“But he suggests some other reasons, if I mistake not,” said Lady Eleanor.
“He does, but so darkly and mysteriously that I cannot even guess his drift. Here is his letter.” And the Knight took several papers from his pocket, from among which he selected one, whose large and blotted writing unmistakably pronounced it Bagenal Daly's. “Yes, here it is: 'Bicknell says that Hickman's people are fully persuaded that you have left Ireland with the intention of never returning; that this impression should be maintained, because it will induce them to be less guarded than if they believed you were still here, directing any legal proceeding. The only case, therefore, he will prepare for trial will be one respecting the leases falsely signed. The bond and its details must be unravelled by time; here also your incognito is all-essential,—it need only be for a short time, and on scruples of delicacy so easily got over: your grandfather called himself Gwynne, and wrote it also.' That is quite true, Eleanor, so he did; his letters are signed Matthew Gwynne, Knight of————. I remember the signature well.”
“I think, with Mr. Daly,” said Lady Eleanor, “it will save us a world of observant impertinence; this place is tranquil and solitary enough just now, but in summer the coast and the Causeway have many visitors, and although 'the Corvy' is out of the common track, if our names be bruited about, we shall not escape that least graceful of all attentions, the tender commiseration of mere acquaintances.”
“Mamma is right,” said Helen; “we should be hunted out by every tourist to report on how we bore our reverses, and tormented with anonymous condolences in prose, and short stanzas on the beauty of resignation.”
“Well, and, my dear Helen, perhaps the lessons might not be so very inapplicable,” said the Knight, smiling affectionately.
“But very inefficient, sir,” replied Helen, with a toss of her head; “I'm not a bit resigned.”
“Helen, dearest,” interposed Lady Eleanor, rebukingly.
“Not a bit, Mamma; I am happy,—happier than I ever knew myself before, if you like that phrase better,—because we are together, because this life realizes to me all I ever dreamed of,—that quiet and tranquil pleasure people might, but somehow never please to, taste of; but if you ask me am I resigned to see you and my dear father in a station so much beneath your expectations and your habits, I cannot say that I am.”
“Then, my dear girl, you accuse us of bearing our misfortunes badly, if we cannot partake of your enjoyments on account of our own vain regrets?”
“No, no, Papa, don't mistake me; if I grieve over the altered fortunes that limit your sphere of usefulness as well as of pleasure, it is because I know how well you understood the privileges and demands of your high station, and how little a life so humble as this is can exact of qualities that were not given to be wasted in obscurity.”