In time, however, people grew tired of repeating stories to which no new evidence added any features of interest. They lost the zest for a scandal which ceased to astonish, and “my lord” was as much forgotten, and his existence as unspoken of, as though the old towers had once again become the home of the owl and the jackdaw.
It was now about eight years since “the lord” had taken up his abode at the Castle, when one evening, a raw and gusty night of December, the little skiff of the fisherman was seen standing in for shore,—a sight somewhat uncommon, since she always crossed the “Lough” in time for the morning's mail.
“There's another man aboard, too,” said a bystander from the little group that watched the boat, as she neared the harbor; “I think it's Mr. Craggs.”
“You 're right enough, Sam,—it's the Corporal; I know his cap, and the short tail of hair he wears under it. What can bring him at this time of night?”
“He's going to bespeak a quarter of Tim Healey's beef, maybe,” said one, with a grin of malicious drollery.
“Mayhap it's askin' us all to spend the Christmas he'd be,” said another.
“Whisht! or he 'll hear you,” muttered a third; and at the same instant the sail came clattering down, and the boat glided swiftly past, and entered a little natural creek close beneath where they stood.
“Who has got a horse and a jaunting-car?” cried the Corporal, as he jumped on shore. “I want one for Clifden directly.”
“It's fifteen miles—devil a less,” cried one.
“Fifteen! no, but eighteen! Kiely's bridge is brack down, and you 'll have to go by Gortnamuck.”