"You may trust me, I assure you. I am not saying anything out of a desire to quiet your fears. If I do not tell you all, I am prevented from doing so only by the want of conclusive evidence. I shall hang about here until some more evidence turns up. I really believe what you saw was no figment of your own brain."
They parted thus. O'Hanlon was little satisfied, still he had no resource but to endure. His faith in O'Brien was great in everything save this one subject, which so unpleasantly and threateningly engrossed his thoughts. He was a man of sanguine temperament, and now the strength and impetuosity of his mind was turned inward and preyed on his peace.
O'Brien had little or nothing to do. His curiosity was strongly excited. Owing to the uncertainty of the movements of the Fishery Commissioners he could not leave the country. His heart was in London; no hour went over his head that he did not think of his friends there. He wrote to Mr. Paulton, and to his great relief heard that Alfred was gradually recovering, and that Dr. Santley hoped to have his patient up and about in a short time, his youth and good constitution favouring rapid convalescence now that the acute stage of the disease was passed. All at Carlingford House were well, and joined in sending kindest regards to him, and hoped he would soon get rid of his troublesome business, and run back to them. There was a postscript to the effect that Dr. Santley had just that moment pronounced Alfred out of danger, and said that he hoped in a fortnight or three weeks the invalid would be able to seek change of air and scene--the two things which would then be sufficient to ensure his restoration.
O'Brien, upon reading this, struck the table with his hand, and cried out:
"Capital!--capital! Nothing could be better! This is the mildest climate in all Europe. He shall come here. I'll run over for him if all the Fishery Commissioners whom Satan can spare were to try and bar my way. The least I may do after causing that relapse is to nurse him for a while."
O'Brien had little or nothing to do in Kilcash. No newspapers came to him from London or Dublin. After luncheon he walked every day along the downs as far as the Black Rock. There, when the weather was fine, he lounged for an hour or so, and then strolled back to the hotel, where he read some book until dinner.
The "Strand Hotel" was of course deserted. He was the only guest, and the staff had been reduced to one maid-of-all-work.
"If Alfred wants quiet," thought Jerry, grimly, "he can have it here with a vengeance. As long as those wretched Commissioners are about, I could not stand Kilbarry. I'd be an object of commiseration there, and I can't bear commiseration. If I only had Alfred here I'd be as happy as a king. But until he comes I must try and keep up an interest in O'Hanlon's ghost. I begin now to think O'Hanlon is going mad, after all; for I can neither hear nor see anything of the late Mr. Fahey. It wouldn't do to tell my misgivings to O'Hanlon. He really is cut up about that spectre, and the only way to keep his spirits up is by professing an unbounded belief in his phantom."
No doubt Kilcash was dull, and would have been found intolerable by any one not used to such a place at such a time. But O'Brien had been brought up close to the sea, and its winter aspect was as familiar to him as its summer glories.
In summer, the sun and the clouds and the genial warmth of the air take the mind off the sea, and reduce it to a mere accessory to the scene. It is only one of many things which claim attention. In winter the sea is absolute, dominant--master of the scene. In its presence there is nothing to take the mind away from it. The land and the air and the clouds have suffered change: the sea is alone immutable. It is not then the adjunct to a holiday. In winter and summer its colour is the result of reflection; but the dull, gloomy colours it reflects in winter seem more congenial to it than the vivid brightness of gayer skies.