“Mrs. White, too, and a large party are in the library, and I don't know where to show them into.”
“Anywhere but here, Phillis. Good-night; there's a good man, good-night.”
“They 're all asking for you, sir; just tell me what to say.”
“Merely that I have passed a shocking night, and request I may not be disturbed till late in the afternoon.”
Phillis retired with a groan, and soon a confused hum of many voices could be heard along the corridor, in every accent of irritation and remonstrance. Self-reproaches on the mistaken and abused confidence which had led the visitors to journey so many miles to “such a place;” mutual condolences over misfortune; abuse of the whole establishment, and “that insufferable puppy the valet” in particular, went round, till at last, like a storm that bad spent its fury, a lull succeeded; one by one the grumblers slipped away, and just as day was breaking, the house was buried in the soundest sleep.
About an hour later, when the fresh-risen son was glistening and glittering among the leaves, lightly tipped with the hoar-frost of an autumnal morning, a handsomely-appointed travelling-carriage, with four posters, drove rapidly up to the door, and an active-looking figure, springing from the box, applied himself to the bell with a vigorous hand, and the next minute, flinging open the carriage-door, said, “Welcome,—at last, I am able to say,—welcome to Tub-bermore.”
A graceful person, wrapped in a large shawl, emerged, and, leaning on his arm, entered the house; but in a moment he returned to assist another and a far more helpless traveller, an old and feeble man, who suffered himself to be carried, rather than walked, into the hall.
“This is Tubbermore, my Lord,” said the lady, bending down, and with a hand slightly touching his shoulder seeming to awake his attention.
“Yes—thank you—perfectly well,” said he, in a low soft voice, while a smile of courteous but vacant meaning stole over his sickly features.
“Not over-fatigued, my Lord?” said Roland, kindly.