“What Masses have you here, Foxey?” asked Bingham of the waiter, whose real name was Redmond, but to whom this appellation was given on account of the color of his hair.
“The last Mass is first Mass now, sir. Father James is sick, and Father Luke, a missioner, is doing duty for the whole barony.”
“Is Mr. Joyce, of Knockshin, a Catholic?” This in some trepidation.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir—wan of the ould stock, sir; and Miss Mary, his daughter, sir, plays the harmonicum, sir, elegant.”
“What hour does Mass commence?”
“That’s the first bell, sir, but they ring two first bells always.”
Percy Bingham belonged to a family that had held to the faith when the tide of the Reformation was sweeping lands, titles, and honors before it. He fought for the Catholic cause when it became necessary to strike a blow; and as he was the only “popish” officer in the regiment, his good example developed into a duty.
Just as he arrived at the church door the Joyce carriage drew up. Mr. Joyce handed out his daughter. The gray eyes encountered those of the young officer, who lifted his hat. Such a smile!—a sunbeam on the first primrose of spring.
“I was glad to get your note, Mr. Bingham. Could you manage to come over to breakfast? Military men don’t mind a short march.” And Mr. Joyce shook hands with him.
“Am I to have the pleasure of hearing Miss Joyce’s harmonium to-day?” asked Percy.