview scarce lasted twenty minutes, I was delighted when he rose to take his leave, and say, good-morning.
'You are good enough, then, to promise you 'll dine with us to-morrow, Mr. Hinton. I need scarcely remark that I can have no party to meet you, for this wild neighbourhood has denied us that; but as I am aware that your visit to the west is less for society than scenery, perhaps I may assure you you will not be disappointed. So now, au revoir.' Sir Simon bowed deeply as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hat that would have done honour to the court of Louis xv., he took his leave and departed.
I followed him with my eye, as mounted on his old gray pony, he ambled quietly down the little path that led to the shore. Albeit an old man, his seat was firm, and not without a certain air of self-possession and ease; and as he returned the salutations of the passing country-people, he did so with the quiet dignity of one who felt he conveyed an honour even in the recognition. There was something singular in the contrast of that venerable figure with the wild grandeur of the scene; and as I gazed after him, it set me thinking on the strange vicissitudes of life that must have made such as he pass his days in the dreary solitude of these mountains.