“And look here, Nicholas,” said Lucy, drawing the old man towards the door of a small room that led off the drawing-room, “we could have tea here; it will look less formal, and give less trouble; and Mears could wait,—he does it very well; and you need n't be put out at all.” These last words fell to a whisper; but he was beyond reserve, beyond flattery. The last speech of her brother still rankled in his memory, and all that fell upon his ear since that fell unheeded.
“I was with your grandfather, Master Tom,” said the old man, slowly, “twenty-one years before you were born! I carried his bag down to Court the day he defended Neal O' Gorman for high treason, and I was with him the morning he shot Luke Dillon at Castle Knock; and this I 'll say and stand to, there 's not a man in Ireland, high or low, knows the Chief Baron better than myself.”
“It must be a great comfort to you both,” said Tom; but his sister had laid her hand on his mouth and made the words unintelligible.
“You'll say to Mr. Mills, Nicholas,” said she, in her most coaxing way, “that I did not write, because I preferred sending my message by you, who could explain why I particularly wanted him this evening.”
“I'll go, Miss Lucy, resarving the point, as they say in the law,—resarving the point! because I don't give in that what you're doin' is right; and when the master comes home, I'm not goin' to defend it.”
“We must bear up under that calamity as well as we can,” said the young man, insolently; but Nicholas never looked towards or seemed to hear him.
“A barn-a-brack is better than a spongecake, because if there 's some of it left it does n't get stale, and one-and-six-pence will be enough; and I suppose you don't need a lamp?”
“Well, Nicholas, I must say, I think it would be better; and two candles on the small table, and two on the piano.”
“Why don't you mentiou a fiddler?” said he, bitterly. “If it's a ball, there ought to be music?”
Unable to control himself longer, young Lendrick wrenched open the sash-door, and walked out into the lawn.