He seated himself on the stump of a felled tree in his favorite attitude, having lighted his pipe.
“Might I thrubble yer honner for a thrifle o’ light or a bit of a match?” asked a passing peasant.
“With pleasure; take a dozen!”
The man looked puzzled; he had never seen wax vestas till now.
“They look mighty dawny, yer honner.”
“Do you belong to the castle?” asked our hero. Somehow or other the castle and its inmates were ever uppermost in his thoughts now.
“Yis, sir.”
“Is Mr. Jyvecote at home?”
“No, yer honner. I met him this mornin’ at Billy’s Bridge, makin’ hard for Westport.”
The cards all in his favor, and he wouldn’t play his hand! What did it mean? Would he go up to the castle, and, announcing himself to the châtelaine, pay that visit which conventionality demanded? No; he had swung into another current, and he would not alter his course. It was better as it was—ay, far better. And there came a sort of desolate feeling upon him, smiting him drearily like a dull ache. Had he seen the last of her? Was his life henceforth to be unlighted by the radiance of her presence? Here, in the mystic silence of Glendhanarrahsheen, came the revelation. Here did his own secret surprise him. He had allowed the image of this fair young girl to twine itself around his heart, till he now felt as if he could fling aside pride, reserve, past and future, just to hear her voice once more, to feel the tender pressure of her tiny hand.