He stopped for an instant before Kennyfeck's house; the closed shutters and close-drawn blinds bespoke it still the abode of mourning. He passed the residence of the Kilgoffs, and there the grass-grown steps and rusted knocker spoke of absence. They had left the country. He next came to his own mansion,—that spacious building which, at the same hour, was wont to be brilliant with wax-lights and besieged by fast-arriving guests, where the throng of carriages pressed forward in eager haste, and where, as each step descended, some form or figure moved by, great in fame or more illustrious still by beauty. Now, all was dark, gloomy, and deserted. A single gleam of light issued from the kitchen, which was speedily removed as Roland knocked at the door.
The female servant who opened the door nearly dropped the candle as she recognized the features of her master, who, without speaking, passed on, and, without even removing his hat, entered the library. Profuse in apologies for the disorder of the furniture, and excuses for the absence of the other servants, she followed him into the room, and stood, half in shame and half in terror, gazing at the wan and worn countenance of him she remembered the very ideal of health and youth.
“If we only knew your honor was coming home tonight—”
“I did not know it myself, good woman, at this hour yesterday. Let me have something to eat—well, a crust of bread and a glass of wine—there's surely so much in the house?”
“I can give your honor some bread, but all the wine is packed up and gone.”
“Gone! whither, and by whose order?” said Roland, calmly.
“Mr. Phillis, sir, sent it off about ten days ago, with the plate, and I hear both are off to America!”
“The bread alone, then, with a glass of water, will do,” said he, without any emotion or the least evidence of surprise in his manner.
“The fare smacks of the prison still,” said Roland, as he sat at his humble meal; “and truly the house itself is almost as gloomy.”
The aspect of everything was sad and depressing; neglect and disorder pervaded wherever he turned his steps. In some of the rooms the remains of past orgies still littered the tables. Smashed vases of rare porcelain, broken mirrors, torn pictures—all the work, in fact, which ruffian intemperance in its most savage mood accomplishes—told who were they who replaced his fashionable society; while, as if to show the unfeeling spirit of the revellers, several of the pasquinades against himself, the libellous calumnies of the low press, the disgusting caricatures of infamous prints, were scattered about amid the wrecks of the debauch.