“Here ye are now, sir, in my Lady's own parlor; and that's her bedroom, where I left your trunk,” said he, as he ushered in a newly arrived traveller, whose wet and road-stained drapery bore traces of an Irish winter's day. “Mr. Scanlan told me that your honor would be here at four o'clock, and he ordered dinner for two, at five, and a good dinner you 'll have.”
“There; let them open my traps, and fetch me a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown,” broke in the traveller; “and be sure to have a good fire in my bedroom. What an infernal climate! It has rained since the day I landed at Dublin; and now that I have come down here, it has blown a hurricane besides. And how cold this room is!” added he, shuddering.
“That's all by reason of them windows,” said Toby,--“French windows they call them; but I'll get real Irish sashes put up next season, if I live. It was a fancy of that ould woman that built the place to have nothing that was n't foreign.”
“They are not popular, then,--the Martins?” asked the stranger.
“Popular!” echoed Toby. “Begorra, they are not. Why would they be? Is it rack-renting, process sarving, extirminating, would make them popular? Sure we're all ruined on the estate. There isn't a mother's son of us might n't be in jail; and it's not Maurice's fault, either,--Mr. Scanlan's, I mean. Your honor's a friend of his, I believe,” added he, stealthily. The stranger gave a short nod. “Sure he only does what he's ordered; and it's breaking his heart it is to do them cruel things they force him to.”
“Was the management of the estate better when they lived at home?” asked the stranger.
“Some say yes, more says no. I never was their tenant myself, for I lived in Oughterard, and kept the 'Goose and Griddle' in John Street; but I believe, if the truth was told, it was always pretty much the same. They were azy and moderate when they did n't want money, but ready to take your skin off your back when they were hard up.”
“I think it is,” said he, with a confident grin. “They 're spending thousands for hundreds since they went abroad; and that chap in the dragoons--the Captain they call him--sells a farm, or a plot of ground, just the way ye 'd tear a leaf out of a book. There 's Mr. Maurice now,--and I 'll go and hurry the dinner, for he 'll give us no peace if we 're a minute late.”