Apologizing for the error, I looked up the line and perceived in the distance—for the train was a long one—a well-dressed, dapper little man engaged in lugging a valise from beneath the seat of a first-class carriage. “This must be my guest,” thought I, advancing, and as I reached the carriage the portmanteau came to earth with a chuck that nearly precipitated its proprietor into an adjacent hedge. Following the “leathern conveniency,” and with a spring graceful as that of a gazelle, a young girl alighted from the compartment. She was small but exquisitely proportioned. Her hair, pure gold, was wound round the back of her head in ponderous plaits. Her eyes were of that blue which in certain lights cries “check” unto the violet. Her nose was straight and delicately shaped, but not in the least classical. Her mouth was large, full, and generous, and adorned with flashing white teeth, somewhat irregular, it is true, but in their irregularity lay a special charm all their own. She was attired in a shepherd’s plaid silk travelling dress, a Die Vernon hat with a sweeping blue feather almost caressing her left shoulder, and her dainty little hands were encased in black kid gauntleted gloves. Struck by her singular grace and beauty, I remained staring at her—staring like a schoolboy at a waxen effigy.
“You are Mr. Ormonde,” she said laughingly, and advancing towards me.
“You are Miss Hawthorne,” I stammered.
“I am, and papa, as usual, is fussing about our luggage—impedimenta you scholars call it nowadays. I knew you from your photograph. It is so kind of you to come and meet us.” She put out her hand as she said this in a winning, confiding way that was fraught with captivation. I bowed over the tips of her fingers in respectful reverence, scarcely daring to touch her hand.
“May I ask where you saw my photograph?” I asked, inwardly hoping she had come across the one taken for the Rathaldron hunt, in which I figured in full field toggery, my right hand caressing the shoulder of Galloping Bess, my favorite hunter.
“In your uncle’s album,” she replied.
Of course it was that photograph, done while at the university, with the lackadaisical expression around the eyes and a general limpness about the form, while my garments bore the appearance of having been constructed for the celebrated Irish giant. If I had had the artist in my hands at that particular moment, it is possible that I might have taken his photograph with something akin to a vengeance.
“Papa, this is mine host.” And she curtsied towards me after the fashion of the ladies at the Court of St. James, when hoops were worn at the hips and patches and powder held their parti-colored sway. I grasped the little man by the hand, telling him fervently that his acquaintance was the greatest favor ever bestowed upon me by my uncle, that my house was his home, together with several similar expressions of intense good-will and of the liveliest satisfaction. How I inwardly anathematized my seedy coat, my unkempt beard, and above all the jingling shandradan with its villanous pair of garrons standing at the exit gate! I believe I offered Miss Hawthorne my arm to lead her to the vehicle in question, calling loudly to Peter O’Brien, who acted in the duplicate capacity of coachman and butler. Finding that my servant failed to respond to the summons, I flung open the door of the carriage, and was about to hand her into it, when, to my utter shame, misery, and mortification, I beheld my missing retainer rolled up like a ball in the space between the seats, fast asleep, and snoring like a fog-horn. In a blaze of indignation I caught him by the coat-collar, with the intention of giving him a shake that would rattle him into an eel-like liveliness; but while in the act of inserting my fingers deftly around the collar, so as to afford me the grip necessary to the effectual carrying out of my intention, he suddenly awoke from his slumbers, and, upon perceiving the condition of affairs, with the howl of a startled wolf, plunged upwards with such overwhelming force as to cause me to lose my hold, to lurch against the step of the carriage, carrom off the open door, and lastly, O agony! O shame! to measure my full length in the dusty roadway, whilst a shout of laughter from porters, passengers, and by-standers, in which I could detect the silvery notes of Miss Hawthorne, greeted my tingling ears. I sprang to my feet, full of the intention of throttling the misguided rascal, but was restrained, bon gré mal gré, on discovering him upon his knees in the centre of a sympathizing audience, whom he was addressing with astonishing volubility ere I could possibly interpose.
“O mother o’ Moses! I was overkem wud sleep; an’ shure I’m not for to blame afther all, for never a sight o’ me bed I seen last night till daylight this blessed mornin’. But shure I’d sit up for a month like a Banshee for his honor, av it divarted him. Let me aff this wanst, Masther Fred, an’ I’ll carry ye up to bed every night in—”
Deeming it advisable to stop this dangerous harangue as speedily as possible, as I found myself quietly dropping from out of the frying-pan into the fire, and as, in his anxiety to make out a good case for himself, the rascal was using me as a scapegoat, I sternly bade him look to his horses.