“In the fresh fairness of the spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.”
The postmaster at Rathbarry was evidently not in the habit of despatching many telegrams. He was now standing in the street, scratching his red beard, and looking thoughtfully up at the single wire which dropped from the tarred pole—literally the last outpost of civilization—down through the roof of his little shop, while I read to him the message with which I had ridden over early on Tuesday morning.
“You know where Boston is?” I asked, when I had finished; “Boston, in America, you know?”
“Boyshton, miss?” he said, correcting my pronunciation. “I do, miss. Sure I think it’s there that me sisther’s son is a plumber these five years.”
“Well, listen,” I said, beginning to read it aloud again, “‘To Farquharson, 16, Charles Street, Boston. Start for Boston February 6th. Theo.’ Are you quite sure you understand it? It is very important.”
“No fear at all, miss,” he answered, and went into his shop to get my change.
This was a lengthy proceeding, which involved the sending of a little girl to the public-house opposite, and an argument, as to the amount to be returned to me, between Mr. Cassidy, the postmaster, and his daughter. However, I was in no particular hurry to get back, and Blackthorn never objected to standing. The day felt more like May than the second of February. The only tokens of yesterday’s rain were the swollen yellow streams in the gutters on either side of the narrow street, and the delicate clearness of the sky. It was so enticingly mild and spring-like, that by the time that Mr. Cassidy had brought me my change, I had made up my mind to go home by the longer road, instead of by the usual way round the head of the harbour.
The road I had chosen went past the Clashmore entrance gates, and as I rode slowly along it, I noticed the ravages which the storm had worked in The O’Neill’s woods. Half-uprooted firs and beeches leaned forlornly against their neighbours in every direction among the plantations that sloped to the road, and torn boughs hung over the demesne wall. Near the big front gates a group of men was collected in the road, where a tree had, in falling, partly broken down the wall. As I came near, one of them, a short, square man, detached himself from the others, and, lifting his hat, walked towards me. To my astonishment I found that it was O’Neill himself.
“How do you do? I’m delighted to see you,” he began effusively. “I see you’re surprised to find me here. I came down from Dublin on Saturday, to settle some business, and I’ve been shut up ever since by the storm. I dare say you’ve had plenty of it at Durrus?” He hardly waited for my answer. “And what have you been doing with yourself all this time?” he went on. “I don’t think you look quite the thing—very charming, of course”—with a wave of his hand—“but still not as blooming as you did when I saw you last.”
“I have been in the house a good deal lately,” I answered evasively; “the weather has been so bad.”