TO
THE MEMORY
OF
MY MOTHER
Transcriber's Note: Only the Frontispiece and illustration on page 61 are included in this ebook.
ILLUSTRATIONS
He lowered the candles and drew back | Frontispiece |
Facing Page | |
With a fierce gesture he took another step forward | 61 |
The little crowd of curious idlers | 123 |
The younger ... stared at her | 141 |
"The End!" she said to Serracauld | 210 |
Night after night she had sat in the stifling atmosphere | 241 |
The two dogs looked swiftly from her face to their master's | 287 |
She slipped to the door—opened it | 337 |
PART I
CHAPTER I
An eight-mile drive over rain-washed Irish roads in the quick-falling dusk of autumn is an experience trying to the patience, even to the temper, of the average Saxon. Yet James Milbanke made neither comment nor objection as mile after mile of roadway spun away like a ribbon behind him, as the mud rose in showers from the wheels of the old-fashioned trap in which he sat, and the half-trained mare between the shafts swerved now to the right, now to the left—her nervous glance caught by the spectral shapes of the blackthorn hedges or the motionless forms of the wayside donkeys, lying asleep in the ditches. Perhaps this stoicism was the outcome of an innate power to endure; perhaps it was a merely negative quality, illustrating the lack of that doubtful blessing, imagination. But whatever its origin, it stood him in good stead as he covered the long stretch of flat country that links the south-eastern seaport of Muskeere with the remote fishing village of Carrigmore and its outlying district of Orristown.
His outlook upon Ireland, like h