United States or Libya ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
The two men strolled down together seaward to where the great rocks lay thick upon the stormy beach. "These," Sir Denis pointed out, "are supposed to be the marbles with which the great giant Cathley used to play.
You've missed none of our letters, by any chance?" "Letters?" Sir Denis repeated. "I have had no word from this country, not even from Timothy here, for over three years and a half." There was a little murmur of wonder. The truth was beginning to dawn upon them. "It'll be the censor, maybe," Michael Dilwyn murmured. "Tell us, Denis Cathley, what brought you back, then?
You should visit it before you give me the lie when I call you Sir Denis Cathley." Jocelyn Thew's hand for a moment shielded part of his face, as though he found the electric light a little strong. From behind the shelter of his palm his eyes met the eyes of his visitor. The latter suddenly turned and bowed to Katharine.
My aunt and I were there at the first night." "He wrote that and some more wonderful poetry. He has spent more than half his life working for the cause of Ireland. He was the father and patriarch of the last rising. One of his sons was shot at Dublin." "And who is Sir Denis Cathley?" "The Cathleys are another so-called revolutionary family," Jocelyn Thew explained.
"You will forgive an old man," he begged courteously, "who has seen much trouble lately, for his ill manners. Perhaps your friend here, your friend whose name is not Sir Denis Cathley, can explain to you why I felt some emotion at the sight of so wonderful a likeness." He bowed, murmured some broken words in reply to Katharine's kindly little speech, and moved away.
There was the headland round which he had sailed his yacht, the moorland over which he had wandered with his gun, the meadow round which he had tried the wild young horses. In those few seconds of ecstatic joy, he seemed for the first time to realise all that he had suffered during his long exile. More and more unreal seemed to grow the world in which Sir Denis Jocelyn Cathley passed that day.
"They are losses I am proud to endure, sir," he said. "But I did not come to speak of myself. I came to speak to Sir Denis Cathley." Jocelyn Thew shook his head. "It is a likeness which deceives you," he declared. "A likeness!" the other repeated. "Nine weeks ago I stood in a ruined mansion so dilapidated, in fact, that one corner of it is open to the skies.
"Saw them together down-stairs," Richard declared. "I'm off in a moment to see if I can get hold of Crawshay and shake his hand. So you're Sir Denis Cathley, eh, and you've chucked that other game altogether?" "Naturally," the other replied "Sir Denis Jocelyn Cathley. As a matter of fact, I am up in town to arrange for some one else to take my place at the Convention.
Then he came forward towards the speaker and dropped on one knee. His face showed no surprise, though his eyes were strange and almost terribly brilliant. "The Cathley!" he exclaimed. "God is good!" He kissed his master's hand, which he had seized with almost frantic joy. Jocelyn Thew raised him to his feet. "You recognised me then, Timothy?"
"There is no Cathley in the world," the old man answered passionately, "would ever rise up before me and call himself by any other name." "Am I safe here, Timothy, for a day or two?" The old man's scorn was a wonderful thing. "Safe!" he repeated. "Safe!
Word Of The Day