As she is crossing the hall she sees that the front door stands open. She turns a little out of her way to close it, and as she does so she sees the shadows of two figures sharply outlined on the smooth gravel.
One man is bare-headed—he has just stepped out the house evidently—the other wears a low hat pulled down over his brows.
It is nothing out of the common for a servant to step out of the house to speak to a friend—domestic rule is not very strict at Donaghmore—yet a strange fear assails Honor. The window by the side of the door is open, and by standing close to it she can hear every word they say; but their words are meaningless—they are talking Irish.
Suddenly one of the men—it is their new groom, whom Launce hired at
Boyne—says distinctly in English:
"He's no more from the Castle than you are. How soft ye are, to be sure! He's the masther's nephew from London. And sure, if the worst comes to the worst, he'd not count at all, at all; he's little better than a fine young woman in breeches. Faix, and I'd take half a dozen of his make as my own share of a good night's work; but be aisy—he'll be gone before even ye need raise a finger!"
While their hands are meeting and they are bending toward each other as if for a parting whisper, the girl flies swiftly up-stairs and into her own room.
Her heart is beating painfully, her cheeks are pale with fear and anger, and yet she cannot help laughing aloud as the man's words come back to her—"He's little better than a fine young woman in breeches!"
"Could anything be funnier or truer?" she says to herself with malicious satisfaction. "Oh, how I wish he could have heard them! It would take a bit of his starch out, I fancy, and teach him how little mashers are thought of at Donaghmore."
CHAPTER II.
"I cannot see what fault you can find in him, Honor."