"That—that objeck!" answered the other.
"Ah! that's the masther. More power to him!" replied the carman. "It's foxin' he'll have been likely, on the mountain, an' him nivir off the point o' the hunt. Divil thank him with the cattle he rides! Begorra! ye nivir see the masther, but you see a great baste!"
All this was Greek to his listener, whose mind, however, became easier, with the crunching of gravel under their wheels, and the looming of a large, irregular mass of building, about which lights were flashing in all directions, showing not only that they had arrived, but that they were expected and welcome.
As Blanche Douglas stepped out of the brougham, she found her hand resting in that of the supposed banshee, who had dismounted not a minute before to receive his guests. He was a tall, handsome old gentleman, fresh-coloured and grey-haired, with that happy mixture of cordiality and good-breeding in his manner, to be found in the Emerald Isle alone; yet was there but the slightest touch of brogue on the deep mellow accents that proffered their hospitable greeting.
"You've had a long journey, Miss Douglas, and a dark drive, but glad I am to see you, and welcome you are to the castle at Cormac's-town."
Then he conducted the ladies across a fine old hall, furnished with antlers, skins, ancient weapons, and strange implements of chase, through a spacious library and drawing-room, to a snug little chamber, where a wood-fire blazed, not without smoke, and a tea-table was drawn to the hearth. Here, excusing himself on the score of dirty boots and disordered apparel, he left the new arrivals to the care of his wife.
Lady Mary Macormac had once been as fresh and hearty an Irish lass as ever rode a four-foot wall, or danced her partners down in interminable jigs that lasted till daylight. An earl's daughter, she could bud roses, set fruit trees, milk a cow, or throw a salmon-fly with any peasant, man or woman, on her father's estate. She slept sound, woke early, took entire charge of the household, the children, the garden, the farm, everything but the stables, was as healthy as a ploughman and as brisk as a milkmaid. Now, with grown-up daughters, and sons of all ages, down to a mischievous urchin home from school, her eyes were blue, her cheeks rosy as at nineteen. Only her hair had turned perfectly white, a distinction of which she seemed rather proud, curling and crimping it with some ostentation and no little skill over her calm unwrinkled brow. To Blanche Douglas this lady took a fancy, at first sight, reserving her opinion of Mrs. Lushington for future consideration, but feeling her impulsive Irish heart warm to Satanella's rich low voice, and the saddened smile that came so rarely, but possessed so strange a charm.
"Mrs. Lushington, Miss Douglas, me daughters."