How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.
Gather by him, as he is behaved,
If't be the affliction of his love or no
That thus he suffers for.
Break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Hamlet.
|THE road upon which the car was driving was made round an elevated part
of the coast of the lough. It curved away from where the castle of The
Macnamaras was situated on one side of the water, to the termination
of the lough. It did not slope downwards in the least at any part, but
swept on to the opposite lofty shore, five hundred feet above the great
rollers from the Atlantic that spent themselves amongst the half-hidden
rocks.
The car jerked on in silence after The Macnamara had spoken his
impressive sentence. Standish's hands soon relaxed their passionate hold
upon the rail of the car, and, in spite of his consciousness of being
twenty-three years of age, he found it almost impossible to restrain his
tears of mortification from bursting their bonds. He knew how pure--how
fervent--how exhaustless was the love that filled all his heart. He had
been loving, not without hope, but without utterance, for years, and now
all the fruit of his patience--of his years of speechlessness--would be
blighted by the ridiculous action of his father. What would now be left
for him in the world? he asked himself, and the despairing tears of his
heart gave him his only answer.
He was on the seaward side of the car, which was now passing out of the
green shade of the boughs that for three miles overhung the road. Then
as the curve of the termination of the lough was approached, the full
panorama of sea and coast leapt into view, with all the magical glamour
those wizards Motion and Height can enweave round a scene. Far beneath,
the narrow band of blue water lost itself amongst the steep cliffs.
The double coasts of the lough that were joined at the point of vision,
broadened out in undulating heights towards the mighty headlands of
the entrance, that lifted up their hoary brows as the lion-waves of
the Atlantic leapt between them and crouched in unwieldy bulk at their
bases. Far away stretched that ocean, its horizon lost in mist; and
above the line of rugged coast-cliff arose mountains--mighty masses
tumbled together in black confusion, like Titanic gladiators locked in
the close throes of the wrestle.
Never before had the familiar scene so taken Standish in its arms, so to
speak, as it did now. He felt it. He looked down at the screen islands
of the lough encircled with the floss of the moving waters; he looked
along the slopes of the coasts with the ruins of ancient days on their
summits, then his eyes went out to where the sun dipped towards the
Atlantic, and he felt no more that passion of mortification which his
reflections had aroused. Quickly as it had sprung into view the scene
dissolved, as the car entered a glen, dim in the shadow of a great
hill whose slope, swathed in purple heather to its highest peak, made a
twilight at noon-day to all beneath. In the distance of the winding
road beyond the dark edge of the mountain were seen the gray ridges of
another range running far inland. With the twilight shadow of the glen,
the shadow seemed to come again over the mind of Standish. He gave
himself up to his own sad thoughts, and when, from a black tarn amongst
the low pine-trees beneath the road, a tall heron rose and fled
silently through the silent air to the foot of the slope, he regarded it
ominously, as he would have done a raven.
There they sat speechless upon the car. The Macnamara, who was a short,
middle-aged man with a rather highly-coloured face, and features that
not even the most malignant could pronounce of a Roman or even of a
Saxon type, was sitting in silent dignity of which he seemed by no
means unconscious Standish, who was tall, slender almost to a point
of lankness, and gray-eyed, was morosely speechless, his father felt.
Nature had not given The Macnamara a son after his own heart. The young
man's features, that had at one time showed great promise of developing
into the pure Milesian, had not fulfilled the early hope they had raised
in his father's bosom; they had within the past twelve years exhibited
a downward tendency that was not in keeping with the traditions of The
Macnamaras. If the direction of the caressing hand of Nature over
the features of the family should be reversed, what would remain
to distinguish The Macnamaras from their Saxon invaders? This was a
question whose weight had for some time oppressed the representative
of the race; and he could only quiet his apprehension by the assurance
which forced itself upon his mind, that Nature would never persist in
any course prejudicial to her own interests in the maintenance of an
irreproachable type of manhood.
Then it was a great grief to the father to become aware of the fact that
the speech of Standish was all unlike his own in accent; it was, indeed,
terribly like the ordinary Saxon speech--at least it sounded so to The
Macnamara, whose vowels were diphthongic to a marked degree. But of
course the most distressing reflection of the head of the race had
reference to the mental disqualifications of his son to sustain the
position which he would some day have to occupy as The Macnamara; for
Standish had of late shown a tendency to accept the position accorded
to him by the enemies of his race, and to allow that there existed
a certain unwritten statute of limitations in the maintenance of the
divine right of monarchs. He actually seemed to be under the impression
that because nine hundred years had elapsed since a Macnamara had been
the acknowledged king of Munster, the claim to be regarded as a royal
family should not be strongly urged. This was very terrible to The
Macnamara. And now he reflected upon all these matters as he held in
a fixed and fervent grasp the somewhat untrustworthy rail of the
undoubtedly shaky vehicle.
Thus in silence the car was driven through the dim glen, until the slope
on the seaward-side of the road dwindled away and once more the sea came
in sight; and, with the first glimpse of the sea, the square tower of
an old, though not an ancient, castle that stood half hidden by trees at
the base of the purple mountain. In a few minutes the car pulled up at
the entrance gate to a walled demesne.
“Will yer honours git off here?” asked Eugene, preparing to throw the
reins down.
“Never!” cried The Macnamara emphatically. “Never will the head of the
race descend to walk up to the door of a foreigner. Drive up to the very
hall, Eugene, as the great Brian Macnamara would have done.”
“An' it's hopin' I am that his car-sphrings wouldn't be mindid with
hemp,” remarked the boy, as he pulled the horse round and urged his mild
career through the great pillars at the entrance.
Everything about this place gave signs of having been cared for. The
avenue was long, but it could be traversed without any risk of the
vehicle being lost in the landslip of a rut. The grass around the trees,
though by no means trimmed at the edges, was still not dank with weeds,
and the trees themselves, if old, had none of the gauntness apparent in
all the timber about the castle of The Macnamara. As the car went along
there was visible every now and again the flash of branching antlers
among the green foliage, and more than once the stately head of a red
deer appeared gazing at the visitors, motionless, as if the animal had
been a painted statue.
The castle, opposite whose black oak door Eugene at last dropped his
reins, was by no means an imposing building. It was large and square,
and at one wing stood the square ivy-covered tower that was seen from
the road. Above it rose the great dark mountain ridge, and in front
rolled the Atlantic, for the trees prevented the shoreway from being
seen.
“Eugene, knock at the door of the Geralds,” said The Macnamara from his
seat on the car, with a dignity the emphasis of which would have been
diminished had he dismounted.
Eugene--looked upward at this order, shook his head in wonderment, and
then got down, but not with quite the same expedition as his boot, which
could not sustain the severe test of being suspended for any time in the
air. He had not fully secured it again on his bare foot before a laugh
sounded from the balcony over the porch--a laugh that made Standish's
face redder than any rose--that made Eugene glance up with a grin and
touch his hat, even before a girl's voice was heard saying:
“Oh, Eugene, Eugene! What a clumsy fellow you are, to be sure.”
“Ah, don't be a sayin' of that, Miss Daireen, ma'am,” the boy replied,
as he gave a final stamp to secure possession of the boot.
The Macnamara looked up and gravely removed his hat; but Standish having
got down from the car turned his gaze seawards. Had he followed his
father's example, he would have seen the laughing face and the graceful
figure of a girl leaning over the balustrade of the porch surveying the
group beneath her.
“And how do you do, Macnamara?” she said. “No, no, don't let Eugene
knock; all the dogs are asleep except King Cormac, and I am too grateful
to allow their rest to be broken. I'll go down and give you entrance.”
She disappeared from the balcony, and in a few moments the hall door
was softly sundered and the western sunlight fell about the form of the
portress. The girl was tall and exquisitely moulded, from her little
blue shoe to her rich brown hair, over which the sun made light and
shade; her face was slightly flushed with her rapid descent and the
quick kiss of the sunlight, and her eyes were of the most gracious gray
that ever shone or laughed or wept. But her mouth--it was a visible
song. It expressed all that song is capable of suggesting--passion of
love or of anger, comfort of hope or of charity.
“Enter, O my king-,” she said, giving The Macnamara her hand; then
turning to Standish, “How do you do, Standish? Why do you not come in?”
But Standish uttered no word. He took her hand for a second and followed
his father into the big square oaken hall. All were black oak, floor and
wall and ceiling, only while the sunlight leapt through the open door
was the sombre hue relieved by the flashing of the arms that lined the
walls, and the glittering of the enormous elk-antlers that spread their
branches over the lintels.
“And you drove all round the coast to see me, I hope,” said the girl, as
they stood together under the battle-axes of the brave days of old, when
the qualifications for becoming a successful knight and a successful
blacksmith were identical.
“We drove round to admire the beauty of the lovely Daireen,” said The
Macnamara, with a flourish of the hand that did him infinite credit.
“If that is all,” laughed the girl, “your visit will not be a long one.”
She was standing listlessly caressing with her hand the coarse hide of
King Corrnac, a gigantic Wolf-dog, and in that posture looked like a
statue of the Genius of her country. The dog had been welcoming Standish
a moment before, and the young man's hand still resting upon its head,
felt the casual touch of the girl's fingers as she played with the
animal's ears. Every touch sent a thrill of passionate delight through
him.
“The beauty of the daughter of the Geralds is worth coming so far to
see; and now that I look at her before me----”
“Now you know that it is impossible to make out a single feature in this
darkness,” said Daireen. “So come along into the drawing-room.”
“Go with the lovely Daireen, my boy,” said The Macnamara, as the girl
led the way across the hall. “For myself, I think I'll just turn in
here.” He opened a door at one side of the hall and exposed to view,
within the room beyond, a piece of ancient furniture which was not yet
too decrepit to sustain the burden of a row of square glass bottles
and tumblers. But before he entered he whispered to Standish with an
appropriate action, “Make it all right with her by the time come I
back.” And so he vanished.
“The Macnamara is right,” said Daireen. “You must join him in taking a
glass of wine after your long drive, Standish.”
For the first time since he had spoken on the car Standish found his
voice.
“I do not want to drink anything, Daireen,” he said.
“Then we shall go round to the garden and try to find grandpapa, if you
don't want to rest.”
With her brown unbonneted hair tossing in its irregular strands about
her neck, she went out by a door at the farther end of the square hall,
and Standish followed her by a high-arched passage that seemed to lead
right through the building. At the extremity was an iron gate which the
girl unlocked, and they passed into a large garden somewhat wild in its
growth, but with its few brilliant spots of colour well brought out
by the general _feeling_ of purple that forced itself upon every one
beneath the shadow of the great mountain-peak. Very lovely did that
world of heather seem now as the sun burned over against the slope,
stirring up the wonderful secret hues of dark blue and crimson. The peak
stood out in bold relief against the pale sky, and above its highest
point an eagle sailed.
“I have such good news for you, Standish,” said Miss Gerald. “You cannot
guess what it is.”
“I cannot guess what good news there could possibly be in store for
me,” he replied, with so much sadness in his voice that the girl gave a
little start, and then the least possible smile, for she was well aware
that the luxury of sadness was frequently indulged in by her companion.
“It is good news for you, for me, for all of us, for all the world,
for--well, for everybody that I have not included. Don't laugh at me,
please, for my news is that papa is coming home at last. Now, isn't that
good news?”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Standish. “I am very glad because I
know it will make you happy.”
“How nicely said; and I know you feel it, my dear Standish. Ah, poor
papa! he has had a hard time of it, battling with the terrible Indian
climate and with those annoying people.”
“It is a life worth living,” cried Standish. “After you are dead the
world feels that you have lived in it. The world is the better for your
life.”
“You are right,” said Daireen. “Papa leaves India crowned with honours,
as the newspapers say. The Queen has made him a C.B., you know.
But--only think how provoking it is--he has been ordered by the surgeon
of his regiment to return by long-sea, instead of overland, for the sake
of his health; so that though I got his letter from Madras yesterday to
tell me that he was at the point of starting, it will be another month
before I can see him.”
“But then he will no doubt have completely recovered,” said Standish.
“That is my only consolation. Yes; he will be himself again--himself as
I saw him five years ago in our bungalow--how well I remember it and its
single plantain-tree in the garden where the officers used to hunt me
for kisses.”
Standish frowned. It was, to him, a hideous recollection for the girl to
have. He would cheerfully have undertaken the strangulation of each
of those sportive officers. “I should have learned a great deal during
these five years that have passed since I was sent to England to school,
but I'm afraid I didn't. Never mind, papa won't cross-examine me to see
if his money has been wasted. But why do you look so sad, Standish? You
do look sad, you know.”
“I feel it too,” he cried. “I feel more wretched than I can tell you.
I'm sick of everything here--no, not here, you know, but at home. There
I am in that cursed jail, shut out from the world, a beggar without the
liberty to beg.”
“Oh, Standish!”
“But it is the truth, Daireen. I might as well be dead as living as I
am. Yes, better--I wish to God I was dead, for then there might be at
least some chance of making a beginning in a new sort of life under
different conditions.”
“Isn't it wicked to talk that way, Standish?”
“I don't know,” he replied doggedly. “Wickedness and goodness have
ceased to be anything more to me than vague conditions of life in a
world I have nothing to say to. I cannot be either good or bad here.”
Daireen looked very solemn at this confession of impotence.
“You told me you meant to speak to The Mac-namara about going away or
doing something,” she said.
“And I did speak to him, but it came to the one end: it was a disgrace
for the son of the------ bah, you know how he talks. Every person of any
position laughs at him; only those worse than himself think that he
is wronged. But I'll do something, if it should only be to enlist as a
common soldier.”
“Standish, do not talk that way, like a good boy,” she said, laying her
hand upon his arm. “I have a bright thought for the first time: wait
just for another month until papa is here, and he will, you may be sure,
tell you what is exactly right to do. Oh, there is grandpapa, with his
gun as usual, coming from the hill.”
They saw at a little distance the figure of a tall old man carrying a
gun, and followed by a couple of sporting dogs.
“Daireen,” said Standish, stopping suddenly as if a thought had just
struck him. “Daireen, promise me that you will not let anything my
father may say here to-day make you think badly of me.”
“Good gracious! why should I ever do that? What is he going to say that
is so dreadful?”
“I cannot tell you, Daireen; but you will promise me;” he had seized
her by the hand and was looking with earnest entreaty into her eyes.
“Daireen,” he continued, “you will give me your word. You have been such
a friend to me always--such a good angel to me.”
“And we shall always be friends, Standish. I promise you this. Now let
go my hand, like a good boy.”
He obeyed her, and in a few minutes they had met Daireen's grandfather,
Mr. Gerald, who had been coming towards them.
“What, The Macnamara here? then I must hasten to him,” said the old
gentleman, handing his gun to Standish.
No one knew better than Mr. Gerald the necessity that existed for
hastening to The Macnamara, in case of his waiting for a length of time
in that room the sideboard of which was laden with bottles.