When the Bishop and Father Dan arrived, the bell was rung and we went in
to breakfast.
We breakfasted in the new dining-room, which was now finished and being
used for the first time.
It was a gorgeous chamber beblazoned with large candelabra, huge
mirrors, and pictures in gold frames--resembling the room it was
intended to imitate, yet not resembling it, as a woman over-dressed
resembles a well-dressed woman.
My father sat at the head of his table with the Bishop, Lady Margaret
and Aunt Bridget on his right, and myself, my husband, Betsy Beauty and
Mr. Eastcliff on his left. The lawyers and the trustee were midway down,
Father Dan with Nessy MacLeod was at the end, and a large company of our
friends and neighbours, wearing highly-coloured flowers on their breasts
and in their buttonholes, sat between.
The meal was very long, and much of the food was very large--large fish,
large roasts of venison, veal, beef and mutton, large puddings and large
cheeses, all cut on the table and served by waiters from Blackwater.
There were two long black lines of them--a waiter behind the chair of
nearly every other guest.
All through the breakfast the storm raged outside. More than once it
drowned the voices of the people at the table, roaring like a wild beast
in the great throat of the wide chimney, swirling about the lantern
light, licking and lashing and leaping at the outsides of the walls like
lofty waves breaking against a breakwater, and sending up a thunderous
noise from the sea itself, where the big bell of St. Mary's Rock was
still tolling like a knell.
Somebody--it must have been Aunt Bridget again--said there had been
nothing like it since the day of my birth, and it must be "fate."
"Chut, woman!" said my father. "We're living in the twentieth century.
Who's houlding with such ould wife's wonders now?"
He was intensely excited, and, his excitement betrayed itself, as usual,
in reversion to his native speech. Sometimes he surveyed in silence,
with the old masterful lift of his eyebrows, his magnificent room and
the great guests who were gathered within it; sometimes he whispered to
the waiters to be smarter with the serving of the dishes; and sometimes
he pitched his voice above the noises within and without and shouted, in
country-fashion, to his friends at various points of the table to know
how they were faring.
"How are you doing, Mr. Curphy, sir?"
"Doing well, sir. Are you doing well yourself, Mr. O'Neill, sir?"
"Lord-a-massy yes, sir. I'm always doing well, sir."
Never had anybody in Ellan seen so strange a mixture of grandeur and
country style. My husband seemed to be divided between amused contempt
for it, and a sense of being compromised by its pretence. More than once
I saw him, with his monocle in his eye, look round at his friend
Eastcliff, but he helped himself frequently from a large decanter of
brandy and drank healths with everybody.
There were the usual marriage pleasantries, facetious compliments and
chaff, in which to my surprise (the solemnity of the service being still
upon me) the Bishop permitted himself to join.
I was now very nervous, and yet I kept up a forced gaiety, though my
heart was cold and sick. I remember that I had a preternatural power of
hearing at the same time nearly every conversation that was going on at
the table, and that I joined in nearly all the laughter.
At a more than usually loud burst of wind somebody said it would be a
mercy if the storm did not lift the roof off.
"Chut, man!" cried my father. "Solid oak and wrought iron here. None of
your mouldy old monuments that have enough to do to keep their tiles
on."
"Then nobody," said my husband with a glance at his friend, "need be
afraid of losing his head in your house, sir?"
"Not if he's got one to come in with, sir."
Betsy Beauty, sitting next to Mr. Eastcliff, was wondering if he would
do us the honour to visit the island oftener now that his friend had
married into it.
"But, my dear Betsy," said my husband, "who would live in this
God-forsaken place if he could help it?"
"God-forsaken, is it?" said my father. "Maybe so, sir--but that's what
the cuckoo said after he had eaten the eggs out of the thrush's nest and
left a mess in it."
Aunt Bridget was talking in doleful tones to Lady Margaret about my
mother, saying she had promised her on her death-bed to take care of her
child and had been as good as her word, always putting me before her own
daughter, although her ladyship would admit that Betsy was a handsome
girl, and, now that his lordship was married, there were few in the
island that were fit for her.
"Why no, Mrs. MacLeod," said my husband, after another significant
glance at his friend, "I dare say you've not got many who can make
enough to keep a carriage?"
"Truth enough, sir," said my father. "We've got hundreds and tons that
can make debts though."
The breakfast came to an end at length, and almost before the last of
the waiters had left the room my father rose to speak.
"Friends all," he said, "the young married couple have to leave us for
the afternoon steamer."
"In this weather?" said somebody, pointing up to the lantern light
through which the sky was now darkening.
"Chut! A puff of wind and a slant of rain, as I've been saying to my gel
here. But my son-in-law, Lord Raa," (loud cheers followed this
description, with some laughter and much hammering on the table), "my
son-in-law says he has to be in London to-morrow, and this morning my
daughter has sworn obedience. . . . What's that, Monsignor? Not
obedience exactly? Something like it then, so she's bound to go along
with him. So fill up your glasses to the brim and drink to the bride and
bridegroom."
As soon as the noise made by the passing of decanters had died down my
father spoke again.
"This is the proudest day of my life. It's the day I've worked for and
slaved for and saved for, and it's come to pass at last."
There was another chorus of applause.
"What's that you were saying in church, Mr. Curphy, sir? Time brings in
its revenges? It does too. Look at me."
My father put his thumbs in the arm-pits of his waistcoat.
"You all know what I am, and where I come from."
My husband put his monocle to his eye and looked up.
"I come from a mud cabin on the Curragh, not a hundred miles from here.
My father was kill . . . but never mind about that now. When he left us
it was middling hard collar work, I can tell you--what with me working
the bit of a croft and the mother weeding for some of you--some of your
fathers I mane--ninepence a day dry days, and sixpence all weathers.
When I was a lump of a lad I was sworn at in the high road by a
gentleman driving in his grand carriage, and the mother was lashed by
his . . . but never mind about that neither. I guess I've hustled round
considerable since then, and this morning I've married my daughter into
the first family in the island."
There was another burst of cheering at this, but it was almost drowned
by the loud rattling of the rain which was now falling on the lantern
light.
"Monsignor," cried my father, pitching his voice still higher, "what's
that you were saying in Rome about the mills of God?"
Fumbling his jewelled cross and smiling blandly the Bishop gave my
father the familiar quotation.
"Truth enough, too. The mills of God grind slowly but they're grinding
exceeding small. Nineteen years ago I thought I was as sure of what I
wanted as when I got out of bed this morning. If my gel here had been
born a boy, my son would have sat where his lordship is now sitting. But
all's well that ends well! If I haven't got a son I've got a son-in-law,
and when I get a grandson he'll be the richest man that ever stepped
into Castle Raa, and the uncrowned king of Ellan."
At that there was a tempest of cheers, which, mingling with the clamour
of the storm, made a deafening tumult.
"They're saying a dale nowadays about fathers and children--daughters
being separate beings, and all to that. But show me the daughter that
could do better for herself than my gel's father has done for her. She
has a big fortune, and her husband has a big name, and what more do they
want in this world anyway?"
"Nothing at all," came from various parts of the room.
"Neighbours," said my father, looking round him with a satisfied smile,
"I'm laying you dry as herrings in a hould, but before I call on you to
drink this toast I'll ask the Bishop to spake to you. He's a grand man
is the Bishop, and in fixing up this marriage I don't in the world know
what I could have done without him."
The Bishop, still fingering his jewelled cross and smiling, spoke in his
usual suave voice. He firmly believed that the Church had that morning
blessed a most propitious and happy union. Something might be said
against mixed marriages, but under proper circumstances the Church had
never forbidden them and his lordship (this with a deep bow to my
husband) had behaved with great liberality of mind.
As for what their genial and rugged host had said of certain foolish and
dangerous notions about the relations of father and child, he was
reminded that there were still more foolish and dangerous ones about the
relations of husband and wife.
From the earliest ages of the Church, however, those relations had been
exactly defined. "Let wives be subject to their husbands," said the
Epistle we had read this morning, and no less conclusive had been our
closing prayer, asking that the wife keep true faith with her husband,
being lovely in his eyes even as was Rachel, wise as was Rebecca, and
dutiful as was Sara.
"Beautiful!" whispered Aunt Bridget to Lady Margaret. "It's what I
always was myself in the days of the dear Colonel."
"And now," said the Bishop, "before you drink this toast and call upon
the noble bridegroom to respond to it," (another deep bow to my
husband), "I will ask for a few words from the two legal gentlemen who
have carried out the admirably judicious financial arrangements without
which this happy marriage would have been difficult if not impossible."
Then my husband's lawyer, with a supercilious smile on his clean-shaven
face, said it had been an honour to him to assist in preparing the way
for the "uncrowned king of Ellan." ("It _has_, sir," cried my father in
a loud voice which straightened the gentleman's face instantly); and
finally Mr. Curphy, speaking through his long beard, congratulated my
father and my husband equally on the marriage, and gave it as his
opinion that there could be no better use for wealth than to come to the
rescue of an historic family which had fallen on evil times and only
required a little money to set it on its feet again.
"The bride and bridegroom!" cried my father; and then everybody rose and
there was much cheering, with cries of "His lordship," "His lordship."
All through the speech-making my husband had rolled uneasily in his
chair. He had also helped himself frequently from the decanter, so that
when he got up to reply he was scarcely sober.
In his drawling voice he thanked the Bishop, and said that having made
up his mind to the marriage he had never dreamt of raising difficulties
about religion. As to the modern notions about the relations of husband
and wife, he did not think a girl brought up in a convent would give him
much trouble on that subject.
"Not likely," cried my father. "I'll clear her of that anyway."
"So I thank you for myself and for my family," continued my husband,
"and . . . Oh, yes, of course," (this to Lady Margaret). "I thank you
for my wife also, and . . . and that's all."
I felt sick and cold and ashamed. A rush of blood came under the skin of
my face that must have made me red to the roots of my hair.
In all this speaking about my marriage there had not been one word about
myself--myself really, a living soul with all her future happiness at
stake. I cannot say what vague impulse took possession of me, but I
remember that when my husband sat down I made a forced laugh, though I
knew well that I wanted to cry.
In an agony of shame I was beginning to feel a wild desire to escape
from the room and even from the house, that I might breathe in some of
the free wind outside, when all at once I became aware that somebody
else was speaking.
It was Father Dan. He had risen unannounced from his seat at the end of
the table. I saw his sack coat which was much worn at the seams; I saw
his round face which was flushed; I heard the vibrating note in his soft
Irish voice which told me he was deeply moved; and then I dropped my
head, for I knew what was coming.