One day at Durrus was very like another. By the time I had been there three weeks or a month, the days stretched out behind me into indefinite length, separating me more and more from my past life.
Looking back to that time, it seems to resolve itself into one long tête-à-tête with Willy. Quiet rides with him through the damp brown woods, or now and then a day with the Moycullen hounds; drives{200} to return the visits of such of the natives as had called upon me; walks across the turf bog4 to where the old graveyard5 hangs over the sea, to watch the sun drop below the horizon. “Bound for America,” says Willy. “I wonder if you’d like to be going back with him?” I had no doubts in my own mind on the subject, though I did not feel called upon to say so to him. I was now quite certain that, in spite of various drawbacks, I enjoyed my life at Durrus very much.
I have said that I had had callers. After the O’Neills, among the first to come and see me were Mrs. Jackson-Croly and her daughters, and the Burkes, whose acquaintance I had already made.
These ladies all made their appearance on the same afternoon; but before the Burkes arrived I had an undiluted quarter of an hour of the Jackson-Crolys, during{201} which time the magnificence of Mrs. Croly’s manner was only equalled by the fashionable languor6 of her daughters’. I naturally tried to talk to them of such local subjects as I knew anything about, but found that the meanest topic on which they would consent to converse7 was Dublin Castle, and the affability displayed to them by the lord-lieutenant—“left’nant,” they pronounced it—during the past season. With these lofty themes I was quite unfitted to grapple, and had sunk into a subordinate place in the conversation when the Miss Burkes were announced.
They were both exceedingly cordial and friendly, and Miss Mimi began almost immediately to rally me with ponderous8 facetiousness9 on my exploits on the day of the hunt.
“Oh, Miss Sarsfield! what’s this we hear about you and Mr. O’Neill? Spring{202}ing away through the country after the fox, and leaving poor Willy in the ditch! Oh, fie!”
I feel that it is hopeless to convey any adequate idea of Miss Mimi’s voice by any system of spelling; but the fact that in her vocabulary “fie,” was pronounced “foy,” may serve as some indication of her manner of speech.
At her ingenuous10 observation I became aware that the eyes of Mrs. Jackson-Croly and her two daughters were riveted11 upon me with undisguised interest, and I hastened to explain how it was that Willy had been left behind. But Miss Burke paid little heed12; another and more exciting topic had suggested itself to her.
“Well, Mrs. Croly, is it true that you’re going to give us a dance at Mount Prospect13?” she began. “Why, you’re a wonderful woman for dissipation! We’d all{203} he dying down with dulness only for you.”
Mrs. Jackson-Croly, metaphorically14 speaking, descended15 with one leap from the pedestal on which she had hitherto posed for my benefit. Forgetful of the demeanour befitting one who moved in vice-regal circles, she dragged her chair, still seated upon it, across the floor, till she had placed herself knee to knee with Miss Burke, and they were soon deep in calculation as to the number of “dancing gentlemen” who could be relied on for the forthcoming ball.
A few days afterwards, Nugent O’Neill rode over to ask Willy and me to lunch at Clashmore on the following day. I had once or twice met him and Connie out hunting, and the latter and Henrietta had come over to call, after their dinner at Durrus. On these occasions my acquaintance with Connie had made rapid progress;{204} she was a girl whom it was not difficult to know and to like; but with her brother I seemed to have come to a standstill. I must admit to having felt rather disappointed at this, as since the night of the dinner-party I had believed that, under favouring circumstances, he would be a person with whom I should find myself on many points in sympathy. On this occasion he certainly did not carry out my theory. After a great deal of profoundly uninteresting conversation with Willy, in which a self-respecting wish not to be out of it alone induced me to make a third, they both went round to the stables, and I watched him ride away with a return of my old resentment17 towards him.
Nevertheless, I had to allow to myself that he had not been more dull than was suitable to the subject on which Willy had chosen to harangue18 him—the question of{205} how and where best to lay out and level a tennis-ground in the lawn at Durrus was not one which lent itself to a display of epigram, but I could not see why they should have talked about it the whole time.
I speculated with a good deal of interest on Nugent’s probable demeanour at luncheon19 the next day. I could not make up my mind if his unenthusiastic manner was the result of conceit20 or of an inborn21 distrust of “American young ladies.” It was certainly provoking that the one Irishman I had hitherto met who seemed to have a few ideas beyond horses and farming, was either too uninterested or too distrustful to expend22 them upon me.
“I suppose it is the arrogant23 timidity of these eldest24 sons,” I reflected, with a touch of republican scorn. “I wish I could tell him that he can talk to me without fear of ulterior designs on my part.{206}”
The day of the Clashmore repast was bright and cold. Willy had put Alaska into the dog-cart to drive me there, and we all three started in very good spirits.
“Willy,” I said, as we spun25 along the hard road, “you have never told me anything about The O’Neill. I am rather nervous at the idea of meeting an Irish chieftain in his own lair26. Ought I to kiss his hand? I am sure you ought to have driven over a couple of fat oxen and a he-goat as propitiatory27 offerings.”
“By the hokey! I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Willy. “I can tell you, he is not the sort to refuse them if I did. But I’ve no objection to your kissing his hand, if you like.”
“How kind of you!”
“And he’ll have still less. Mind you, he’s a great old buck28, and expects every girl who goes to Clashmore to make love to him.{207}”
“Oh, Willy!” I cried, in real alarm, “for goodness’ sake don’t let him come near me. I never have anything to say to old men, and yet they invariably want to talk to me.”
“Then, my dear, you’d better look out. The madam will have it in her sleeve for you if he’s too civil; she doesn’t approve of his goings on.”
“Well, one comfort is, I shall probably be in his black books in five minutes, as you say it is one of the seven deadly sins to call him Mister O’Neill. I could no more call him ‘O’Neill’ than I could fly; I should feel as if I were talking to a coachman.”
“Oh, I dare say he’d put up with more than that from you! You’re just his sort. I know he’ll tell every one you are ‘a monstrous29 fine girl.’ You know, he likes them tall and dark and hand{208}——”
“Do hold your tongue!” I interposed. “You are most offensive.”
“Well, never mind,” said Willy, consolingly. “Maybe he won’t look at you, after all. There’s that big English girl we saw in church with them last Sunday—Watson, I think Nugent said her name was—I dare say he devotes himself to her all the time. Though,” he added, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t go in for her myself”—with a glance at me to see how his shaft30 had sped.
“Oh, I hope you will!” I said; “it would interest me so much.”
I thought Willy looked a little crestfallen31, and he said no more on the subject.
As I walked cautiously across the highly polished floor of the Clashmore hall, preceded by an eminently32 respectable young footman, I was amused to find that my mind was occupied in unfeigned admiration{209} of the cleanliness of the house. This, then, was the result of six weeks’ residence at Durrus. I had become so inured33 to untidiness, and a generally lenient34 system of cleansing35, that the most ordinary household virtues36 had acquired positive instead of merely negative value.
The big, bright drawing-room seemed full of strangers, who, as I came in, all stopped talking. I caught, however, my own name, spoken in a voice unmistakable, even in the undertone in which it said, “I declare, there’s Miss Sarsfield herself!” and I had the uncomfortable conviction that Miss Mimi Burke, in common with the rest of the room, had been discussing me.
I advanced with uncertain speed across the wide space of glowing carpet which separated me from Madam O’Neill, my last few steps being considerably37 accelerated by the sudden uprisal from under my feet of{210} an abnormally lengthy38 dachshund, which had lain coiled unseen in my path.
“That detestable dog of Henrietta’s!” said Madam O’Neill, as she shook hands with me; “he is always getting in the way. How do you do, Miss Sarsfield? Robert dear, this is Miss Sarsfield.”
A stout39, elderly gentleman, in a light suit of clothes, and with one of the reddest faces I have ever seen, stepped forward with a very polite bow and expansive smile, and shook hands with me. This was my host, but the warning I had received against encouraging his attentions had so alarmed me, that as soon as was decently possible I turned my back upon him and began to talk to Henrietta. I had been aware all the time of Willy’s observation, and now, as I turned and met his malevolent40 eye, I felt with dismay that my face was slowly turning a good fast colour,{211} analogous41 to Turkey red. Deeply conscious of this, and of the unsparing glare of light from the large plate-glass windows, I spent some singularly uncomfortable moments, until the booming of the gong interrupted Miss O’Neill’s comments on the weather.
I suppose that every one has at some period of their life felt the absurdity42 of being led forth16 processionally to an entirely43 commonplace meal, to which one is quite capable of walking unassisted on one’s own legs. I was never more keenly alive to this than on the present occasion, when, thrusting my hand with some difficulty inside The O’Neill’s bulky arm, and feeling at least a head taller than he, we with all dignity led the way into the dining-room.
I looked round the luncheon-table to see how people had arranged themselves. My neighbour on the right was the Reverend{212} Thomas Horan, Rector of Rathbarry, a dull-looking man, with a saffron complexion44, and hair and beard of inky blackness, whose speech in private life was little less unintelligible45 than his pulpit utterances46. Opposite to me sat Nugent O’Neill and Miss Watson. She was an ordinary type of smart English girl, tall, fair, square shouldered, and well dressed, and apparently47 rather fond of the sound of her own high, unmodulated voice. She, evidently, had no difficulty in talking to Nugent. I caught from time to time such fragments of their discourse48 as, “Saw your college get a bump,” “Up for commemoration week,” “Ladies’ eights”—by which latter phrase I wondered if he were referring to her size in gloves.
The view to my right was impeded49 by the portly form of Miss Mimi Burke, who was next Mr. Horan, she and that divine{213} interchanging much lively badinage50, in tones suggestive of a duet between two trombones. Beyond her I could just discern the feeble profile of a red-haired youth of nineteen or twenty, who was subsequently introduced to me as Mr. Barrett.
The O’Neill had been up to this too busy in dissecting51 two ducks of unusually athletic52 physique to speak to me; but he had from time to time—
“Looked upon me with a soldier’s eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand.”
And when the last limb had been distributed, he turned his crimson53 face and gleaming eyeglass upon me.
“And why haven’t we seen you out with the hounds lately, Miss Sarsfield?” he began, in a wheezy, luscious54 voice, with a suspicion of brogue in it. “Nugent brought home such accounts of your doings{214} that I went out myself in hopes of seeing you show us all the way.”
I modestly disclaimed55 all credit for the glories of the run which had made such a sensation. “And I have only been able to go out once or twice since,” I added; “the meets have been so far away, and Willy has only two horses.”
“Ah! I wish you’d let me give you a mount. Your father has done as much for me many a day when I was a youngster; and I think you and I ought to be great friends”—this with a gaze of deep feeling from the unglazed eye.
“Thank you; you are very kind,” I murmured discomposedly, looking towards the little madam to see if she were noting the behaviour of her lord.
But no; the pink ribbons and marabout tufts of her elaborate cap were nodding complacently56 towards Willy, who was{215} talking to her with enviable ease and fluency57.
Willy’s skill in talking to elderly ladies amounted to inspiration. At present both Madam O’Neill and Miss Bessie Burke were hanging on his words, with every appearance of rapt interest; while I, the beloved of old men, could make no fitting rejoinder to the advances of my host. “But then,” I reflected, in self-extenuation, “old women are infinitely58 preferable to old men.”
“Ah yes!” The O’Neill went on, “how much you remind me of your father! The same wonderful dark eyes——”
“Mine are grey,” I interrupted, in as repressive a manner as possible.
“No matter—no matter; they have the same depth of expression. ‘That ey{216}e’s dark charm ’twere vain to tell,’ eh? Isn’t that what Byron says?”
Of the appropriateness of the quotation60 my plate alone was in a position to give an opinion, as on it my eyes were immovably fixed61.
“I say, sir,” said Nugent, suddenly, from across the table, “did you know that Miss Watson was a great fortune-teller? You ought to show her your hand.”
Nothing loth, O’Neill laid his fat white hand on the table for Miss Watson’s inspection62. She at once opened the campaign in a masterly manner, by pronouncing it to be that of a “flirt,” and I felt that the chieftain’s entertainment need no longer be a matter of anxiety to me.
Looking at his father with a peculiar63 expression, in which amusement seemed to predominate, Nugent listened for a minute or two to Miss Watson’s ingenious in{217}sinuations and pronouncements. Then he turned to me.
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1
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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buck
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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chiromancy
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| n.手相术 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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