“Going fast!” echoed Kerry, in a voice very different from his former accent. “Oh, wirra! there's nothing so bad as death! Distress and poverty is hard enough, but that's the raal misfortune.”
A dry sarcastic grin from the doctor seemed to say that poor Kerry's secret was discovered. The allusion to want of means came too naturally not to be suggested by present circumstances; and the readiness of Doctor Roach's apprehension clinched the discovery at once.
“We'll go down now,” said the doctor; “I believe I know the whole state of the case;” and, with these words of ambiguous meaning he returned to the drawing-room.
CHAPTER X. AN EVENING AT “MARY” M'KELLY's
If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house of the O'Donoghue, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, and whispered words were spoken: a very different scene presented itself at the small hostel of Mary M'Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace, a quarter of a sheep was roasting—while various utensils of cookery, disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour through the apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, and containing covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the room; cups and drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks and spoons, of handsome pattern, were there also—strange and singular spectacle beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself displayed in her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore in her becoming cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her neck. While she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she maintained from time to time a running conversation with a person who sat smoking in the chimney corner. Although screened from the glare of the fire, the light which was diffused around showed enough of the dress and style of the wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. His attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, and supported his legs on another, bespoke the perfection of ease, while in the jaunty manner he held the long pipe-stick between his fingers, could be seen the affectation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well as to feel so.
“What hour did they mention, Mary?” said he, after a pause of some minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously.
“The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o'clock at any rate; but sure it's nigher to ten now. They were to come up on the flood tide. Whisht, what was that?—Wasn't that like the noise of wheels?”
“No; that's the wind, and a severe night it is too. I'm thinking, Mary, the storm may keep them back.”
“Not a bit of it; there's a creek down there, they tell me, safer nor e'er a harbour in Ireland; and you'd never see a bit of a vessel till you were straight over her: and sure it's little they mind weather. That Captain Jack, as they call him, says there's no time for business like a gale of wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in the bay.”