“I wish I had never left New York,” said Bertie. “I did my very uttermost not to come, but you set your trap, all of you, and I go back—what?”
“You can run over again.”
“Never! Once back, my profession shall have all my energy, all my hope—my life.”
They put up at the Railway Hotel, and after dinner strolled out as far as Ross Castle. The mist had cleared away, and the view of Innisfallen sleeping in the moonlight, of the cluster of dreamy islands, the soft outlines of the Mangerton, the purple mountain and the Toomies bathed in liquid pearl, the twinkling lights along the shore, the mirrored waters of the lake shimmering in silver glory, sent a wave of delicious reverie over the hearts of the two men, as, seated in silence on a ruined wall of the ivy-covered keep, they gazed in solemn rapture upon a scene exquisite, soothing, sublime.
“I wish to heaven your aunt was here to see this,” said Kirwan, lighting a fresh cigar.
“I wish—” but Bertie did not utter another word.
The following morning was one in ten thousand—fresh, sunny, breezy, inspiriting, laden with the languor of summer, rippling with the coquetry of spring; a primrose light, a violet shade. Our two friends joined a party bound for the Gap of Dunloe. The ponies were sent on, and a boat ordered to meet them at the upper lake with luncheon. Bertie was unusually depressed, and, despite the vigorous efforts of his uncle to pull him together, he clung, as it were, to himself, avoiding all intercourse with his fellow-man, and especially his fellow-woman, a buxom, blithe, hearty English lady, who laughed with anybody and at everything, and whose whole trouble lay in a morbid terror lest any accident should happen to the bitter beer. After a two hours’ drive through lovely and matchless scenery the carriage arrived at the entrance to the Gap, and here the party dismounted.
“Where do we meet the ponies?” asked Kirwan.
“A little bit up the Gap, sir.”
“Any bitter beer up there?” laughed the English lady.