‘Natural enough all that. There was no earthly reason why she shouldn’t be able to talk of Walpole as easily as of Colenso or the cattle plague; but you see she could not trust herself to approach my name.’
‘You’ll provoke me to kick you, Atlee.’
‘In that case I shall sit where I am. But I was going to remark that as I shall start for town by the next train, and intend to meet Walpole, if your sister desires it, I shall have much pleasure in taking charge of that note to his address.’
‘All right, I’ll tell her. I see that she and Miss Betty are about to drive over to O’Shea’s Barn, and I’ll give your message at once.’
While Dick hastened away on his errand, Joe Atlee sat alone, musing and thoughtful. I have no reason to presume my reader cares for his reflections, nor to know the meaning of a strange smile, half scornful and half sad, that played upon his face. At last he rose slowly, and stood looking up at the grim old castle, and its quaint blending of ancient strength and modern deformity. ‘Life here, I take it, will go on pretty much as before. All the acts of this drama will resemble each other, but my own little melodrama must open soon. I wonder what sort of house there will be for Joe Atlee’s benefit.’
Atlee was right. Kilgobbin Castle fell back to the ways in which our first chapter found it, and other interests—especially those of Kate’s approaching marriage—soon effaced the memory of Nina’s flight and runaway match. By that happy law by which the waves of events follow and obliterate each other, the present glided back into the past, and the past faded till its colours grew uncertain.
On the second evening after Nina’s departure, Atlee stood on the pier of Kingstown as the packet drew up at the jetty. Walpole saw him, and waved his hand in friendly greeting. ‘What news from Kilgobbin?’ cried he, as he landed.
‘Nothing very rose-coloured,’ said Atlee, as he handed the note.
‘Is this true?’ said Walpole, as a slight tremor shook his voice.
‘All true.’