Beattie shook his head in silence, and after a long pause said, “Well, what was your reply to this?”
“Can you doubt it? Don't you know it; or don't you know me?”
“Perhaps I guess.”
“No, but you are certain of it, doctor. The regiment is ordered to Malta, and sails on the 12th. I go with them! Holt is a grand old place, and the estate is a fine one; I wish my brother every luck with both. Will you do me a favor,—a great favor?”
“If in my power, you may be certain I will. What is it?”
“Take me over to the Priory; I want to see it. You can find some pretext to present me to the Chief Baron, and obtain his leave to wander through the grounds.”
“I perceive—I apprehend,” said Beattie, slyly. “There is no difficulty in this. The old Judge cherishes the belief that the spot is little short of sacred; he only wonders why men do not come as pilgrims to visit it. There is a tradition of Addison having lived there, while secretary in Ireland; Curran certainly did; and a greater than either now illustrates the locality.”
It was thus that Trafford came to be there; with what veneration for the haunts of genius let the reader picture to himself!
“His Lordship is waiting dinner, sir,” said a servant, abruptly, as he sat there—thinking, thinking; and he arose and followed the man to the house.
The Chief Baron had spent the interval since they parted in preparing for the evening's display. To have for his guest a youth so imbued with reverence for Irish genius and ability, was no common event. Young Englishmen and soldiers, too, were not usually of this stuff; and the occasion to make a favorable impression was not to be lost.