“Now, my darling,” he said, as he kissed his wife affectionately, “you know, my dearest Lucy, there is nothing else to be done. Desmond was my best friend, and I’d rather die than neglect his child.”
Soon afterwards Mrs. Wyndham was left alone to her own reflections, and to the eager comments of her young daughters, who were full of curiosity about Peggy Desmond, wondering what sort of young savage would soon arrive at Preston Manor.
Meanwhile, Wyndham took train to Holyhead, crossed over to Dublin, and then took train from Dublin to Kerry. He arrived in the neighbourhood of the well-known town of Tralee in the course of the following afternoon; and, having inquired for the O’Flynns, was directed to their “bit of a house,” as the neighbour described it. Wyndham was a tall, well-set-up man of about forty years of age; he had a pleasant, kindly face, bright blue eyes, and was, in short, every inch a gentleman.
Now, no one in all the world knows better who is a gentleman and who is not than the peasant of Ireland. He sees who belong to the “quality,” as he calls it, and who does not, at a single glance; he also sees this fact, although one man may be dressed in rags and the other have a carriage and smart clothes, his ring with a diamond in it, and his swell manners. Mr. Wyndham was pronounced by the old man who directed him to the O’Flynns as a “oner.” “Why, thin, sure a gintleman to the innermost bone of him.”
He entered the small lane—or, rather, as the man shouted to him, “boreen”—and, walking down its narrow, pretty path, soon found himself outside a small cottage, which was surrounded by a sort of ill-kept farmyard. Some pigs were grunting and poking their noses into the soft earth, a dog sprang up at his approach and ran towards him, barking, a cat leaped out of sight and sprang into the branches of a neighbouring tree.
A girl who was standing by the cottage door came forward.
“An’ what may yer honour want?” she asked.
Wyndham looked at her curiously and with a sort of tremble at his heart. The girl bore a striking resemblance to his dearest friend, Peter Desmond. She had very large, dark-blue eyes, the true heritage of a Kerry girl; those eyes were put in, as is the proverbial expression, with “dirty fingers.” The thick, curly, long black lashes were lowered for an instant, then the eyes, bright as stars, fixed themselves on the stranger’s face. The girl’s hair was of a tawny shade, with a very slight touch, an almost imperceptible touch, of red in it; it was very thick, very long, and curled in fascinating little waves all over her small head. She wore a blue cotton frock which came down just above her ankles, coarse white stockings, and hobnailed shoes. Under her arm she carried a big dish filled with all sorts of farm refuse, which she had prepared to give to the fowls. Her sleeves were pushed up as far as her elbows, showing her pretty rounded arms, which were, however, reddened through exposure to all weathers.
“I need hardly ask your name,” said Wyndham. “You are, of course, Peggy Desmond?”
“Arrah, thin, I be,” answered the girl. “An’ what may ye be wantin’ wid me, yer highness?”