On an August morning of the same year Harry1 Feversham rode across the Lennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tanned his face, the years of his probation2 had left their marks; he rode up the narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill he turned into the broad highway which, descending3 valleys and climbing hills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quickly in a company of ghosts.
The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts all through his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no more than visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the things which might have been but for his great fault. The things which had been, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here he had been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery4; here his presence had brought pleasure, here too he had done his worst harm. Once he stopped when he was opposite to the church, set high above the road upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still at Ramelton—whether old Dermod was alive, and what kind of welcome he would receive. But he waked in a moment to the knowledge that he was sitting upon his horse in the empty road and in the quiet of an August morning. There were larks5 singing in the pale blue above his head; a landrail sent up its harsh cry from the meadow on the left; the crow of a cock rose clear from the valley. He looked about him, and rode briskly on down the incline in front of him and up the ascent6 beyond. He rode again with his company of ghosts—phantoms7 of people with whom upon this road he had walked and ridden and laughed, ghosts of old thoughts and recollected8 words. He came to a thick grove9 of trees, a broken fence, a gateway10 with no gate. Inattentive to these evidences of desertion, he turned in at the gate and rode along a weedy and neglected drive. At the end of it he came to an open space before a ruined house. The aspect of the tumbling walls and unroofed rooms roused him at last completely from his absorption. He dismounted, and, tying his horse to the branch of a tree, ran quickly into the house and called aloud. No voice answered him. He ran from deserted11 room to deserted room. He descended12 into the garden, but no one came to meet him; and he understood now from the uncut grass upon the lawn, the tangled13 disorder14 of the flowerbeds, that no one would come. He mounted his horse again, and rode back at a sharp trot15. In Ramelton he stopped at the inn, gave his horse to the ostler, and ordered lunch for himself. He said to the landlady16 who waited upon him:—
"So Lennon House has been burned down? When was that?"
"Five years ago," the landlady returned, "just five years ago this summer." And she proceeded, without further invitation, to give a voluminous account of the conflagration17 and the cause of it, the ruin of the Eustace family, the inebriety18 of Bastable, and the death of Dermod Eustace at Glenalla. "But we hope to see the house rebuilt. It's likely to be, we hear, when Miss Eustace is married," she said, in a voice which suggested that she was full of interesting information upon the subject of Miss Eustace's marriage. Her guest, however, did not respond to the invitation.
"And where does Miss Eustace live now?"
"At Glenalla," she replied. "Halfway19 on the road to Rathmullen there's a track leads up to your left. It's a poor mountain village is Glenalla, and no place for Miss Eustace, at all, at all. Perhaps you will be wanting to see her?"
"Yes. I shall be glad if you will order my horse to be brought round to the door," said the man; and he rose from the table to put an end to the interview.
The landlady, however, was not so easily dismissed. She stood at the door and remarked:—
"Well, that's curious—that's most curious. For only a fortnight ago a gentleman burnt just as black as yourself stayed a night here on the same errand. He asked for Miss Eustace's address and drove up to Glenalla. Perhaps you have business with her?"
"Yes, I have business with Miss Eustace," the stranger returned. "Will you be good enough to give orders about my horse?"
While he was waiting for his horse he looked through the leaves of the hotel book, and saw under a date towards the end of July the name of Colonel Trench20.
"You will come back, sir, to-night?" said the landlady, as he mounted.
"No," he answered, "I do not think I shall come again to Ramelton." And he rode down the hill, and once more that day crossed the Lennon bridge. Four miles on he came to the track opposite a little bay of the Lough, and, turning into it, he rode past a few white cottages up to the purple hollow of the hills. It was about five o'clock when he came to the long, straggling village. It seemed very quiet and deserted, and built without any plan. A few cottages stood together, then came a gap of fields, beyond that a small plantation21 of larches22 and a house which stood by itself. Beyond the house was another gap, through which he could see straight down to the water of the Lough, shining in the afternoon sun, and the white gulls23 poising24 and swooping25 above it. And after passing that gap he came to a small grey church, standing26 bare to the winds upon its tiny plateau. A pathway of white shell-dust led from the door of the church to the little wooden gate. As he came level with the gate a collie dog barked at him from behind it.
The rider looked at the dog, which was very grey about the muzzle............