Cashel took the paper from Kennyfeck's hand, and seemed to peruse it for some minutes, and then approaching the fire he threw it into the blaze, and pressed it down with a poker till it was consumed; while Kennyfeck, too much consternated to utter a word, stood the personification of terror-struck astonishment.
“You have burnt it, sir!” said he at last, in a whisper.
“Why not, sir?” cried Cashel, rudely. “Should I have made use of it against the man who wrote it, or against his heirs, if by chance they should seek one day to dispute my right?”
A deep sigh was all the reply Kennyfeck could make.
“I understand your compassion well,” said Cashel, scornfully. “You are right, sir. It was the buccaneer, not the gentleman, spoke there; but I 'm sick of masquerading, and I long for a little reality.”
Without waiting for a reply, Roland left the room, and wandered out into the park.
CHAPTER IX. THE BURNT LETTER—“GREAT EXPECTATIONS”
“'Like Dido's self,' she said, 'I'm free!
Trojan or Tyrian are alike to me.'”
There was but one species of tyranny Mr. Kennyfeck ever attempted in his family: this was, to shroud with a solemn mystery every little event in his professional career which he saw excited any curiosity with his wife and daughters. It was true that on such occasions he became a mark for most sneering insinuations and derisive commentaries, but he rose with the dignity of a martyr above all their taunts, and doubtless felt in his heart the supporting energy of a high-priest standing watch over the gate of the Temple.