Lucy’s journey, however, from Wicklow, the two interviews with her father, the sacrifice she had so nobly made, and the consequent agitation, all overcame her, and after a painful struggle between the alternations of forgetfulness and memory, she at length fell into a troubled slumber.

CHAPTER XXIX.  Lord Dunroe’s Affection for his Father

—­Glimpse of a new Character—­Lord Gullamore’s Rebuke to his Son, who greatly refuses to give up his Friend.

A considerable period now elapsed, during which there was little done that could contribute to the progress of our narrative.  Summer had set in, and the Cullamore family, owing to the failing health of the old nobleman, had returned to his Dublin residence, with an intention of removing to Glenshee, as soon he should receive the advice of his physician.  From the day on which his brother’s letter reached him, his lordship seemed to fall into a more than ordinary despondency of mind.  His health for years had been very infirm, but from whatsoever cause it proceeded, he now appeared to labor under some secret presentiment of calamity, against which he struggled in vain.  So at least he himself admitted.  It is true that age and a constitution enfeebled by delicate health might alone, in a disposition naturally hypochondriac, occasion such anxiety; as we know they frequently do even in the youthful.  Be this as it may, one thing was evident, his lordship began to sink more rapidly than he had ever done before; and like most invalids of his class, he became wilful and obstinate in his own opinions.  His doctor, for instance, advised him to remove to the delightful air of Glenshee Castle; but this, for some reason or other, he peremptorily refused to do, and so long as he chose to remain in town, so long were Lady Emily and her aunt resolved to stay with him.  Dunroe, also, was pretty regular in inquiries after his health; but whether from a principle of filial affection, or a more flagitious motive, will appear from the following conversation, which took place one morning after breakfast, between himself and Norton.

“How is your father this morning, my lord?” inquired that worthy gentleman.  “I hope he is better.”

“A lie, Norton,” replied his lordship—­“a lie, as usual.  You hope no such thing.  The agency which is to follow on the respectable old peer’s demise bars that—­eh?”

“I give you my honor, my lord, you do me injustice.  I am in no hurry with him on that account; it would be unfeeling,and selfish.”

“Now, Tom,” replied the other, in that kind of contemptuous familiarity which slavish minions or adroit knaves like Norton must always put up with from such men, “now, Tom, my good fellow, you know the case is this—­you get the agency to the Cullamore property the moment my right honorable dad makes his exit.  If he should delay that exit for seven years to come, then you will be exactly seven years short of the period in which you will fleece me and my tenants, and put the wool on yourself.”