Oh, weary day, and wearier night!
If he could, he would back out of going to Ireland; but that was now impossible. Under the pressure of his great joy, he had told O'Brien of his love for Mrs. Davenport, and all arrangements had, at his request, been made for their setting off to-morrow. She must go to-morrow. While there is life there is hope. He was hoping against hope; but accidents did happen in many cases, and might happen in this one. No man was bound to despair; in fact, despair was cowardly and unmanly. It was the duty of every man to hope, and he would hope. He would go to Ireland to-morrow; he would put his chance against Blake's. If this disappointment were to kill him or drive him mad, he might as well enjoy the pleasure of being near her until his health or mind gave way finally.
When he came to this decision he fell asleep.
Next day broke chill and dismal, and none of the folk at Carlingford House seemed lively except Edith. Mrs. Paulton was depressed because her only son was going away from home and into a country of which she had a vague and unfavourable notion. O'Brien was sulky at the thought of being torn from the side of Madge, now that he might talk freely to her of love and their prospects, and the brutal Commissioners. Mrs. Davenport was depressed by a variety of circumstances and considerations, and Alfred had much to make him anything but cheerful. Mr. Paulton's seriousness-that was the strongest word which could fairly be applied to his humour-was due to the dulness of the weather, and a depreciation in the value of some shares held by him.
During the day each of the travellers was more or less busy with preparations. Mrs. Davenport had to go to town early in order to transact business she had neglected the day before. Alfred stayed mostly in his room, and O'Brien, far from sweet-tempered, managed, through the unsought contrivance of Edith, to be a whole hour alone with Madge.
"You know," he said to her, when preliminaries had been disposed of, "it's a beastly nuisance to have to go away from you now. I'd much rather stop, I assure you."
"You are very kind."
"Don't be satirical, Madge. No woman ever yet showed to advantage when satirical. I say it's a great shame to have to go away, particularly when it's only to save appearances; for now that Blake has once more come on the scene, all is up with poor Alfred. Upon my word, Madge, I pity him."
"Do you like her, Jerry?"
"No. I like you. I like you very much. You're not a humbug."
"Is she?"
"No. But she's too awfully serious. I cannot help thinking she ought to do everything to the slow music of kettledrums."
"Why kettle-drums?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's because the concerted kettle-drum is the most bald and arid form of harmonious row. I'm afraid my language is neither select nor expressive. But one can't help one's feelings-particularly when one's feelings make one like you. I really am sorry to have to leave you."
"But you mustn't blame me for that."
"Now you are quite unreasonable. You must know that a man without a grievance is as insipid as a woman without vanity."
"Jerry, I'm not a bit vain; I never was a bit vain. What could I be vain about?"
"Ungrateful girl! Have I not laid my hand and fortune, including the bodies of the murdered Commissioners, at your feet?"
"You are silly, Jerry."
"How am I silly? In having laid my hand and fortune and the bodies-"
"No. In talking such nonsense."
"And you are not vain of having made a conquest of me?"
"Jerry, I'm very fond of you, and I don't like you to talk to me as if you thought I was only a silly girl whom you were trying to amuse with any silly things you could think of. I hope you don't believe I'm a fool?"
"No. You are right, Madge: it's a poor compliment for a man to talk mere tattle to his sweetheart. I wonder, darling, if you would give me a keepsake, now that I am going away?"
"No. I have no faith in keepsakes. I would not take any keepsake from you, because I shall need nothing to remind me of you when you are away."
"Darling, nor I of you. And if things go wrong with me?"
"They can't go wrong with you."
"I mean if I come off worse in these business affairs."
"That will not make any difference in you."
"No. Nor in you, darling?"
"No."
He held her in his arms a while, and said no more. Thus they parted.
It had been arranged that the two men should meet Mrs. Davenport at Euston. They were on the platform when she arrived. To their surprise she was not alone: Blake accompanied her. As soon as they came forward he shook hands with her, raised his hat, and retired.
O'Brien and Paulton were greatly taken aback by Blake's presence. They busied themselves about her luggage, and then took seats in the same compartment with her. They were the only passengers in the compartment.
As soon as the train was in motion she leaned forward to O'Brien, and said in a clear, distinct voice, the edge of which was not dulled by the rumble of the wheels:
"You arrived the day before yesterday from Ireland?"
"Yes," he answered, bending forward and looking into her inscrutable eyes.
"You have been at Kilcash?"
"Yes. I was there for about a month."
"Did you hear a ghost story there?"
He started and looked seriously at her.
"Yes, I did. May I ask if you have heard anything about it?"
"Yes. When I got back to Jermyn Street where I stayed, I found a letter there telling me that a ghost, the ghost of a man named Michael Fahey, had been seen in the neighbourhood of Kilcash."
"At the Black Rock. I was going to tell the story yesterday at dinner, but it slipped by."
"Do you know anything of this-apparition?"
"I saw it myself, and two others saw it."
"Where do we stop first?"
"At Rugby."
She took a note-book from her pocket, and wrote something in it. When the writing was finished, she tore out the leaf on which it was, and handed the leaf to O'Brien, saying:
"Will you be kind enough to telegraph this from Rugby for me?"
"It will have to be written on a form," he said, hesitatingly.
"Will you oblige by writing it on a form for me? There is no reason why you shouldn't read it."
When he got out at Rugby he read the message. It was addressed to Blake, and ran:
"Mr. O'Brien saw what I told you. Follow me to Ireland at once."
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TRAVELLERS
It was impossible for O'Brien to tell Alfred the nature of the telegram he had just despatched to Blake. It would not be seemly to whisper or to write, and to leave the compartment with the proclaimed intention of seeking a smoking carriage would be a transparent device. There was nothing for it but to sit still and keep silent.
The three travellers settled themselves in their corners, and pretended to go to sleep. Each had thoughts of an absorbing nature, but none had anything exceptionally happy with which to beguile the dreary midnight journey. It was impossible to see if Mrs. Davenport slept or not. She had, upon settling herself after leaving Rugby, pulled down her thick veil over her face, and remained quite motionless. Young Paulton was not yet as strong as he imagined, and the monotonous sound and motion soon fatigued him, and he fell asleep.
Although O'Brien kept his eyes resolutely shut he never felt more wakeful in his life.
What on earth