“O’Rorke’s noble feast will ne’er be forgot
By those who were there, and those who were not.”
It was the day of the Jackson-Crolys’ dance, for which we had in due course received our invitations, gorgeously printed on gilt-edged cards. Willy and I were sitting over the library fire after tea, and had already begun to contemplate1 the combined horrors of dressing2 for a ball and eating a half-past six o’clock dinner,{281} when Uncle Dominick stalked in, with a basket in his hand, which he handed to me with a note, saying austerely3 that one of the Clashmore servants had just ridden over with it.
The note was from Connie.
“My dear Theo,” it began—I had seen a good deal of the O’Neills lately, and Connie and I had arrived at calling each other by our Christian4 names—“we are sending you over some yellow chrysanthemums5, as you said you were going to wear white. Mamma will, of course, be delighted to chaperon you, and thinks you had better come here first, and drive on in our carriage; and we can take you home and put you up for the night, as Willy may want to stay later than you do. Nugent is, I think, very proud of the bouquet7. He constructed it himself, and has spent the greater part of the morning{282} over it in the conservatory8. Certainly, as far as wire goes, it is all that can be desired; there are at least ten yards of that in it.”
“I should have thought you might have found some flowers for your cousin here, Willy,” remarked Uncle Dominick, while I was reading the letter to myself.
“There’s nothing fit for any one to wear,” answered Willy, gloomily. “I was out this morning to see, and there was nothing but a few violets.”
“I am sorry you did not pick them,” I said, with pacific intention; “I should have been very glad to wear them. They think it would simplify matters if I slept at Clashmore to-night,” I went on. “I think it would be a good plan, if you don’t mind, Uncle Dominick?”
“It is entirely9 for you to decide, my dear,” he said coldly; “you can make any{283} arrangements that you like. The man is waiting for an answer.”
I accordingly wrote a note to Connie to that effect, and, having sent it, went up to dress.
With the aid of the ministrations of Maggie, the red-haired housemaid, who had developed a deep attachment11 for me, I was arriving at the more advanced stages of my toilet, when I heard a knock at my door.
“I’ve got you some violets,” said Willy’s voice, “but I’m afraid they’re not up to much. I’ve left them outside.”
I heard him run down the passage to his own room, and, opening the door, I saw a small bunch of violets lying on the ground. I picked them up; there were very few of them, and they were drenched12 with rain. Willy must have been all this{284} time toilsomely searching for them with a lantern in the dark.
“Has it been raining, Maggie?” I asked.
So he must have gone out in the rain to pick them for me. Poor Willy!
I fastened them into the front of my dress with a sudden ache of pity, and looked at those other flowers on my dressing-table, the feathery golden chrysanthemums showing through a mist of maidenhair, with something that was near being distaste. Their coming had not been altogether a surprise to me; in fact, I had been more or less looking out for them all day. But somehow Willy’s bunch of violets had taken away most of my pleasure in them, and when I came downstairs I laid the bouquet with my wraps, out of sight, on the hall table.{285}
We hurried through our early dinner, but before we left the dining-room I received a mysterious intimation from Roche to the effect that Mrs. Rourke would like to see me outside.
Mrs. Rourke was the cook, and, inly marvelling14 what she could have to say to me, I went out into the hall. There, to my no small surprise, I was confronted, not only by Mrs. Rourke, but by the whole strength of the Durrus indoor establishment. There they all were—housemaid, dairy-maid, and kitchen-maids, with their barefooted subordinates lurking15 behind them, and from them, as I appeared, a low-breathed murmur16 of approval arose.
“Well, miss,” began Mrs. Rourke, in tones of solemn conviction, “ye might thravel Ireland this night, and ye wouldn’t find yer aiqual! Of all the young ladies ever I seen, you take the sway!{286}”
“Why, you can’t half see her there, Mrs. Rourke,” said Willy, coming out of the dining-room; “hold on till I get a lamp.”
He came back with the tall old moderator lamp from the middle of the dinner-table, and, holding it up, stood so that the light should fall full on me. Seldom have I felt more foolish than I did at that moment; but I did my best to live up to the position.
“And what I say, Masther Willy,” continued Mrs. Rourke, taking up her parable18 in the manner of a prophetess, “is that I never seen a finer pair than the two of ye, and ye do well to be proud of her! And I hope it won’t be the last time I’ll see herself and yourself going out through that door together—nor coming in through it nayther!”
This dark saying was received by the{287} chorus with various devotional expressions of satisfaction.
“Yes, Mrs. Rourke,” said my uncle’s voice from behind me, in tones of unusual affability, “I think we have no reason to be ashamed of our representatives.”
I was beginning to feel that I could bear this dreadful ceremonial no longer, when, with sincere inward thanksgiving, I heard the grinding of wheels on the gravel19.
“There is the carriage,” I said, turning to Willy, who had all this time been silently holding up the lamp; “do put down that thing, and get me my cloak.”
My uncle himself put my wraps upon me, and stood with me in the open doorway20 while Roche laid a strip of carpet down the wet steps. As I stood waiting in the doorway, I saw a woman standing21 in the rain, just outside the circle of light thrown from the carriage lamps. She{288} pressed forward a little as I came down the steps, and then drew quickly back with what sounded like a sob22. The momentary23 gleam of the carriage lights had shown me who it was.
“Willy,” I said, as we drove away, “did you see Anstey Brian standing there? I am almost sure she was crying. What could have been the matter with her?”
“You must have made a mistake,” he said; “maybe it wasn’t Anstey at all. Anyhow, if she wants to cry, there’s no need for her to go and stand out there in the rain to do it.”
He spoke24 with an annoyance25 that puzzled me. I was quite certain that I had seen Anstey; but, remembering that for some reason the subject of Moll Hourihane and her daughter had always been an unfortunate one with Willy and my uncle, I said no more.{289}
We had been asked to the Jackson-Crolys’ for nine o’clock, but, although it was not much more than half-past when the Clashmore carriage arrived at Mount Prospect26, several heated couples whom we encountered in the hall were proof that the dancing had already been going on for some time. On coming down from the cloak-room, we saw at the foot of the stairs a small, bald-headed gentleman, moving in an agitated27 way from leg to leg, and apparently28 engaged in alternately putting on and taking off his gloves.
“That’s Mr. Jackson-Croly,” whispered Connie, rapidly; “he’s an odious29 little being! Don’t dance with him if you can possibly help it. I always tell lies to escape him; I lose less self-respect in that way than by dancing with him.”
She had no time to say more, as Madam O’Neill had by this time advanced upon{290} our host with a benignity30 of aspect born of the consciousness of a singularly becoming cap and generally successful toilette. For a moment I thought he was going to make her a courtesy, so low was his reverence31 on shaking hands with her.
“It was so kind of you to come, Madam O’Neill,” he said, speaking through tightly closed teeth in a small, deprecating voice; “and the weather so unpleasant, too; yes, indeed! But we’ve quite a nice little number of friends dancing in there already, and we’re expecting another carful of partners for the young ladies”—with a bow to Connie and me—“from the bank in Moycullen.”
“That will be delightful32!” said Connie, with a brilliant smile, giving me at the same time an expressive33 pinch.
She was looking very pretty, and was in the highest spirits, consequent, as I{291} soon found, on an advanced flirtation34 with a Captain Forster, then staying at Clashmore. Pending35 his arrival, however, she condescended36 to dance with Mr. Jimmy Barrett, who, his usual red-hot appearance accentuated37 by the fact that he was wearing the hunt uniform, had waylaid38 us in the hall, and he now carried Connie off, while I followed the Madam and Mr. Jackson-Croly into the drawing-room. There we were received by Mrs. Jackson-Croly, imposingly39 attired40 in ruby41 silk and white lace. Unlike her obsequious42 spouse43, Madam O’Neill’s diamonds and acknowledged social standing had no over-aweing effect upon her, and in her greeting to us she abated44 no whit6 of her usual magnificence of manner.
“’Twas too bad Miss O’Neill was from home and couldn’t come,” she observed condescendingly. “I have lots of gentle{292}men looking for partners—quite an ‘embrasse de richesses.’ There were so many asking for invitations, and I didn’t like refusing. You must let me present some of them to you, Miss Sarsfield.”
The two rooms in which the dancing was going on were brightened by the red coats of several members of the Moycullen Hunt, and one of these was presently captured by Mrs. Croly and introduced to me. While I was putting his name down for a dance, the rest of our party were ushered45 in by Mr. Jackson-Croly.
“The Clashmore gentlemen, Louisa, my dear,” he announced, with chastened pride.
The O’Neill soon made his way to me.
“Well, Miss Sarsfield, what are we to have? I see the next is a polka. I can’t manage these new-fashioned waltzes, but I flatter myself I can dance a polka.”
With inward trepidation46 I consented,{293} and was occupied with the usual difficulty of refastening my pencil to my card, when card and all were quietly taken out of my hand.
“Now, Theo, how about those dances you promised me? I’m just going to put my name down for them”—scribbling away on my card as he spoke.
“Nonsense, Willy; give me back my card at once.”
“No fear; not till I’ve done with it. Well, this will do for a start,” he said, at length returning me my card, black with his initials, and departing without giving me time to remonstrate47. As he went away, Nugent came up.
“Can you give me a dance?” he asked. “I am afraid it is not very likely, after the amount of time Willy has spent over your card. I never saw him write so much before in his life; he looked as if he were writing a book.{294}”
“Oh, I think I have some left,” I said, resolving to do as I thought fit about Willy’s dances.
“Then, may I have 6, 11, 13, and 18, if you are here; and supper?”
“I am afraid I can’t give you supper,” I said, glancing at the large “W” scrawled48 through the four supper extras on my card; “but you can have the others, I think.”
“Thanks; that is very good of you. I think the next thing to be done is to ask Mrs. Croly for a waltz”—making a survey of the room as he spoke. “I always do, and she always pretends to strike me with her fan, and says, ‘I suppose you’re mistaking me for Sissie,’ and is arch. I should watch if I were you; I am sure you would like to see her looking arch.”
I was, unfortunately, not privileged to see this phase of my hostess, as The O’Neill had already stationed himself beside me, so as not to lose a bar of his polka.{295}
“Lots of people here to-night, Miss Sarsfield. You must feel as if you were back in Boston, eh? Ah, there’s the music! Let us start while we have plenty of room.”
He danced with the self-assertive vigour49 peculiar50 to small fat men, and we stamped and curvetted round the room in circles so small that I found it difficult to keep on my feet.
“That wasn’t bad,” he gasped51 complacently52, as we staggered to a corner and rested there, while he mopped his purple forehead. “You dance like a fairy, Miss Sarsfield. But, upon my soul, I think they get more pace on every year. That woman at the piano—Mrs. What’s-her-name? Whelply, isn’t it?—why, she’s rattling53 away as if the devil was after her.”
Looking about me, I saw with deep amusement that Willy had selected Miss Mimi Burke as his partner, and was{296} charging with her through the throng54 at reckless speed. Her face, blazing with heat and excitement, showed no unworthy fears for her own safety; and as, with her chin embedded55 in Willy’s shoulder, they sped past, she cast an eye of exhilarated recognition at me.
“By Jove!” wheezed56 O’Neill, still breathless from his exertions57; “old Mimi’s got a wonderful kick in her gallop58 still. She’s getting over the ground like a three-year-old!”
To me the appearance of my cousin and his partner was more suggestive of a large steamer going full speed through smaller craft, Miss Mimi’s rubicund59 face representing the port light; but I kept this brilliant idea to myself.
“I hope Willy knows how to steer,” I said. “He does not take things so easily as your son appears to do.{297}”
Nugent was performing what was only too evidently a duty dance with one of the Misses Jackson-Croly—a very young lady, with fuzzy hair and a pink frock. They wound sadly along, as much as possible on the outskirts60 of the darting61 crowd, Nugent’s expression of melancholy62 provoking his more agile63 parent to a laugh of mingled64 contempt and self-complacency.
“Take things easily!” he repeated; “why, he’s a regular muff. Who’d ever think he was a son of mine? If I were dancing with a spicy65 little girl like that, I wouldn’t look as if I were at my own funeral. Shall we have another turn?” and before I had time for a counter suggestion we were again hopping66 and spinning round the room.
I had no reason to complain of lack of attention on the part of my hostess, and I and my card were soon in a state of equal{298} confusion. The generic67 name of Mrs. Jackson-Croly’s “dancing gentlemen” appeared to be either Beamish or Barrett, and had it not been for Willy’s elucidation68 of its mysteries, I should have thrown my card away in despair.
“No, not him. That’s Long Tom Beamish! It’s English Tommy you’re to dance with next. They call him English Tommy because, when his militia69 regiment70 was ordered to Aldershot, he said he was ‘the first of his ancestors that was ever sent on foreign service.’”
Willy’s dances with me were, during this earlier part of the evening, sandwiched with great regularity71 between those of the clans72 Beamish and Barrett, and I found him to be in every way a most satisfactory partner. He was in a state of radiant amiability73, and proved himself of inestimable value as a chronicler of interest{299}ing facts about the company in general. He was, besides, strong and sure-footed—qualities, as I had reason to know, not to be despised in an assemblage such as this. I carried for several days the bruises74 which I received during my waltz with English Tommy. It consisted chiefly of a series of short rushes, of so shattering a nature that I at last ventured to suggest a less aggressive mode of progression.
“Well,” said English Tommy, confidentially75, “ye see, I’m trying to bump Katie! That’s Katie”—pointing to a fat girl in blue. “She’s my cousin, and we’re for ever fighting.”
There seemed at the time nothing very incongruous about this explanation. There was a hilarious76 informality about the whole entertainment that made it unlike any I had ever been at before. Every one talked and laughed at the full pitch of their lungs.{300} An atmosphere of utmost intimacy77 pervaded78 the assemblage, and Christian names and strange nicknames were bandied freely about among the groups in the corners. The music was supplied by volunteers from the ranks of the chaperons, at the end of each dance the musician receiving a round of applause, varying in volume according to the energy and power of endurance displayed. The varieties of style and time thus attained79 were almost unimaginable, and were only equalled by the corresponding vagaries80 of the dancers, whose trampings and shufflings and runnings were to me as amazing as they were unexpected.
I could see Madam O’Neill sitting in state at the end of the room, surrounded by lesser81 matrons, her boredom82 only alleviated83 by the acute disfavour with which she viewed the revels84.{301}
“Do you know where Connie is, my dear?” she said, with pale asperity85, as I came up to her after a dance. “I have not seen her for the last four dances.”
I was well aware that Connie and Captain Forster had long since established themselves in the conservatory, but Madam O’Neill was too full of her grievance86 to give me time to reply.
“I am perfectly87 horrified88 at what you must think of all this,” she went on. “Even here I never saw such a noisy, romping89 set. You know, we are quite in the backwoods here—all the nice people live at the other end of the county—and you mustn’t take these as specimens90 of Irish society.”
I was spared the necessity of replying by the appearance of Nugent.
“Nugent, where is Connie?” demanded the Madam again. “It is too bad of her{302} to make herself so remarkable91 in a place like this.”
“Oh, she’s all right; she’s with Forster somewhere,” he answered, with the incaution of total indifference92. “Here’s your host coming to take you in to supper, and I advise you to avoid the sherry. This is our dance, No. 11,” he said to me. “We had better not lose any more of it.”
END OF VOL. I.
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1
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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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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10
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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13
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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28
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imposingly
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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44
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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45
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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47
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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48
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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52
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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53
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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54
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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55
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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56
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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