“Call Tate; let him bring some wine here at once, Helen.”
“It's all drunk; not a glass in the decanter,” murmured Paul, whose thoughts recurred to the supper-table.
“Poor creature, his mind is quite astray,” whispered Lady Eleanor, her compassion not the less strongly moved, because she attributed his misfortune to the exertions he had made in their behalf. By this time the group was increased by the arrival of old Tate, who, in a flannel nightcap fastened under the chin, and a very ancient dressing-gown of undyed wool, presented a lively contrast to the shivering condition of Mr. Dempsey.
“It's only Mr. Dempsey!” said Lady Eleanor, sharply, as the old butler stood back, crossing himself and staring with sleepy terror at the white figure.
“May I never! But so it is,” exclaimed Tate, in return to an attempt at a bow on Dempsey's part, which he accomplished with a brackling noise like creaking glass.
“Some warm wine at once,” said Helen, while she heaped two or three logs upon the hearth.
“With a little ginger in it, miss,” grinned Paul. But the polite attempt at a smile nearly cut his features, and ended in a most lamentable expression of suffering.
“This is the finest thing in life agin' the cowld,” said Tate, as he threw over the shivering figure a Mexican mantle, all worked and embroidered with quills, that gave the gentle Mr. Dempsey the air of an enormous porcupine. The clothing, the fire, and the wine, of which he partook heartily, soon restored him, and erelong he had recounted to Lady Eleanor the whole narrative of his arrival at “The Corvy,” his concealment in the canoe, the burning of the law papers, and even down to the discovery of the jaunting-car, omitting nothing, save the interview he had witnessed between the mother and daughter.
Lady Eleanor could not disguise her anxiety on the subject of the burned documents, but Paul's arguments were conclusive in reply,—
“Who's to tell of it? Not your Ladyship, not Miss Helen; and as to Paul, meaning myself, my discretion is quite Spanish. Yes, my Lady,” said he, with a tragic gesture that threw back the loose folds of his costume, “there is an impression abroad, which I grieve to say is widespread, that the humble individual who addresses you is one of those unstable, fickle minds that accomplish nothing great; but I deny it, deny it indignantly. Let the occasion but arise, let some worthy object present itself, or herself,”—he gave a most melting look towards Helen, which cost all her efforts to sustain without laughter,—“and then, madam, Don Paulo Dempsey will come out in his true colors.”