All the projects which Mr. Scanlan had struck out for Merl's occupation on the following day were marred by the unfavorable weather. It blew fiercely from the westward, driving upon shore a tremendous sea, and sending white masses of drift and foam far inland. The rain, too, came down in torrents. The low-lying clouds, which scarcely reached more than half-way up the mountain sides, seemed as if rent asunder at times, and from them came a deluge, filling all the watercourses, and swelling rivulets to the size of mighty torrents. The unceasing roll of thunder, now near, now rumbling along in distant volleys, swelled the wild uproar, and helped to make up a scene of grand but desolate meaning.
What could well be drearier than that little line of cabins that formed the village of Kilkieran, as with strongly barricaded doors, and with roofs secured by ropes and spars, they stood exposed to the full violence of the wild Atlantic! Not a man, not a living thing was to be seen. The fishermen were all within doors, cowering in gloomy indolence over the scanty turf fires, and brooding darkly on the coming winter.
With a thorough conviction of all the dreariness of this scene, Mr. Merl stood at the window and looked out. He had been all his life too actively engaged in his pursuits of one kind or other to know much about what is called “being bored.” Let rain fall ever so heavily, a cab could take him down to “'Change,”—the worst weather never marred a sale of stock, and Consols could rise even while the mercury was falling. The business-life of a great city seems to care little for weather, and possibly they whose intent faculties are bent on gain, scarcely remember whether the sun shines upon their labors.
Merl felt differently now; the scene before him was wilder and gloomier than anything he had ever beheld. Beyond and behind the village steep mountains rose on every side, of barren and rugged surface,—not a vestige of any culture to be seen; while on the road, which led along a narrow gorge, nothing moved. All was dreary and deserted.
“I suppose you'll keep the roof over you to-day, Mr. Merl?” said Scanlan, as he entered the room, buttoned up to the chin in a coarse frieze coat, while his head was protected by a genuine “sou'-wester” of oilskin.
“And are you going out in such weather?” asked Merl.
“'Needs must,' sir, as the proverb says. I have to be at the assizes at Oughterard this morning, to prosecute some scoundrels for cutting brambles in the wood; and I want to serve notices on a townland about eight miles from this; and then I 'll have to go round by Cro' Martin and see Miss Mary. That's not the worst of it,” added he, with an impudent leer, “for she's a fine girl, and has the prettiest eyes in the kingdom.”
“I have a letter for her,” said Merl,—“a letter of introduction from Captain Martin. I suppose I might as well send it by you, and ask if I might pay my respects to-morrow or next day?”
“To be sure; I'll take it with pleasure. You'll like her when you see her. She's not a bit like the rest: no pride, no stand-off,—that is, when she takes a fancy; but she is full of life and courage for anything.”
“Ah, yes,—the Captain said we should get on very well together,” drawled out Merl.