“I saw the master yesterday,” replied Terry, who applied to the O'Donoghue the respected title by which he was known in his own household. “He was sitting on a big chair at the window, and the young girl with the black eyes was reading to him out of a book—but sorra much he was mindin' it, for when he seen me he beckoned this way, and says he, 'Terry, you villain, why don't you ever come up here now and talk to me?' 'Faix,' says I, 'I haven't the heart to do it. Since Master Mark was gone, I didn't like the place,' and the master wiped his eyes, and the young girl made a sign to me not to speak about that any more.”
“And who is at 'the Lodge' now?” asked Mark, endeavouring tore-strain any semblance of emotion, even before Terry.
“There's nobody but the agent. The family is over in England till the house is ready for them. Oh, then, but you'll wonder to see the illigant place it is now, wid towers and spires all over it—the ground all gardens, with grass walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifullest flowers growin' against the walls and up against the windows, and a fountain, as they call it, of cool water spouting up in the air, and coming down like rain.”
“And my brother—where is he?”
“He's over in England with the family from 'the Lodge;' the black-eyed girl, Miss Kate, wouldn't go. They say—but there's no knowing if it's true—they say she likes Hemsworth better than the Captain—and troth, if she does, its a dhroll choice.”
“Like Hemsworth! Do they say that my cousin likes Hemsworth?” said Mark, whose anger was only kept down by gazing on the tranquil features of the poor witless object before him.
“They do,” said Terry quietly, “and it's razonable, too, seein' that he's never out of the house from morning till night.”
“What house?—where do you mean?”
“What house but Carrig-na-curra—your father's house.”
Mark passed his hand across his forehead, and over his closed eyelids, and for a second or two seemed trying to dispel some horrible vision, for deep-rooted as was his jealousy of Frederick Travers, his most gloomy forebodings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival as Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation was, however, scarcely less to think that this man should now be received on terms of intimacy, perhaps of friendship, by those he so long pursued with insult and oppression. He paid no attention to Terry, as he continued to narrate the changes effected in his absence, and the various surmises current among the people to account for his long absence, when at length they approached the high road that led up the valley. Here Terry halted, and, pointing in the direction of Mary's cabin, about half a mile distant, said—