It was out of these promptings of self-love that he drew the energetic powers that sustained him, broken and failing and old as he was.
Carried on by his excited thoughts, he strayed away to a little mound, on which, under a large weeping-ash, a small bench was placed, from which a wide view extended over the surrounding country. There was a tradition of a summer-house on the spot in Curran's day, and it was referred to more than once in the diaries and letters of his friends; and the old Chief loved the place, as sacred to great memories.
He had just toiled up the ascent, and gained the top, when a servant came to present him with a card and a letter, saying that the gentleman who gave them was then at the house. The card bore the name, “Captain Trafford,—th Regiment.” The letter was of a few lines, and ran thus:—
“My dear Sir William,—I had promised my friend and late patient Captain Trafford to take him over to the Priory this morning and present him to you. A sudden call has, however, frustrated the arrangement; and as his time is very brief, I have given him this as a credential to your acquaintance, and I hope you will permit him to stroll through the garden and the shrubberies, which he will accept as a great favor. I especially beg that you will lay no burden on your own strength to become his entertainer: he will be amply gratified by a sight of your belongings, of which he desires to carry the memory beyond seas.—Believe me very sincerely yours,
“J. Beattie.”
“If the gentleman who brought this will do me the favor to come up here, say I shall be happy to see him.”
As the servant went on his message, the old man lay back on his seat, and, closing his eyes, muttered some few dropping words, implying his satisfaction at this act of reverential homage. “A young soldier too; it speaks well for the service when the men of action revere the men of thought. I am glad it is a good day with me; he shall carry away other memories than of woods and streams. Ah! here he comes.”
Slowly, and somewhat feebly, Trafford ascended the hill, and with a most respectful greeting approached the Judge.
“I thank you for your courtesy in coming here, sir,” said the Chief; “and when we have rested a little, I will be your Cicerone back to the house.” The conversation flowed on pleasantly between them, Sir William asking where Traflford had served, and what length of time he had been in Ireland,—his inquiries evidently indicating that he had not heard of him before, or, if he had, had forgotten him.
“And now you are going to Malta?”