“Is she quite well?” said the Knight, in an accent which a more shrewd observer than Daly might have perceived was marked by some agitation.
“I never knew her better; as fearless as we both remember her at sixteen; and, save those strange intervals of depression she has labored under all through her life, the same gay-hearted spirit she was when the flattered heiress and beauty long, long years ago.”
The Knight heaved a sigh. It might have been for the years thus passed, the pleasant days of early youth and manhood so suddenly called up before him; it might have been that other and more tender memories were crowding on his mind; but he turned away, and leaned on the chimney-piece, lost in deep thought.
“Poor girl,” said Daly, “there is no question of it, Darcy, but she must have formed some unfortunate attachment; she had pride enough always to rescue her from the dangers of an unsuitable marriage, but her heart, I feel convinced, was touched, and yet I never could find a clew to it. I suspected something of the kind when she refused Donington,—a handsome fellow, and an old title. I pressed her myself on the subject,—it was the only time I did so,—and I guessed at once, from a chance phrase she dropped, that there had been an old attachment somewhere. Well, well, what a lesson might be read from both our fortunes! The beauty—and you remember how handsome she was—the beauty with a splendid fortune, a reduced maiden lady; and myself”—he heaved a heavy sigh, and, with clasped hands, sat back in the chair, as he added—“the shattered wreck of every hope I once set out with.”
The two old men's eyes met, and, although undesignedly, exchanged looks of deepest, most affectionate interest. Daly was the first to rally from his brief access of despondency, and he did so with the physical effort he would have used to shake a load from his shoulders.
“Well, Darcy, let us be up and stirring; there's a meeting at Barrington's at two: we must not fail to be there.”
“I wish to see Gleeson in the mean while,” said the Knight; “I am uneasy to learn what has been done with Hickman, and what day I can leave town.”
“Send Sandy out with a note, and tell him to come to dinner here at six.”
“Agreed; nothing could be better; we can talk over our business matters comfortably, and be down at the House by nine or ten.”
The note was soon written, and Sandy despatched, with orders to wait for Gleeson's return, in case he should be absent when he arrived.