The old Chief sat alone in his dining-room over his wine. If somewhat fatigued by the labors of the day,—for the Court had sat late,—he showed little of exhaustion; still less was he, as his years might have excused, drowsy or heavy. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and by an occasional gesture of his hand, or motion of his head, seemed as though he were giving assent to some statement he was listening to, or making his comments on it as it proceeded.
The post had brought a letter to Lucy just as dinner was over. It bore the post-mark “Cagliari,” and was in her brother's hand; and the old man, with considerate kindness, told her to go to her room and read it. “No, my dear child,” said he, as she arose to leave the room; “no! I shall not be lonely,—where there is memory there are troops of friends. Come back and tell me your news when you have read your letter.”
More than an hour passed over, and he sat there heedless of time. A whole long life was passing in review before him, not connectedly, or in due sequence of events, but in detached scenes and incidents. Now it was some stormy night in the old Irish House, when Flood and Grattan exchanged their terrific denunciations and insults,—now it was a brilliant dinner at Ponsonby's, with all the wits of the day,—now he was leading the famous Kitty O'Dwyer, the beauty of the Irish Court, to her carriage, amid such a murmur of admiration as made the progress a triumph; or, again, it was a raw morning of November, and he was driving across the park to be present at Curran's meeting with Egan.
A violent ring of the hall bell startled him, and before he could inquire the cause a servant had announced Dr. Beattie.
“I thought I might be fortunate enough to catch you before bed-hour,” said the doctor, “and I knew you would like to hear some tidings of my mission.”
“You have been to—Where have you been?” said the old Judge, embarrassed between the late flood of his recollections and the sudden start of his arrival.
“To Killaloe, to see that poor fellow who had the severe fall in the hurdle-race.”
“Ay—to be sure—yes. I remember all now. Give me a moment, however.” He nodded his head twice or thrice, as if concurring with some statement, and then said, “Go on, sir; the Court is with you.”
Beattie proceeded to detail the accident and the state of the sufferer,—of whom he pronounced favorably,—saying that there was no fracture, nor anything worse than severe concussion. “In fact,” said he, “were it an hospital case, I'd say there was very little danger.”
“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” said the Judge, who had followed the narrative with extreme attention, “that the man of birth and blood must succumb in any conflict more readily than the low-born?”