'But he lay like a warrior1 taking his rest,
With his martial2 cloak around him.'
Charles Wolfe.
At midnight I heard a faint tap at my door, and Francesca walked in, her eyes wide and bright, her cheeks flushed, her long, dark braid of hair hanging over her black travelling cloak. I laughed as I saw her, she looked so like Sir Patrick Spens in the ballad3 play at Pettybaw,--a memorable4 occasion when Ronald Macdonald caught her acting5 that tragic6 role in his ministerial gown, the very day that Himself came from Paris to marry me in Pettybaw, dear little Pettybaw!
"I came in to find out if your bed is as bad as mine, but I see you have not slept in it," she whispered.
"I was just coming in to see if yours could be any worse," I replied. "Do you mean to say that you have tried it, courageous7 girl? I blew out my candle, and then, after an interval8 in which to forget, sat down on the outside as a preliminary; but the moon rose just then, and I could get no further."
I had not unpacked9 my bag. I had simply slipped on my macintosh, selected a wooden chair, and, putting a Cromwellian towel over it, seated myself shudderingly10 on it and put my feet on the rounds, quoting Moore meantime--
'And the best of all ways
To lengthen11 our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"
Francesca followed my example, and we passed the night in reading Celtic romances to each other. We could see the faint outline of sweet Slievenamann from our windows--the mountain of the fair women of Feimheann, celebrated12 as the hunting-ground of the Finnian Chiefs.
'One day Finn and Oscar
Followed the chase in Sliabh-na-mban-Feimheann,
With three thousand Finnian chiefs
Ere the sun looked out from his circle.'
In the Finnian legend, the great Finn McCool, when much puzzled in the choice of a wife, seated himself on its summit. At last he decided13 to make himself a prize in a competition of all the fair women in Ireland. They should start at the foot of the mountain, and the one who first reached the summit should be the great Finn's bride. It was Grainne Oge, the Gallic Helen, and daughter of Cormac, the king of Ireland, who won the chieftain, 'being fleetest of foot and longest of wind.'
We almost forgot our discomforts14 in this enthralling15 story, and slept on each other's nice clean shoulders a little, just before the dawn. And such a dawn! Such infinite softness of air, such dew-drenched verdure! It is a backward spring, they say, but to me the woods are even lovelier than in their summer wealth of foliage16, when one can hardly distinguish the beauty of the single tree from that of its neighbours, since the colours are blended in one universal green. Now we see the feathery tassels17 of the beech18 bursting out of their brown husks, the russet hues19 of the young oak leaves, and the countless20 emerald gleams that 'break from the ruby-budded lime.' The greenest trees are the larch21, the horse-chestnut, and the sycamore, three naturalised citizens who apparently22 still keep to their native fashions, and put out their foliage as they used to do in their own homes. The young alders23 and the hawthorn24 hedges are greening, but it will be a fortnight before we can realise the beauty of that snow-white bloom, with its bitter-sweet fragrance25. The cuckoo-flower came this year before instead of after the bird, they tell us, showing that even Nature, in these days of anarchy26 and misrule, is capable of taking liberties with her own laws. There is a fragrance of freshly turned earth in the air, and the rooks are streaming out from the elms by the little church, and resting for a bit in a group of plume-like yews27. The last few days of warmth and sunshine have inspired the birds, and as Francesca and I sit at our windows breathing in the sweetness and freshness of the morning, there is a concert of thrushes and blackbirds in the shrubberies. The little birds furnish the chorus or the undertone of song, the hedge-sparrows, redbreasts, and chaffinches, but the meistersingers 'call the tune,' and lead the feathered orchestra with clear and certain notes. It is a golden time for the minstrels, for nest-building is finished, and the feeding of the younglings a good time yet in the future. We can see one little brown lady hovering28 warm eggs under her breast, her bright eyes peeping through a screen of leaves as she glances up at her singing lord, pouring out his thanks for the morning sun. There is only a hint of breeze, it might almost be the whisper of uncurling fern fronds29, but soft as it is, it stirs the branches here and there, and I know that it is rocking hundreds of tiny cradles in the forest.
When I was always painting in those other days before I met Himself, one might think my eyes would have been even keener to see beauty than now, when my brushes are more seldom used; but it is not so. There is something, deep hidden in my consciousness, that makes all loveliness lovelier, that helps me to interpret it in a different and in a larger sense. I have a feeling that I have been lifted out of the individual and given my true place in the general scheme of the universe, and, in some subtle way that I can hardly explain, I am more nearly related to all things good, beautiful, and true than I was when I was wholly an artist, and therefore less a woman. The bursting of the leaf-buds brings me a tender thought of the one dear heart that gives me all its spring; and whenever I see the smile of a child, a generous look, the flash of sympathy in an eye, it makes me warm with swift remembrance of the one I love the best of all, just 'as a lamplight will set a linnet singing for the sun.'
Love is doing the same thing for Francesca; for the smaller feelings merge30 themselves in the larger ones, as little streams lose themselves in oceans. Whenever we talk quietly together of that strange, new, difficult life that she is going so bravely and so joyously31 to meet, I know by her expression that Ronald's noble face, a little shy, a little proud, but altogether adoring, serves her for courage and for inspiration, and she feels that his hand is holding hers across the distance, in a clasp that promises strength.
At five o'clock we longed to ring for hot water, but did not dare. Even at six there was no sound of life in the cosy32 inn which we have named The Cromwell Arms ('Mrs. Duddy, Manageress; Comfort, Cleanliness, Courtesy; Night Porter; Cycling Shed'). From seven to half-past we read pages and pages of delicious history and legend, and decided to go from Cappoquin to Youghal by steamer, if we could possibly reach the place of departure in time. At half-past seven we pulled the bell energetically. Nothing happened, and we pulled again and again, discovering at last that the connection between the bell-rope and the bell-wire had long since disappeared, though it had been more than once established with bits of twine33, fishing-line, and shoe laces. Francesca then went across the hall to examine her methods of communication, and presently I heard a welcome tinkle34, and another, and another, followed in due season by a cheerful voice, saying, "Don't desthroy it intirely, ma'am; I'll be coming direckly." We ordered jugs36 of hot water, and were told that it would be some time before it could be had, as ladies were not in the habit of calling for it before nine in the morning, and as the damper of the kitchen-range was out of order. Did we wish it in a little canteen with whisky and a bit of lemon-peel, or were we afther wantin' it in a jug35? We replied promptly38 that it was not the hour for toddy, but the hour for baths, with us, and the decrepit39 and very sleepy night porter departed to wake the cook and build the fire; advising me first, in a friendly way, to take the hearth40 brush that was 'kapin' the windy up, and rap on the wall if I needed annything more.' At eight o'clock we heard the porter's shuffling41 step in the hall, followed by a howl and a polite objurgation. A strange dog had passed the night under Francesca's bed, and the porter was giving him what he called 'a good hand and fut downstairs.' He had put down the hot water for this operation, and on taking up the burden again we heard him exclaim: "Arrah! look at that now! May the divil fly away with the excommunicated ould jug!" It was past saving, the jug, and leaked so freely that one had to be exceedingly nimble to put to use any of the smoky water in it. "Thim fools o' turf do nothing but smoke on me," apologised the venerable servitor, who then asked, "would we be pleased to order breakquist." We were wise in our generation, and asked for nothing but bacon, eggs, and tea; and after a smoky bath and a change of raiment we seated at our repast in the coffee-room, feeling wonderfully fresh and cheerful. By looking directly at each other most of the time, and making experimental journeys from plate to mouth, thus barring out any intimate knowledge of the tablecloth42 and the waiter's linen43, we managed to make a breakfast. Francesca is enough to give any one a good appetite. Ronald Macdonald will be a lucky fellow, I think, to begin his day by sitting opposite her, for her eyes shine like those of a child, and one's gaze lingers fondly on the cool freshness of her cheek. Breakfast over and the bill settled, we speedily shook off as much of the dust of Mrs. Duddy's hotel as could be shaken off, and departed on the most decrepit sidecar that ever rolled on two wheels, being wished a safe journey by a slatternly maid who stood in the doorway44, by the wide Mrs. Duddy herself, who realised in her capacious person the picturesque45 Irish phrase, 'the full-of-the-door of a woman,' and by our friend the head waiter, who leaned against Mrs. Duddy's ancestral pillars in such a way that the morning sun shone full upon his costume and revealed its weaknesses to our reluctant gaze.
The driver said it was eleven miles to Cappoquin, the guide-book fourteen, but this difference of opinion, we find, is only the difference between Irish and English miles, for which our driver had an unspeakable contempt, as of a vastly inferior quality. He had, on the other hand, a great respect for Mrs. Duddy and her comfortable, cleanly, and courteous46 establishment (as per advertisement), and the warmest admiration47 for the village in which she had appropriately located herself, a village which he alluded48 to as 'wan37 of the natest towns in the ring of Ireland, for if ye made a slip in the street of it, be the help of God ye were always sure to fall into a public-house!'
"We had better not tell the full particulars of this journey to Salemina," said Francesca prudently49, as we rumbled50 along; "though, oddly enough, if you remember, whenever any one speaks disparagingly51 of Ireland, she always takes up cudgels in its behalf."
"Francesca, now that you are within three or four months of being married, can you manage to keep a secret?"
"Yes," she whispered eagerly, squeezing my hand and inclining her shoulder cosily52 to mine. "Yes, oh yes, and how it would raise my spirits after a sleepless53 night!"
"When Salemina was eighteen she had a romance, and the hero of it was the son of an Irish gentleman, an M.P., who was travelling in America, or living there for a few years,--I can't remember which. He was nothing more than a lad, less than twenty-one years old, but he was very much in love with Salemina. How far her feelings were involved I never knew, but she felt that she could not promise to marry him. Her mother was an invalid54, and her father a delightful55, scholarly, autocratic, selfish old gentleman, who ruled his household with a rod of iron. Salemina coddled and nursed them both during all her young life; indeed, little as she realised it, she never had any separate existence or individuality until they both died, when she was thirty-one or two years old."
"And what became of the young Irishman? Was he faithful to his first love, or did he marry?"
"He married, many years afterward56, and that was the time I first heard the story. His marriage took place in Dublin, on the very day, I believe, that Salemina's father was buried; for Fate has the most relentless57 way of arranging these coincidences. I don't remember his name, and I don't know where he lives or what has become of him. I imagine the romance has been dead and buried in rose-leaves for years; Salemina never has spoken of it to me, but it would account for her sentimental58 championship of Ireland."
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1
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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shudderingly
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lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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countless
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larch
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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alders
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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fragrance
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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28
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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tinkle
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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