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Updated: May 12, 2025
He rode slowly back to "The Barracks." His problem seemed to be riding double with him. The problem, one might say, was in the form of a maid on a pillion. But he did not look behind to see whether the maid bore the features of Clare Kavanagh or Madeleine Presson. At that moment he was sure that only Clare's image rode with him. But in thinking of her he understood his limitations.
Bad luck to this cowld I have! it's stickin' in my throath entirely, so it is! hem! to a what?" "Why to an ould woman, wid a great deal of the hard goold!" Phelim put his hand instinctively to his waistcoat pocket, in which he carried the housekeeper's money. "Would you oblage one wid her name?" "You know ould Molly Kavanagh well enough, Phelim." Phelim put up an inward ejaculation of thanks.
With moist eyes he looked up at the dark house on the hill and pledged loyalty to the child-woman, knowing that he loved her. But that the love was the love that mates man and woman for the struggles, the prizes, the woes, and the contentment of life he was not sure for he still looked on Clare Kavanagh as more child than woman. Marriage seemed yet a long way ahead of him.
Whenever I think of your mother," continued Abner after a pause, "Wordsworth's lines always come into my mind." He murmured the quotation to himself, but loud enough to be heard by sharp ears. Miss Kavanagh was mollified. "You were in love with my mother, weren't you?" she questioned him kindly. "Yes, I suppose I was," mused Abner, still with his gaze upon the curling smoke.
And between the acts, when the young men in the stalls, in their white ties, and white kid gloves, and nicely parted hair, stood up and languidly surveyed the house through their opera-glasses, Kavanagh had a sardonic amusement in the recollection as he thought that a fortnight before he had sat in that fourth stall in the third row, in evening dress, with a gardenia in his button-hole, and had similarly inspected the inferior beings around him.
With this Mother Nolan had to be content. She retired to her own room, mixed a powder in a cup of root-tea and gave it to the girl, who was quiet now, though wide-awake and bright-eyed. Kavanagh went home, invented a ballad about his fever in Port-o'-Spain, and wrote it upon his memory, verse by verse for he did not possess the art of writing upon paper.
It was from this region and the race which ruled it, of which race Mr. Kavanagh is the actual representative, that the initiative came of the first Anglo-Norman invasion of Ireland.
"I have your sword still," said Strachan. "Yes, and did good work with it at Tamai," replied Kavanagh. "I am glad of that." "It is a good one, indeed," said Strachan; "but I don't know that I have done anything wonderful with it!" "Oh, yes, I read about it in the papers. You were mentioned in despatches." "They were very kind, because I was wounded.
Against the half-darkness he could now see something indistinct in shape, and all of a dense blackness save for a pale patch that he knew to be a human face. It was Mary Kavanagh.
Now, have the dromedaries died out, do ye think? Or are they more expensive, and is the War Office that mane it won't afford them, but trates Christians like baggage?" "They were out of it altogether at your school, Grady," said Kavanagh. "A dromedary is only a better bred camel; it is like a hack or hunter, and a cart-horse, you know; the dromedary answering to the former.
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