“'Tis the young officer from England, my lady, that came down the night before last to see the master. Oh, murther! murther! if his honor was here, the sorra bit of this grief we 'd have to-day—ochone!”
“Well, go on,” said his mistress, sternly.
“And if he came down for joy, 't is sorrow he supped for it,' the young crayture! They soon finished him.”
“Once for all, sir, speak out plainly, and say what has occurred.”
“It's Mr. Bagenal Daly done it all, my lady,—divil a one of me cares who hears me say it. He's a cruel man, ould as he is. He made him fight a duel, the darling young man,—the 'moral' of Master Lionel himself; and now he's kilt—ochone! ochone!”
“Can this dreadful story be true, Helen?” said Lady Eleanor, as the faint color left her features. “Call Margaret; or, stay—Sullivan, is Mr. Daly here?”
“That he is, never fear him. He's looking at his morning's work—he's in the room where they carried the corpse; and the fine corpse it is.”
“Go tell Mr. Daly that Lady Eleanor desires to see him at once.”
“Go, and lose no time, Tate,” said Helen, as, almost fainting with terror, she half pushed the old man on his errand.
The mother and daughter sat silently gazing on each other for several minutes, terror and dismay depicted in the face of each, nor were they conscious of the lapse of time, when the door opening presented Mr. Bagenal Daly before them. He was dressed in his usual suit of dark brown, and with all his accustomed neatness. His long cravat, which, edged with deep lace, hung negligently over his waistcoat, was spotless in color and accurate in every fold, while his massive features were devoid of the slightest signs of emotion or excitement.