We had dined where we often dined when we were alone, in a little room,
panelled with black oak, which opens off the hall. It is bright enough
when a fire leaps and sparkles in the grate, but it was then too warm
for fires, and the room seemed cheerless even while the white cloth was
on the table and the lit candles made the silver and glass sparkle.
And presently, when Neil Doherty had taken away the cloth and we sat
around the polished black table with nothing on it but a couple of
candles and a decanter of port wine and glasses, the room looked very
sad.
My grandfather tapped with his hand on the table, a thing I have known
him to do when in trouble, and again the tears overflowed my
grandmother's eyes and ran down her cheeks. And I felt that something
was coming.
Then my grandfather cleared his throat, and leaning his face in his hand
so that I should not see it, he said--
"There is something that concerns you, Bawn, which I wish to lay before
you. You have been a good child always, kind and obedient to us. And now
it is in your power to do more for us than ever you have done before."
He paused, and in the silence I heard the rain falling on the gravel
path.
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