"Sir," I said, "you shall be brought to Mr. Kinchella. What name shall be announced to him?"
"I am called Lord St. Amande," he said quietly, while it seemed to me that he sighed as he spake.
"Called Lord St. Amande," I repeated in my surprise. "Lord Gerald St. Amande."
Once again he smiled, saying, "Not Lord Gerald St. Amande, though my name is Gerald. But I perceive Mr. Kinchella has been talking to you about me. Perhaps telling you my history. Well!" to himself, "heaven knows it has been common talk enough."
I think--looking back as I do now to those far-off years and to that happy, sunny day when first he came among us--that, in my heart, there was some little disappointment at seeing him whom we had pitied so looking thus prosperous. For although we knew that his great relative, the Marquis, had espoused his cause and taken him by the hand, it was ever as the poor outcast youth that we had thought of him. Yes, as an outcast roaming the streets of Dublin, or as a poor wandering sailor tossed on stormy seas, our hearts had gone out to him--and now, to see him standing before me, bravely apparelled and looking, indeed, as I thought, an English lord should look (for I had never before seen one), caused me, as I say, a disappointment. It may be that it did so because it seemed as though our pity was not needed. But, even as this passed through my mind, I reflected that it was no true Virginian hospitality to let him stand there holding his horse's bridle and waiting to see what welcome he might expect, so, calling to the negro gardener who was busy amongst the vines to take his steed, I bade him follow me. As we went to the great steps of the porch I laughed with joy at thinking what a pleasant surprise this would be for his friend, and felt glad, I knew not why, that it had fallen to my lot to be the first to see him and to bring those two together; therefore I said to him:
"I will not have you announced, but, if it pleases you, will bring you straight into the saloon. It will be good to see Mr. Kinchella's pleasure when you stand before him. It was but recently he wondered if he should ever see you again, and now you are here close to him."
"Do with me as you will," he said, "and I thank you for doing so much."
So we went up the steps together, when, drawing him behind the blue tatula bush that was now coming into flower with the warm spring, I bade him look within and he should see his friend. Seated by the harpsichord he saw him, his sweetheart sitting by his side, and he looking brave and happy, and dressed in his black silk coat and scarf.
"I should scarce have known him," whispered my lord, "he has changed so. His pallor is gone--it may be love has made him rosy--and he is fuller and plumper. It seems a crying shame to disturb him when he has so sweet a companion."
I laughed and said, "You will be easily absolved. To see you again is always his most earnest desire, while, for Mary, you are a hero of romance of whom she dreams often."