“To Miss Sarsfield, s.s. ‘Alaska,’ Queenstown. From W. Sarsfield.
This despatch3 was put into my hand before I left the steamer at Queenstown. Its genial4 tone and eccentric grammar were quite in keeping with my ideas of an Irishman. These were at once simple and{28} definite. All Irishmen were genial; most of them were eccentric. In fact, had my uncle and cousin met me on the pier5, clad in knee-breeches and tail-coats, and hailed me with what I believed to be the national salutation “Begorra!” I should scarcely have been taken aback.
The outside car on which I drove from the Cork6 station to the hotel was also a realization7 of preconceived ideas. In response to the bewildering proffers8 of “Inside or outside?” I had selected an “outside,” and was quite satisfied with the genuineness of the difficulty I found in remaining on it, as we rattled9 through the muddy streets. The carman himself was perhaps a little disappointing. His replies to my questions were not only devoid10 of that repartee11 which I had understood to be the attribute of all Irish carmen, but were lacking in common intelligence; and on{29} his replying for the third time, “Faith, I dunno, miss,” I concluded I must have hit on an unlucky exception.
The day had lost none of the brilliancy of the early morning. It seemed to me that the sun shone with a deliberate intention of welcome, and the unfamiliar12 softness of Irish air was almost intoxicating13. Everything was conspiring14 to put me into the highest spirits, and I only laughed when my new dressing-bag was flung on to the pavement by the dislocating jerk with which the car pulled up in front of Foley’s Hotel.
As I walked into the hotel, the porter who had taken in my boxes, went over to a tall young man who was leaning over the bar at the end of the narrow hall, and whispered something to him. He immediately started from his lounging position, and, furtively15 glancing at the mirror behind the bar, he came up to me.{30}
“How do you do? I’m very glad to see you over here,” he said, with an evident effort to assume an easy cousinly manner. “I hope you didn’t mind not meeting me. I was awfully sorry I couldn’t get down to Queenstown, but I had important business in town.” It was perhaps a consciousness of the interested scrutiny16 of the young lady behind the bar that caused him to blush an ingenuous17 red as he spoke18. “You’d better come on and have some luncheon19,” he continued, without giving me time to answer him. “We’ve only got an hour before the train starts.”
I followed him into the coffee-room, thinking as I did so how different this well-dressed, rather awkward young man was from the picturesque20 and vivacious21 creature I had somehow pictured my Irish cousin to be. His accent, however, was unmistakably that of his native country;{31} or, rather, as I afterwards found, that of his particular part of it. His quick, low way of speaking was at first a little unintelligible22 to me, and almost gave me the idea that what he said was intended to be of a confidential23 nature; but on the whole I thought his voice a singularly pleasant one, and listened with interest to its friendly modulations.
By the time our luncheon was put on the table he was more at his ease, and had even, with a sheepish, half-deprecating glance from his light grey eyes, addressed me as “Theo.” The almost fraternal familiarity of the head waiter was, on Willy’s explanation that I was his cousin from America, extended in the fullest degree to me.
“Indeed, when I seen her coming in the door, I remarked to Miss Foley how greatly the young lady favoured the{32} Sarsfield family,” he observed blandly24; “and Miss Foley said she considered she had a great likeness25 to yourself, captain.”
This was a little embarrassing. I did not quite know what I was expected to say, and devoted26 myself to my mutton-chop.
“I did not know that you were a soldier,” I said, as soon as the waiter had gone.
“Oh, well,” replied my cousin, giving a conscious twist to his yellow moustache, “I’m only a sort of one—what they call ‘a malicious27 man.’ I’m a captain in the West Cork Artillery28 Militia29,” he explained; “but nobody calls me that but the buckeens hereabouts.”
I wondered silently what a buckeen was, and why it should be so anxious to maintain the prestige of the militia, but did not like to betray too much ignorance of what{33} might be one of the interesting old courtesy titles peculiar30 to Ireland.
Looking at my cousin as he rapidly devoured31 his luncheon, I noticed that, in spite of his disclaimer of military rank, he took some pains to cultivate a martial32 appearance. His straw-coloured hair was clipped with merciless precision, and on his sunburnt forehead, what was evidently a cherished triangle of white marked the limit of protection afforded by an artillery forage33 cap.
“I think I’d better be looking after your luggage now,” he said, bolting what remained of his second chop, and getting up from the table with his mouth full. “I was quite frightened when I saw those two big mountains of trunks coming along on the car after you. And then when I saw you walk in”—he laughed a pleasant, {34}foolish laugh—“I didn’t think you’d be such a swell34!” he ended, with confiding35 friendliness36.
The terminus of the Cork and Moycullen railway, the line by which we were to travel to Durrus, was crowded on that Saturday afternoon. We had ten minutes to spare, during which I sat at the window and watched with the utmost interest the concourse on the platform. It had all the appearance of a large social gathering37 or conversazione. Stragglers wandered from group to group, showing an equal acquaintance with all, and with apparently39 entire nonchalance40 as to the functions of the train, while the guard himself bustled41 about among them with an interest that was evidently quite unofficial. My carriage soon became thronged42 with people, between whom and their friends on the platform a constant traffic in brown-paper parcels was carried on; and I was beginning to think{35} there would be no room for Willy, who had disappeared in the crowd. But the ringing of the final bell set my mind at rest.
Contrary to the usual usage, this sound had the effect of almost emptying the train, and, the party in my carriage being reduced to two, I realized that the travellers were left in a minority by those who had come to bid them good-bye.
Willy returned at the last moment, emerging from the centre of a group of young ladies, with the well-pleased air of one whose conversation has been appreciated.
“Did you see those girls I was talking to?” he said, as we moved out of the station. “They are cousins of the O’Neills, people in our part of the world. They came down to see me off. There was a great mob there to-day, but there always is on Saturday.{36}”
“Who are the O’Neills?” I asked, feeling that some response was expected of me.
“They’re neighbours of ours. They live at Clashmore—that’s four miles from us—and they’re very nice people. Nugent, the brother, used to be a great pal43 of mine—at least, he was till he went to Cambridge, and came back thinking no one fit to speak to but himself.”
Not feeling particularly interested in the O’Neills, I did not pursue the subject; but Willy was full of conversation.
“I’m just after buying a grand little mare44 in Cork. It was that kept me from going to meet you,” he observed confidentially45. “I suppose you learnt to ride at your ranch46, Theo? I tell you what! I bought her for the governor, but she’d carry you flying, and you shall hunt her this winter if you like.{37}”
My cousinly feeling for Willy increased perceptibly at this suggestion.
“But,” I said, “if your father buys her, he will want to ride her himself, won’t he?”
“Is it the governor?”—with an intonation47 of contempt. “You never see him on a horse’s back. He’s always humbugging in the house over papers and books. I believe he used to be a great sportsman and fond of society, but he never goes anywhere now.”
The two ladies who had started from Cork with us had got out a station or two afterwards, and we had the carriage to ourselves. But the extraordinary jolting48 and rattling49 of the train were not conducive50 to conversation, and, seeing that I was not inclined to talk, Willy relapsed into the collar of his ulster and the Cork newspaper, and ended by going unaffectedly to sleep.{38}
It grew slowly darker. I sat watching the endless procession of small fields slipping past the window, until the grey monotony of colour made me dizzy. I leaned back, and, closing my eyes, tried to imagine the life I was going to, and to contrast its probabilities with my past experience. But a strange feeling of remoteness and unreality came upon me. I suppose that the mental exhaustion51 caused by so many new sights and impressions had dazed me, and I began to doubt that such a person as Theo Sarsfield had ever really existed. Willy, my Uncle Dominick, and my father flitted confusedly through my mind as inconsequently as people in a dream. I myself seemed to have lost touch with the world; my past life had slid away from me, and the future I had not yet grasped. I was a solitary52 and aimless unit in the dark whirl that{39} surrounded me, and the sleeping figure at the opposite end of the carriage was a trick of imagination, and as unreal as I. I became more and more remote from things actual, and finally fell from all consciousness into a sleep as sound as Willy’s.
My slumbers53 were at length penetrated54 by a shriek55 from the engine. I sat up, and saw that Willy was taking down his parcels from the rack; and in another minute we were in the little station of Moycullen.
A hat with a cockade appeared at the window.
“Hullo, Mick. Is it the dog-cart they’ve sent?”
“’Tis the shut carriage, Masther Willy,” said Mick; “and ’tis waiting without in the street.”
With some difficulty I followed Mick{40} through the crowd of carts in the station yard, to where a landau and pair were standing56 in the road. The moonlight was bright enough for me to see the fine shapes of the big brown horses, who were evincing so lively an interest in the movements of the engine that the coachman had plenty to do to keep them quiet.
“You’re welcome, miss,” said that functionary57, touching58 his hat; and I got into the carriage, followed by Willy, with the usual number of impedimenta that appear necessary to male travelling youth.
“It’s a good long drive,” he said, arranging rugs over our knees—“twelve Irish miles. But we won’t be very long getting there. You won’t have time to be tired of me—I hope not, anyhow.”
This was more like my idea of the typical Irishman, but was, nevertheless, rather discomposing from a comparative{41} stranger. It was said, moreover, with a certain conquering air, which plainly showed that Willy was not accustomed to being found a bore. I could think of no very effective reply, so I laughed vaguely59, and said I hoped I should not.
We had been driving at a good pace for about an hour, when we left the high-road and began the ascent60 of a long steep hill. At the top the carriage turned a sharp corner, and I saw below me, on my right, a great sheet of water all alight with the misty61 splendour of a full moon. Black points of land cut their way into the expanse of mellow62 silver, and the small islands were scattered63 like blots64 upon it.
“That’s Roaring Water Bay,” said Willy; “and that mountain over there’s called Croagh Keenan”—pointing to a shadowy mass that formed the western limit of the bay. “You haven’t anything{42} to beat that in America, I’ll bet!” An assertion which I refrained from combatting.
Our road now lay for a mile or two along the top of a hill overlooking the bay, and though Willy had done his best to make himself agreeable, I was tired enough to be extremely glad when the carriage swung sharply between high gate-posts, and we entered the avenue of Durrus.
As we passed the lodge65, I caught, in the moonlight, a glimpse of the pretty face of a girl who opened the gates, and asked who she was.
“She’s the lodgekeeper’s daughter,” said my cousin.
“She looked very pretty.”
“Yes, she’s not bad looking,” he said indifferently. “There are plenty of good-looking girls in these parts.”
The drive sloped down through a park{43} to the level of a turf bog66, which it skirted for some distance, and then entered a thick clump67 of trees, through which the moonlight only penetrated sufficiently68 to let me see that they were growing in a species of reedy swamp, from which, on this cold night, a low frosty mist was rising. We were soon out again into the moonlight, the horses quickening up as they came near their journey’s end. I saw a sudden gleam of sea in front, and on the left a long, low house, looking wan38 and ghostly in the moonlight.
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1
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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3
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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7
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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10
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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12
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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13
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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14
conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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15
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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16
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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17
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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19
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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20
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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21
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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22
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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23
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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24
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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25
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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27
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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28
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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30
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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31
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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32
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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33
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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34
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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35
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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36
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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37
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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38
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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39
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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41
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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42
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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44
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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45
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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46
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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47
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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48
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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49
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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50
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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51
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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52
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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53
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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54
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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56
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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57
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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58
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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60
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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61
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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62
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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63
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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64
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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65
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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66
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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67
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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68
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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