The murder was now out, and the next act was to build a handsome but unpretentious dwelling-house on a part of the estate, to which he removed with his son, a widower with one child. The ancient family of O'Reilly had been the owners of the property, and the name was still retained to grace the new demesne, which was called Mount O'Reilly, while Tom Hickman became Hickman O'Reilly, under the plea of some relationship to the defunct,—a point which gained little credence in the county, and drew from Bagenal Daly the remark “that he trusted that they had a better title to the acres than the arms of the O'Reillys.” When old Peter had made this great spring, he would gladly have retired to Loughrea once more, and pursued his old habits; but, like a blackleg who has accidentally discovered his skill at the game, no one would play with him again, and so he was fain to put up with his changed condition, and be a “gentleman,” as he called it, in spite of himself.
He it was who, under the pretence of a friendly call to see the Knight, now drove into the courtyard of Gwynne Abbey. His equipage was a small four-wheeled chair close to the ground, and drawn by a rough mountain pony which, in size and shape, closely resembled a water-dog. The owner of this unpretending conveyance was a very diminutive, thin old man, with a long, almost transparent nose, the tip of which was of a raspberry red; a stiff queue, formed of his wiry gray hair carefully brushed back, even from the temples, made a graceful curve on his back, or occasionally appeared in front of his left shoulder. His voice was a feeble treble, with a tremulous quiver through all he said, while he usually finished each sentence with a faint effort content with his opinion; and this, on remarkable occasions, at a laugh, a kind of acknowledgment to himself that he was would be followed by the monosyllable “ay,”—a word which, brief as it was, struck terror into many a heart, intimating, as it did, that old Peter had just satisfied himself that he had made a good bargain, and that the other party was “done.”
The most remarkable circumstance of his appearance was his mode of walking, and even here was displayed his wonted ingenuity. A partial paralysis had for some years affected his limbs, and particularly the muscles which raise and flex the legs; to obviate this infirmity, he fastened a cord with a loop to either foot, and by drawing them up alternately he was enabled to move forward, at a slow pace, to be sure, and in a manner it was rather difficult to witness for the first time with becoming gravity. This was more remarkable when he endeavored to get on faster, for then the flexion, a process which required a little time, was either imperfectly performed or altogether omitted, and consequently he remained stationary, and only hopped from one leg to the other after the fashion of a stage procession. His dress was a rusty black coat with a standing collar, black shorts, and white cotton stockings, over which the short black gaiters reached half way up the leg; on the present occasion he also wore a spencer of light gray cloth, as the day was cold and frosty, and his hat was fastened under his chin by a ribbon.
“And so he is n't at home, Tate,” said he, as he sat whipping the pony from habit,—a process which the beast seemed to regard with a contemptuous indifference.
“No, Docther,” for by this title the old man was always addressed by preference, “the Knight's up in Dublin; he went on Monday last.”
“And this is the seventh of the month,” muttered the other to himself. “Faith, he takes it easy, anyhow! And you don't know when he'll be home?”
“The sorra know I know, Docther; 't is maybe to-night he 'd come—maybe to-morrow—maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it's not but we want him badly this day, if it was God's will he was here!” These words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its consequences; but the “doctor” never noticed them, but merely muttered a short “Ay.”
“How do you do, Hickman?” cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at the same moment. “You did n't chance to see Mulville on the road, did you?”
“How d'ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n't meet Dr. Mulville this morning,—is there anything that's wrong here? Who is it that's ill?”
“A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr. MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here.”