"It's just for that reason, Davy; every sup I swallow sets me a-dreaming of wonderful notions,--things I know the next minute is quite impossible,--but I feel when the wine is on my lips as if they were all easy and practicable."

"After all, father, just remember that you cannot imagine anything one half so strange as the change in our own actual condition. There you sit, with your own clear head, to remind you of when and how you began life, and here am I!--for I am, as sure as if I held my patent in my hand, the Right Honorable Lord Castledunn."

"To your Lordship's good health and long life," said the old man, fervently.

"And now to a worthier toast, father,--Lady Castledunn that is to be."

[Illustration: 255]

"With all my heart. Lady Castledunn, whoever she is."

"I said, 'that is to be,' father; and I have given you her name,--the Lady Augusta Arden."

"I never heard of her," muttered the old man, dreamily.

"An Earl's daughter, sir; the ninth Earl of Glengariff," said Dunn, pompously.

"What 's her fortune, Davy? She ought to bring you a good fortune."

"Say rather, sir, it is I that should make a splendid settlement,--so proud a connection should meet its suitable acknowledgment."

"I understand little about them things, Davy; but there's one thing I do know, there never was the woman born I 'd make independent of me if she was my wife. It is n't in nature, and it isn't in reason."

"I can only say, sir, that with _your_ principles you would not marry into the peerage."

"Maybe I 'd find one would suit me as well elsewhere."

"That is very possible, sir," was the dry reply.

"And if she cost less, maybe she'd wear as well," said the old man, peevishly; "but I suppose your Lordship knows best what suits your Lordship's station."

"That also is possible, sir," said Dunn, coldly.

The old man's brow darkened, he pushed his glass from him, and looked offended and displeased.

Dunn quickly saw the change that had passed over him, and cutting the wire of a champagne flask, he filled out a foaming tumbler of the generous wine, saying, "Drink this to your own good health, father,--to the man whose wise teachings and prudent maxims have made his son a foremost figure in the age, and who has no higher pride than to own where he got his earliest lessons."

"Is it true, Davy,--are them words true?" asked the old man, trembling with eagerness.

"As true as that I sit here." And Dunn drained his glass as he spoke.

The old man, partly wearied by the late sitting, partly confused by all the strange tidings he had heard, drooped his head upon his chest and breathed heavily, muttering indistinctly a few broken and incoherent words. Lost in his own reveries, Dunn had not noticed this drowsy stupor, when suddenly the old man said,--

"Davy,--are you here, Davy?"

"Yes, father, here beside you."

"What a wonderful dream I had, Davy!" he continued; "I dreamed you were made a lord, and that the Queen sent for you, and I was looking everywhere, up and down, for the fine cloak with the ermine all over it that you had to wear before her Majesty; sorra a one of me could find it at all; at last I put my hand on it, and was going to put it on your shoulders, when what should it turn out but a shroud!--ay, a shroud!"

"You are tired, father; these late hours are bad for you. Finish that glass of wine, and I'll say good-night."

"I wonder what sign a shroud is, Davy?" mumbled the old man, pertinaciously adhering to the dream. "A coffin, they say, is a wedding."

"It is not a vigorous mind like yours, father, that lends faith to such miserable superstitions."

"That is just what they are not. Dreams is dreams, Davy."

"Just so, sir; and, being dreams, have neither meaning nor consistency."

"How do you know that more than me? Who told you they were miserable superstitions? I call them warnings,--warnings that come out of our own hearts; and they come to us in our sleep just because that's the time our minds is not full of cares and troubles, but is just taking up whatever chances to cross them. What made Luke Davis dream of a paycock's feather the night his son was lost at sea? Answer me that if you can."

"These are unprofitable themes, father; we only puzzle ourselves when we discuss them. Difficult as they are to believe, they are still harder to explain."

"I don't want to explain them," said the old man, sternly, for he deemed that the very thought of such inquiry had in it something presumptuous.

"Well, father," said Dunn, rising, "I sincerely trust you will sleep soundly now, and be disturbed by none of these fancies. I must hasten away. I leave for Belfast by the early train, and have a mass of letters to answer before that."

"When am I to see you again, Davy?" asked the old man, eagerly.

"Very soon, I hope, sir; as soon as I can, of that you may be certain,"

said he, cordially.

"Let it be soon, then, Davy, for the meeting does me good. I feel to-night ten years younger than before you came, and it isn't the wine either; 'tis the sight of your face and the touch of your hand.

Good-night, and my blessing be with you!" And a tear coursed down his seared cheek as he spoke.

CHAPTER XXI. A SHOCK.

It was past midnight when Davenport Donn reached his own house. His return was unexpected, and it was some time before he gained admission.

The delay, however, did not excite his impatience; his head was so deeply occupied with cares and thoughts for the future that he was scarcely conscious of the time he had been kept waiting.

Mr. Clowes, hurriedly summoned from his bed, came up full of apologies and excuses.

"We did not expect you till to-morrow, sir, by the late packet," said he, in some confusion. Dunn made no answer, and the other went on: "Mr.

Hankes, too, thought it not improbable you would not be here before Wednesday."

"When was he here?"

"To-day sir; he left that oak box here this morning, and those letters, sir."

While Dunn carelessly turned over the superscriptions, among which he found none to interest him, Clowes repeatedly pressed his master to take some supper, or at least a biscuit and a glass of dry sherry.

"Send for Mr. Hankes," said Dunn, at last, not condescending to notice the entreaties of his butler. "Let him wait for me here when he comes."

And so saying, he took a candle and passed upstairs.

Mr. Clowes was too well acquainted with his master's temper to obtrude unseasonably upon him, so that he glided noiselessly away till such time as he might be wanted.