The struggle that it cost poor Joe to hear this, without reply, was great; but a sense of the deference that throughout a long life he had ever rendered to his master, overpowered all considerations of self. He indeed felt that he had been wronged; he knew all the injustice of the reproach; but he also bethought him of the many years in which that house had been his home, and that hearth his own. He was not one to remember what he had rendered in return, nor think of the long existence of toil by which he had earned his livelihood. The settled humility which was the basis of his whole character made him esteem himself as one whose station excluded all thought of those relations that exist between members of the same community; and that his conduct should be arraigned, argued that his acts possessed a degree of importance he had never attributed to them.
He heard Fagan, therefore, throughout, without any effort at reply; and, heaving a faint sigh, withdrew.
I have no means of knowing how Gabriac behaved in this trying emergency. All that I have heard came from Raper; and poor Joe was neither shrewd in his observation of character, nor quick to appreciate motives. The Count decided at once on a return to the Continent: perhaps he thought there might arise some chance of reconciliation with the father if Polly, for a time, at least, were withdrawn from his sight; perhaps, too, some hope there might be of arrangement of his own affairs. Raper was also to accompany them, in the prospect of finding some clerkship in an office, or some employment in a mercantile house abroad, where his knowledge of languages might be available. At all events, his protection and companionship would be useful to Polly, whenever the Count would be compelled to absent himself from home; and, lastly, the funds for the enterprise were all supplied by Joe, who contributed something under four hundred pounds,—the savings of a whole life of labor!
As for Polly, to the humblest ornament she had ever worn, to the meanest gift she had received in childhood,—she left all behind her. Her jewels were worth some thousands,—her wardrobe was even splendid; but she went forth without a gem, and with barely what sufficed her in dress.
“And what is this?” said the Count, half disdainfully touching with his foot what seemed to be an oblong basket of colored straw.
“Poor Josephine's baby!” said Polly, with eyes swimming in tears.
“And is he, is she,—whichever it be,—to form one of the party?” asked he, angrily.
“Can you ask it, Emile? You remember the last words she ever spoke to us on the morning we left the Killeries.”
“That unlucky journey!” muttered he; but fortunately not loud enough for her to catch the words.
“The little fellow will soon be able to walk, and to mutter some words; he will be company for me when you are away!” said she, sorrowfully.