The
servants understand," and with that he went straightway back into the
house.
* * * * *
The biographer of Dermod Eustace would need to bring a wary mind to his
work. For though the old master of Lennon House has not lain twenty
years in his grave, he is already swollen into a legendary character.
Anecdotes have grown upon his memory like barnacles, and any man in
those parts with a knack of invention has only to foist his stories upon
Dermod to ensure a ready credence. There are, however, definite facts.
He practised an ancient and tyrannous hospitality, keeping open house
upon the road to Letterkenny, and forcing bed and board even upon
strangers, as Durrance had once discovered. He was a man of another
century, who looked out with a glowering, angry eye upon a topsy-turvy
world, and would not be reconciled to it except after much alcohol. He
was a sort of intoxicated Coriolanus, believing that the people should
be shepherded with a stick, yet always mindful of his manners, even to
the lowliest of women. It was said of him with pride by the townsfolk
of Ramelton, that even at his worst, when he came galloping down the
steep cobbled streets, mounted on a big white mare of seventeen hands,
with his inseparable collie dog for his companion,--a gaunt, grey-faced,
grey-haired man, with a drooping eye, swaying with drink, yet by a
miracle keeping his saddle,--he had never ridden down any one except a
man.
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