occasionally, and sometimes had large parties staying at Knockgriffin when they were at home.
“Is Sir Denis liked in the county?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, very much; a great favourite with the gentlemen about.”
“And what kind of landlord does he make?”
“Pretty fair, sir.”
“His father met with an unhappy end, did he not?”
“Oh, no, sir; he died in a moment, without any suffering to speak of. They killed him at once, by the first shot.”
“And probably Sir Denis expects the same bright fate, Mrs. Conan?”
“I hope not, sir; he may chance to escape, at all events, for a number of years yet; he’s a very fine young man, and his sister is a sweet lady. For her sake I trust he may be spared many a long day over Knockgriffin.”
“Amen,” murmured I from the depths of my heart.
While so deeply pre-occupied as I now was with my love-dream, I became fond of solitary walks. The “Rock” was a special resort at that time, and it is partly owing to this that I still entertain a peculiar reverence and affection for the memory of the ancient ruins round which I wandered, thinking of her whose image was daily becoming more and more impressed upon my mind. How often have I emerged from the barrack gate and strolled out alone towards this favourite point, passing the wretched lanes and hovels that led to it, climbing the stile beside the old gate, gazed at curiously by the cow that was always grazing among the graves; sometimes sitting on a tombstone, sometimes looking at the view of the surrounding country, with the Galtee mountains—Slieve-na-muck, Slieve-naman, and the Comerragh Hills—bounding the landscape, or more frequently still, looking through my telescope in the direction of Knockgriffin, whose woods were thus brought distinctly to my eye. Heigh ho! those were happy hours, passed away for ever, with all else that is lovely in the days of our first youth, leaving only a bright remembrance to gild the later years of life.
Imagine my happiness on receiving at length the following note from Sir Denis Barnett:—
“Dear Captain Stapleton,—Will you give us the pleasure of your company for a few days at Knockgriffin? We expect some friends to remain with us from Tuesday next for a few days’ fishing, &c., and would feel most happy if you would join our party. We will dine at seven o’clock on Tuesday next, and will hope to see you then.
“Yours truly,
“Denis Barnett.”
I wrote an immediate reply accepting the invitation, and having deputed Travers to take my military duties during my absence from Cashel, made some slight preparations for the important visit. Infatuated though I was, my better sense often represented to me that it was an unwise act to throw myself thus rashly into the society of a woman to whom I could scarcely dare to aspire. Report said that Miss Barnett’s fortune was large (how I wished she had not a penny!), her brother was proud: her family had all been so. People had coupled her name with high alliances already. There were rumours afloat that she had refused a certain viscount, and was even now receiving the addresses of a man of very large fortune in the county, a Sir Percy Stedmole, an Englishman, who had lately become a landowner in Tipperary, though he only visited his estate there rarely, and was thinking of disposing of it. Mrs. Conan had told me all this, and it was not encouraging. Hopeless though my love might be, I could not resist plunging myself into deeper danger. Worlds would not have tempted me to refuse this invitation to Knockgriffin.
Behold me, then, duly entering the gateway of the demesne at half past six o’clock fine summer evening, my heart beating pleasant anticipations. A week of happiness was before me: beyond that I dared not venture to look.
I found the drawing-room at Knockgriffin full when I entered it. The guests had already assembled there. They were chiefly men; two elderly ladies in gorgeous caps being the only representatives of the fair sex, besides the peerless enchantress of the mansion. There were one or two dragoons from Cahir, three Tipperary gentlemen, and the (to me) odious baronet Sir Percy Stedmole, towards whom I instantly conceived a violent aversion. He was a fine-looking man about five-and-thirty, dressed well, and with the air of a well-bred gentleman; yet I did not like his countenance; perhaps I viewed him with green eyes, and was determined to find something wrong in his appearance. When I entered the room he was talking to Miss Barnett, and as she came forward to greet mo I saw that he stood watching us with curious eyes. In those days, reader, I was not a bad-looking young fellow, my height was above six feet, my features tolerably well cut, my tournure—well, I do not want to be thought too egotistical, so I will