It was in the encouragement of these gifts that Billy now sought for what cheered the last declining days of his solitary life. His lord, as he ever called him, had been for years and years away in a distant colony, living under another name. Dwelling amongst the rough settlers of a wild remote tract, a few brief lines at long intervals were the only tidings that assured Billy he was yet living; yet were they enough to convince him, coupled with the hereditary traits of his house, that some one day or other he would come back again to resume his proud place and the noble name of his ancestors. More than once had it been the fate of the Glencores to see “the hearth cold, and the roof-tree blackened;” and Billy now muttered the lines of an old chronicle where such a destiny was bewailed:—
“Where are the voices, whispering low,
Of lovers side by side?
And where the haughty dames who swept
Thy terraces in pride?
Where is the wild and joyous mirth
That drown'd th' Atlantic's roar,
Making the rafters ring again
With welcome to Glencore?
“And where's the step of belted knight,
That strode the massive floor?
And where's the laugh of lady bright,
We used to hear of yore?
The hound that bayed, the prancing steed,
Impatient at the door,
May bide the time for many a year—
They 'll never see Glencore!
“And he came back, after all,—Lord Hugo,—and was taken prisoner at Ormond by Cromwell, and sentenced to death!” said Billy. “Sentenced to death!—but never shot! Nobody knew why, or ever will know. After years and years of exile he came back, and was at the Court of Charles, but never liked,—they say dangerous! That 's exactly the word,—dangerous!”
He started up from his revery, and, taking his stick, issued from the room. The mist was beginning to rise, and he took his way towards the shore of the lough, through the wet and tangled grass. It was a long and toilsome walk for one so old as he was, but he went manfully onward, and at last reached the little jetty where the boats from the mainland were wont to put in. All was cheerless and leaden-hued over the wide waste of water; a surging swell swept heavily along, but not a sail was to be seen. Far across the lough he could descry the harbor of Leenane, where the boats were at anchor, and see the lazy smoke as it slowly rose in the thick atmosphere. Seated on a stone at the water's edge, Billy watched long and patiently, his eyes turning at times towards the bleak mountain-road, which for miles was visible. At last, with a weary sigh, he arose, and muttering, “He won't come to-day,” turned back again to his lonely home.
To this hour he lives, and waits the “coming of Glencore.”
THE END.