NUGENT O’NEILL.
“He is the toniest aristocrat on the boat.”
After we had gone about a quarter of a mile, my companion pulled up.
“I think our best chance is to wait here,” he said, “From the way the
hounds were running, they are almost certain to come this way
eventually.”
The road up which we had ridden formed the only pass between the hills
on either side of us, and beyond was a low-lying level stretch of
country.
“If he’ll only run down that way----” Mr. O’Neill began, but suddenly
stopped, and silently pointed with his whip to the hill at our right.
“What is it?” I asked, in incautiously loud tones.
He looked for an instant as if he were going to shake his whip at me,
and again pointed, this time to a narrow strip of field beside the road.
I saw what looked like a little brown shadow fleeting across it, and in
another moment the fox appeared on the top of the wall a few yards ahead
of us. He looked about him as if considering his next move, and then,
seeing us, he leaped into the road and, running along it, vanished over
the crest of the hill.
Mr. O’Neill turned to me with such excitement that he seemed a different
person. “Here are the hounds!” he said, “and not a soul with them.”
Down the hill the pack came like a torrent, and were over the wall in a
second. They spread themselves over the road in front of us as if at
fault; but one of the little black-and-tan hounds justified Mr.
Dennehy’s good opinion by picking up the line, and at once the whole
pack were racing full cry up the road.
I have often looked back with considerable amusement to that moment. I
was suddenly possessed by a kind of frenzy of excitement that deprived
me of all power of speech. I heard my companion tell me to keep as close
to him as I could, but I was incapable of any response save an
inebriated smile and a wholly absurd flourish of my whip.
As this does not purport to be a hunting-story, I will not describe the
run which followed. I believe it lasted fifteen minutes, and included
some of the traditional “big leps” of the country. But to me it was
merely an indefinite period of delirious happiness. I scarcely felt
Blackthorn jump, and was only conscious of the thud of the big bay
horse’s hoofs in front of me and the rushing of the wind in my ears, At
last a wood seemed to heave up before me; the bay horse was pulled up
sharply, and I found myself almost in the middle of the hounds.
“By George! he’s just saved his brush,” said Mr. O’Neill, breathlessly;
“he’s gone to ground in there, and I am afraid we shall never get him
out. I hope you are none the worse for your gallop,” he continued
politely. “It was pretty fast while it lasted.” He dismounted as he
spoke, and began to investigate the hole in which the fox had taken
refuge, and while he was thus engaged I saw Mr. Dennehy on his yellow
horse coming across the next field. When he came up he was, rather to
my surprise, amiably pleased at our success in picking up the hounds,
and regretted we had not killed our fox.
“You two and meself were the only ones in this run,” he said.
My thoughts at once reverted to poor Willy. I asked Mr. Dennehy if he
had seen anything of him, and heard that he had passed my cousin, slowly
making his way home.
“Oh, I think I ought to go home at once,” I said to Mr. O’Neill. “I
might overtake him if you will tell me where I am to go.”
“If you will allow me, I think you had better let me show you the way,”
he answered, with a resumption of the stiff manner which had at first
struck me. Although I was quite aware that politeness alone prompted
this offer, my ignorance of the country made it impossible for me to
refuse it. Trusting, however, that by speedily overtaking Willy I should
be able to release my unwilling pilot, I wished Mr. Dennehy good
morning, and we made the best of our way to the nearest road.
Our way lay through what seemed to me a chessboard of absurdly small
fields. I could not imagine where all the stones came from that were
squandered in the heaping up of the walls that divided them from each
other, nor did I greatly care, so long as the necessity of jumping them
gave me something to amuse me, and made conversation with Mr. O’Neill
disjointed and unexacting.
What little I had seen of him at the covert-side had not inspired me
with any anxiety to pursue his acquaintance, and once we had got out on
to the road, with all the responsibilities of a _tête-à-tête_ staring us
in the face, my heart died within me. Never had I met any one who was
so difficult to talk to. I found that I was gradually assuming the
ungrateful position of a catechist, and, while filled with smothered
indignation at my companion’s perfunctory answers, I could not repress a
certain admiration for the composure with which he allowed the whole
stress of discourse to rest upon my shoulders. I at length made up my
mind to give myself no more trouble in the cause of politeness, and
resolved that until he chose to speak I would not do so.
A long silence was the result. We rode on side by side, my companion
staring steadily between his horse’s ears, while I wondered how soon we
should be likely to meet Willy, and thought how very much more I should
have preferred his society.
“I suppose you find this place rather dull?” Mr. O’Neill’s uninterested
voice at last broke the silence. “I have always heard that American
young ladies had a very gay time.”
I at once felt that this insufferable young man was trying to talk down
to my level--the level of an “American young lady”--and my smouldering
resentment got the better of my politeness.
“I very seldom find myself bored by places. It is, as a rule, the people
of the place that bore me.”
“Really,” he returned, with perfect serenity. “Yes, I dare say that is
true; but ladies do not generally get on very well without shop and
dances.”
“Strange as it may appear, neither of those entrancing occupations are
essential to my happiness.”
Mr. O’Neill turned and looked at me with faint surprise, but made no
reply. Another pause ensued, and I began to repent of my crossness.
It was clearly my turn to make the next remark, and I said, in a more
conciliatory voice--
“I suppose you don’t have very much to do here, either?”
“Oh, I am not here very much, and I can always get as much shooting and
fishing as I want; but I fancy my sisters find it rather dull.”
“Are your sisters fond of music? I was very glad to find a piano at
Durrus.”
His face assumed for the first time a look of interest.
“My elder sister plays a good deal; and Connie has a banjo, though I
cannot say she knows much about it; and I play the fiddle a little. I
believe in these parts we are considered quite a gifted family.”
I felt that I had, so to speak, “struck ile.”
“Do you play the violin?” I said, with excitement. “I delight in playing
accompaniments! I hope you will bring your music with you when you come
to dinner.”
“Oh, thanks very much; my sister always accompanies me,” he responded
coolly.
His deliberate self-possession was infinitely exasperating in my then
state of mind, and I repented the enthusiasm that had laid me open to
this snub. I was hurriedly framing an effective rejoinder, when he again
spoke, this time in tones of considerable amusement.
“Do you see that man leading a lame horse down the road? If he is not a
chimney-sweep, I think he must be your cousin.”
As we came nearer, I was secretly unspeakably tickled by Willy’s inky
and bedraggled appearance; but I was too proud to join in Mr. O’Neill’s
open amusement, until I noticed for the first time the incongruously
rakish effect imparted to Willy’s forlorn figure by the fact that his
hat had been crushed in. My injured dignity collapsed, and, holding on
to my saddle for support, I laughed till the tears poured down my
cheeks.
It was at this singularly unpropitious moment that Willy, hearing our
horses’ feet, turned round.
“Oh, there you are!” he called out. “Did you meet the hounds?” Then, in
a voice which showed his good temper had not returned. “You seem to be
greatly amused, whatever you did.”
I thought it better to ignore the latter part of the sentence, and
dashed at once into a confused account of our exploits, Mr. O’Neill
helping out my narrative with a few geographical details; to all of
which Willy listened with morose attention.
“And Blackthorn jumped splendidly, Willy,” I said. “I was so sorry you
weren’t there.”
“H’m!” said Willy; “very kind of you, I’m sure.”
Mr. O’Neill saw that the situation was becoming strained.
“As I can’t be of any further help to you or Miss Sarsfield,” he said,
“I think I will go back and look for the hounds;” and, wishing us
good-bye, he rode off.
“Well,” Willy began viciously, “you seem to find O’Neill cheerful
enough, after all.”
“_Indeed_, I don’t, Willy,” I said, with vigour; “he was perfectly
_odious_.”
“You didn’t look as if you thought him so a while ago, when you were
both near falling off your horses with laughing. I suppose”--with
sudden penetration--“that it was at me you were laughing.”
“Oh no, Willy; at least, it was not exactly you--indeed, it was only
your hat.”
Even at this supreme moment the air of disreputable gaiety of Willy’s
headgear was too much for me, and my voice broke into a hysterical
shriek. This was the last straw. With a wrathful glance, he turned his
back upon me, and stalked silently on beside Alaska. Blackthorn and I
followed meekly in the rear, and in this order we soberly proceeded to
Durrus.
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