CHAPTER XXX. OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES.
At the time we speak of, Clontarf was the fashionable watering-place of the inhabitants of Dublin; and although it boasted of little other accommodation than a number of small thatched cabins could afford, and from which the fishermen removed to give place to their more opulent guests, yet, thither the great and the wealthy of the capital resorted in summer, to taste the pleasures of a sea side, and that not inferior one, the change of life and habit, entailed by altered circumstances and more restricted spheres of enjoyment.
If, with all the aid of sunshine and blue water, waving foliage and golden beach, this place had an aspect of modest poverty in its whitened walls and net-covered gardens in summer, in winter its dreariness and desolation were great indeed. The sea swept in long waves the narrow road, even to the doors of the cabins, the muddy foam settling on the window sills, and even drifting to the very roofs; the thatch was fastened down with strong ropes, assisted by oars and spars, to resist the wild gale that generally blew from the south-east. The trim cottages of summer were now nothing but the miserable hovels of the poor, their gardens waste, their gay aspect departed; even the stirring signs of life seemed vanished; few, if any, of the inhabitants stirred abroad, and save some muffled figure that moved past, screening his face from the beating storm, all was silent and motionless. The little inn, which in the summer time was thronged from morning till night, and from whose open windows the merry laugh and the jocund sound of happy voices poured, was now fast shuttered up, and all the precautions of a voyage were taken against the dreaded winter; even to the sign of a gigantic crab, rudely carved in wood and painted red, every thing was removed, and a single melancholy dip candle burned in the bar, as if keeping watch over the sleeping revelry of the place.
If such were the gloomy features without, within doors matters wore a more thriving aspect. In a little parlour behind the bar a brisk fire was burning, before which stood a table neatly prepared for supper; the covers were laid for two, but the provision of wine displayed seemed suited to a larger number. The flashy-looking prints upon the walls shone brightly in the ruddy blaze; the brass fender and the glasses sparkled in its clear light, and even to the small, keen eyes of Billy Corcoran, the host, who kept eternally running in and out, to see all right, every thing presented a very cheering contrast to the bleak desolation of the night without.
It was evident that Mr. Corcoran's guests were behind time; his impatience was not to be mistaken. He walked from the kitchen to the parlour and back again without ceasing, now, adding a turf to the fire, now, removing the roasting chickens a little farther from the blaze, and anon, bending his ear to listen if perchance he could catch the sound of approaching wheels. He had sat down on every chair of the parlour, he had taken a half glass out of each decanter on the table, he had sharpened every knife in turn, and in fact resorted to every device to cheat time, when suddenly the sound of a carriage was heard on the road, and the next moment he unbarred the door and admitted two persons, whose dripping hats and soaked great coats bore evidence to the downpour without.
“Well, Billy,” said the first who entered, “this rain will beat down the wind at last, and we shall be able to get some fish in the market.”
“Sorra bit, sir,” said Billy, as he assisted the speaker to remove his wet garments, leaving the other stranger to his own devices. “The wind is coming more round to the east, and I know from the noise on the Bull we'll have plenty of it. I was afeard something happened you, sir; you're an hour behind the time you said yourself.”
“Very true—so I am. I was detained at a dinner party, and my friend here also kept me waiting a few minutes for him.”
“It was not my fault,” interposed the other; “I was ready when——”