“‘The empty traveller may whistle
Before the robber and his pistil’ (pistol).”
“There’s the Chili vinegar—another morsel of the trout?”
“I thank you; what excellent coffee, Father Malachi!”
“A secret I learned at St. Omer’s some thirty years since. Any letters, Bridget?”—to a damsel that entered with a pacquet in her hand.
“A gossoon from Kilrush, y’r reverence, with a bit of a note for the gentleman there.”
“For me!—ah, true enough. Harry Lorrequer, Esq. Kilrush—try Carrigaholt.” So ran the superscription—the first part being in a lady’s handwriting; the latter very like the “rustic paling” of the worthy Mrs. Healy’s style. The seal was a large one, bearing a coronet at top, and the motto in old Norman-French, told me it came from Callonby.
With what a trembling hand and beating heart I broke it open, and yet feared to read it—so much of my destiny might be in that simple page. For once in my life my sanguine spirit failed me; my mind could take in but one casualty, that Lady Jane had divulged to her family the nature of my attentions, and that in the letter before me lay a cold mandate of dismissal from her presence for ever.
At last I summoned courage to read it; but having scrupled to present to my readers the Reverend Father Brennan at the tail of a chapter, let me not be less punctilious in the introduction of her ladyship’s billet.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LADY’S LETTER—PETER AND HIS ACQUAINTANCES—TOO LATE.
Her ladyship’s letter ran thus—