The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have been steeped simulates death; while the march of events around us show how insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the work of life goes on.
When Wylie was summoned to his master's bed-side, the first question put to him was, what day of the month it was? and his astonishment was, indeed, great, as he heard it was the 16th of December, and that he had been above two months on a sickbed.
“Two months here!” cried he; “and what has happened since?”
“Scarcely anything, sir,” said Wylie, well knowing the meaning of the question. “The country is quiet—the people tranquil. Too much so, perhaps, to last. The young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from Carrig-na-curra to the coast, and back again, so that there is little doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. Talbot—Barrington I mean—has been here again, too.”
“Barrington!—-what brings him back? I thought he was in France.”
“The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One thing is certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave his card for you, one day I was at Macroom.”
“That piece of boldness bodes us no good,” said Hemsworth. “What of the others? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra?”
“A messenger every day; sometimes twice in the same day.”
“A messenger!—not one of the family?”
“For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and the younger brother are both from home.”