“And Mr. Daly, had he another—of these craytures?” said Tate, who felt scruples in applying the epithet of the Church in such a predicament.
“He had twa,” said Sandy, “forbye anein the mountains, that was too auld to come down; puir lone body, she was unco' fond of a child's head and shoulders wi' fish gravy!”
“To ate it! Do you mane for ating, Mr. M'Grane?”
“Ay, just so; butchers' shops is no sae plenty down in them parts. But what's that! dinna ye hear a ringing o' the bell at the gate there?”
“I hear nothing, I can think of nothing! sorra bit! with the thought of that ould baste in my head, bad luck to her!” exclaimed Tate, ruefully. “A child's head and shoulders! Sure enough, that's the bell, and them that's ringing it knows the way, too.” And with these words Tate lighted his lantern and issued forth to the gate tower, the keys of which were each night deposited in his care.
As the massive gates fell back, four splashed and heated horses drew forward a calèche, from which, disengaging himself with speed, Dick Forester descended, and endeavored, as well as the darkness would permit, to survey the great pile of building around him.
“Coming to stop, yer honor?” said Tate, courteously uncovering his white head.
“Yes. Will you present these letters and this card to your master?”
“I must show you your room first,—that's my orders always.—Tim, bring up this luggage to 27.—Will yer honor have supper in the hall, or in your own dressing-room?”
There is nothing more decisive as to the general tone of hospitality pervading any house than the manner of the servants towards strangers; and thus, few and simple as the old butler's words were, they were amply sufficient to satisfy Forester that his reception would be a kindly one, even though less ably accredited than by Lionel Darcy's introduction; and he followed Tate Sullivan with the pleasant consciousness that he was to lay his head beneath a friendly roof.