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I used to think that the very portraits on the walls looked at me askance because I was going to marry the usurer's son. I was sure the old servants were not the same, any more than the old friends; but, oddly enough, Maureen had forgiven me, had held me to her breast and cried over me. I felt that she knew the marriage would kill me, she only of them all.
"You would think," said I, "that they were lighting fires over there against Captain Cardew's return." Maureen rose from her place and peered curiously in the direction of my gaze. "I wonder he doesn't be selling it," she said, "and not be letting it go to rack and ruin and him never comin' home.
Now Maureen had, whether from increasing years or from the lonely life she led, come to have delusions at times, to mix up me with my mother or my Aunt Eleanor, to talk of Uncle Luke as though he were yet with us or might be expected at any moment home from college, or from a hunting day or a fair or market, or his training with his regiment on the Curragh of Kildare.
Maureen is no more tolerant of dogs about her than others of her class, but she tolerates Dido because she belonged to Uncle Luke. "If his Lordship had a real kindness for that old dog," she began, "he'd poison her and put her out of her trouble." Dido looked back over her ears at her as a dog will, knowing itself discussed.
"Who gave Dido to Uncle Luke?" I asked. She turned red and pale. "What have you been hearing, Bawn?" she asked. "Maureen has been talking to me about Uncle Luke. I did not think it wrong to listen to her, since I knew that I was to hear the story from you." "Maureen did not spare me," she said in a low voice. "For the matter of that she said nothing.
It was in loops each side of her forehead, displaying her ears, and was then taken up and plaited at the back of her head. The fashion was a quarter of a century old but nothing could have been prettier. She took Dido's head between her hands and looked down into her eyes. "She is growing very old, Bawn," she said sadly. It reminded me of something Maureen had said and had not explained.
A young girl was grinning in the next doorway, a child of fourteen or fifteen she seemed. "Ye wouldn't think that was a married woman, would ye now," said a neighbour, with pardonable pride. "Aye, but she is, though, an' a foin lump iv a son ye have, haven't ye, Maureen." Mr.
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