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He remembered certain fragments of their talk about the pictures the easy mastery, now brusque, now poetic, with which Dalrymple had shown him the treasures of the gallery, in the manner of one whose learning was merely the food of fancy, the stuff on which imagination and reverie grew rich. Then, suddenly, his own question "And Lady Rose?" And Dalrymple's quiet, "Very well.
His face grew paler still, and colder, but there was a far-off gleaming in the shadowy eyes, like the glimmer of a light over a lonely plain through the dark. Dalrymple's spirits did not rise, but he talked more and more, and his sentences became long and involved, and sometimes had no conclusion. The wine was telling on him at last.
"No moral, please, till the tale is done," said Sir Wilfrid, smiling. "It's your turn." Lady Henry's face grew sombre. "All very well," she said. "What did your tale matter to you? As for mine " The substance of hers was as follows, put into chronological order: Lady Rose had lived some ten years after Dalrymple's death.
A little splintering crash, the sound of a glass falling upon a stone floor in the next room, broke the stillness. Dalrymple's arms relaxed, and the two stood for one moment facing one another, pale, with fire in their eyes and hearts beating more loudly than before. Dalrymple raised his hand to his forehead, as though he were dazed, and made an uncertain step in the direction of the door.
But they used the same blunt, pointless knives with wooden handles, which they use to-day. Annetta started, as she heard Dalrymple's tread upon the stone steps of the staircase, but she recovered herself instantly, gave a finishing touch to the table, rubbed the back of her head quickly once more, and met him with a smile.
"They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco " "At Subiaco?" Dalrymple's steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look of extreme attention. "Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man called Stefanone a wine-seller a very respectable place." Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself. "Very respectable," he said, in an odd tone.
Reanda was alive, and living at the Palazzetto Borgia; for the two had exchanged letters twice a year, written in the constrained tone of mutual civility which suited the circumstances in which they were placed towards each other. In Dalrymple's opinion, Reanda had been to blame to a certain extent, in having maintained his intimacy with Francesca when he was aware that it displeased his wife.
The sinuous body seemed to grow limp in his arms. His was not a pleasant task but a necessary one. This woman had delivered the girl to the prince in the first place; would now attempt to frustrate her escape. Any moment some one else might come on deck and discover them. "Quick! Why don't you come?" Betty Dalrymple's anxious voice ascended from the darkness.
It is certainly one or the other; but then, we have a right to know which. Such was a very condensed view of Mrs. Dalrymple's reflections on this important topic, a view taken with her usual tact and clear-sightedness. Matters were in this state when Power at length arrived in Cork, to take command of our detachment and make the final preparations for our departure.
He probably meant by "punitive expeditions" in the modern phrase by "fire and sword," in the style current then to break up the recalcitrants. Meanwhile it was Dalrymple's hope to settle ancient quarrels about the "superiorities" of Argyll over the Camerons, and the question of compensation for the lands reft by the Argyll family from the Macleans.
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