AN AMERICAN GIRL.
“She’s always been kind of off-ish and partic’lar for
a gal that’s raised in the woods.”
Luncheon was over. The elders of the party had returned to the
drawing-room, where they were seated in a state of contented satiety,
discussing their servants, their gardens, and the Church of Ireland
Sustentation Fund, according to their age and kind.
In the billiard-room, a four-handed game was going on. Willy and Miss
Watson were playing Connie and Mr. Barrett; and, as billiards was not
one of my accomplishments, I preferred, notwithstanding polite offers
of instruction, to sit in a window-seat and look on.
Nugent at first undertook the office of marker; but as he tried at the
same time to explain the intricacies of the game to me, complications in
the scoring soon arose, accompanied by violent altercations with the
players. Finally, he was expelled with ignominy, it having been proved
that he had marked Miss Watson’s most brilliant break to her opponents.
“I thought I should never have come alive out of that,” he said, sitting
down in the window beside me; “Miss Watson looked as if she was going to
convince me with the butt end of her cue, and I have no ambition to have
a row with Willy. I shouldn’t have much of a chance.”
I thought, nevertheless, that he looked well able to take care of
himself, as he leaned back against the window-shutter, and began to
roll a cigarette, while the sun slanted in upon his light, firm figure
and well-shaped head, striking a pleasant dazzle into his blue eyes as
he glanced at the players.
“Do you know Mr. Jimmy Barrett?” he asked, in cautious tones, as that
youth, his freckled face pink with anxiety, sprawled across the table to
play his stroke.
“No, I don’t know him, but I remember seeing him out hunting.”
“He’s a very fine rider, but that’s about all he’s good for. From the
appearance of things at present, he will have cut the cloth in the
course of the next five minutes. If Connie is going to give lessons in
billiards, she ought to keep a private table for her disciples.”
Nugent had laid his tobacco-pouch on the seat beside him while he was
speaking; it was covered with crimson plush, and his monogram,
sumptuously worked in gold thread, adorned the flap. I thought it, on
the whole, rather vulgar.
“I am thankful that I was not decoyed into playing,” I said. “I must say
all my sympathies are with Mr. Barrett; he did not want to play in the
least, and I am sure he does not look as if he were enjoying himself.”
“I deny that he was decoyed into playing,” said Nugent, argumentatively,
lighting his cigarette and leaning back again with an air of leisurely
satisfaction; “and, anyhow, he is not a case in point. The mere fact
that you are an American is about fifty points in your favour. You would
probably lick all our heads off by the sheer force of instinct and power
of intimidation.” He took up his tobacco-pouch, and looked at it
absently. “Yes, you’re a great nation. For instance, this very fine
thing is of Yankee origin, and I don’t believe the worker of it had ever
done anything of the kind before. It was done, as the Irishman played
the fiddle, ‘by main strength,’ and yet look at it!”
“It’s very _gay_,” I said, regarding it with chilly disfavour.
Nugent looked at me meditatively, as he put it back into his pocket.
“Does that mean professional jealousy?” he asked. “Are you also a worker
of tobacco-pouches?”
“I can’t work any more than I can play billiards,” I said, with some
enjoyment of the admission.
“No? What a pity!” said Nugent, a little inattentively. “Do you know, I
once taught an American girl billiards, and after she had played for a
week, she used to beat me pretty nearly every time.”
“But I think I told you before I was _not_ an American girl,” I said
energetically. “Every one here persists in calling me American, and I am
nothing of the kind; I am Irish!”
“It seems to me you are very anxious to ‘go back on’ your native land,”
he said, looking at me through his half-closed eyelids; “you won’t allow
yourself to be called American, and you don’t even speak the language.”
“That is the regular British fallacy. You all expect us to talk through
our noses, and say, ‘Wal, stranger.’”
“Not at all. I am awfully well up in modern American fiction, and I know
all about the Boston young woman and her high-class conversation. I
assure you, there is no one on earth that I should be so much afraid
of.”
“I am sure you took that idea from Henry James’s ‘Bostonians,’ but they
are not all as superior and conscientious as Olive Chancellor was in
that. Certainly _I_ am not, and I lived for a long time in Boston.”
“Really!” he said, opening his eyes; “I had no idea of that. I think,”
he went on, after a moment’s pause, “you might have mentioned it before,
and saved me from giving myself away as I did.”
“You have said nothing very compromising so far,” I said, stooping down
to help Henrietta’s dachshund in an attempt to scramble on to my lap;
“but I thought it kinder to warn you while there was yet time.”
He laughed rather foolishly, and slowly knocked the ash off his
cigarette against the window-sash. “All the same,” he said, “I think I
was quite right in what I said. By the way, I got a lot of new fiddle
music to-day. I wonder if you would come and have a look at it? Perhaps
we could try over some?”
“I am afraid it is rather late,” I said hesitatingly. “I should like to
do so very much, but I think the game must be nearly over, and we ought
to go home then; it gets dark so quickly.”
“Well, perhaps you would allow me to bring it over to Durrus some day?
My sister is very slow at reading music, and I think I remember your
saying that you did not mind playing accompaniments.”
I did remember saying so quite well, and also the manner in which the
intimation had been received; but I magnanimously determined to let
bygones be bygones, and consented with a good grace.
The game was, as I had said, coming to a conclusion. Willy was playing,
and evidently playing extremely well--striding round the table with
silent purposeful rapidity, while Miss Watson triumphantly proclaimed
the score as his break mounted. Connie, ignoring the dejection of her
unhappy little partner, was leaning back against the wall, humming a
little bitter tune, with the air of having lost all interest in the
proceedings.
“I think Connie looks as if she had enough of Jimmy’s billiard-playing,”
said Nugent, with brotherly discernment; “she doesn’t like being beaten
a bit. There’s an end of Willy’s break. Now, Jimmy,” he called out,
“they only want three of game--42 plays 97; it’s a good game to win!”
Mr. Barrett advanced to the table, looking with a sickly smile to his
partner for an encouragement which he did not receive. Nugent and I left
our window, and came closer to see the finish of the game. We had not
long to wait. Taking prolonged aim at the red ball, Mr. Barrett dealt
his own a faltering tap; it rolled slowly across the table, and, without
touching either of the other balls, sank unobtrusively into a side
pocket.
“Three to us. Game!” said Miss Watson. “I think we did pretty well, Mr.
Sarsfield. I told you you were good at games as soon as I looked at your
hand.”
“Why, have you had your fortune told, Willy?” I said.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “Are you quite sure you’ve told me
everything?”--turning from me to Miss Watson.
“Oh dear, no! not more than half. I shall _think_ about your hand, and
tell you the rest another day,” said Miss Watson, with great suavity.
“Irishmen’s hands are so puzzling--so contradictory, you know; but I
suppose all Irish people are that, aren’t they?”
“Never mind, Mr. Barrett,” I heard Connie saying; “we will play them
again some other time. Now, good people, won’t you all come and have
some tea?” she continued. “You had better not lose time, or there will
be none left. Mr. Horan gets through tea and cake like a Sunday
school--four cups at least, and two slices with every cup! So if you and
Willie are going to have any more palmistry, Georgie, we certainly shall
not wait for you.”
In the drawing-room, we found Madam O’Neill, Henrietta, and Mr. Horan
sitting over the tea-table; the latter with his handkerchief spread over
his knees, and a general greasiness of aspect suggestive of buttered
toast. The Burkes had gone, and, to my unbounded relief, The O’Neill
did not appear.
“It’s just as I said,” whispered Connie; “there isn’t an atom of toast
or hot cake left. Did you see mamma just now hiding the sponge-cake
behind the slop-basin to get it out of his way? I see the Burkes have
gone,” she went on. “If you could only have heard old Mimi singing your
praises before you came to-day! She said it was ‘_deloightful_ to have
that _sweet_ young creature settled in the country,’ and that,
‘considering you had been brought up among the Americans, you really
spoke English as well as she did.’ Was not that what she said, Nugent?”
Her brother laughed, and sat down beside me.
“You see, what I told you is quite true,” he said, “though perhaps I did
not put it as nicely as Miss Burke did. As an American young lady, you
are a failure in these parts.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” I replied. “If you had not formed a
preconceived idea that I was a Yankee, I know you would have noticed my
Cork brogue at once.”
While we were talking, Willy came up.
“Are you nearly done your tea?” he demanded. “The trap is at the door
some time.”
He remained standing before me, as if he expected me to get up at once.
That something had annoyed him was evident, and, feeling that delay was
unadvisable, I swallowed my tea with all possible despatch, and made my
adieux.
Nugent came to the hall door with us.
“Then, may I come over on Tuesday?” he said, tucking in the rug for me,
while Willy silently picked up the reins, and took the whip out of the
rest, “or any other day that would suit you would do for----” The rest
of the sentence was lost, as Willy, without further ceremony, drove
away.
“Very well--Tuesday!” I screamed back, as we whirled down the avenue.
“My dear Willy, I don’t know why you were in such a desperate hurry,” I
went on, rather crossly.
“Well, how was I to know he had anything more to say?” retorted Willy,
with equal ill-temper. “I’m sure he had plenty of time to settle
everything before we left the house. I wasn’t going to keep the mare
standing, if he chose to go on prating there.”
“I don’t suppose another five seconds would have done her any mortal
injury, and I think you might have risked it for the sake of civility.”
He did not answer, and we drove along in silence, Willy maintaining a
demeanour of unbending severity, and affecting to be altogether occupied
with his driving.
“Very well,” I said to myself, “if he likes to sulk, he may; I won’t
take any notice of him.”
No word was spoken for at least a mile. Alaska trotted steadily on,
under the leafless beeches, and along the road by the sea, till she at
length slackened to walk up a hill.
“Are you cold, Theo?” Willy did not turn his head, but I felt that the
olive branch had been extended.
“Not particularly,” I said, as indifferently as possible.
“I put a wrap into the trap for you”--stretching a long arm over the
back of the seat, and dragging a cloak from the depths. “You must be
perished in that thin coat. Here, let me put this round you.”
He wrapped me in it with unnecessary care, and while he was doing so he
said suddenly,
“I’m awfully sorry if I was rude to you. You know that----” His voice
broke, and he stopped as suddenly as he had begun. I put up my hand to
fasten the cloak for myself, and was rather startled to find it caught
and fervently squeezed.
“Oh!” I said, withdrawing my hand sharply, “you were not in the _least_
rude to me. I did not mind a bit. We had a very pleasant day on the
whole, I think,” I continued inconsequently; “and did you see how
beautifully I behaved to The O’Neill?”
I fancy Willy looked a little disappointed at his apology being disposed
of so quickly.
“No, I can’t say I did,” he answered, in an injured way. “I had plenty
to do talking to the madam.”
“Yes, I saw you. I was looking at you with the deepest admiration all
through lunch. And, by the way, what do you think of Miss Watson? She
seems to be a wonderful billiard-player.”
“I thought you were too busy talking to Nugent to notice what we were
doing,” said Willy, with some return of sulkiness. “It didn’t look as if
you found it so hard to talk to him, as you’re always saying you do.”
“But I assure you we _were_ looking at the game, Willy. I don’t
understand billiards, so you can’t expect me to watch every stroke.”
“Well, I only know that I spoke to you one time, and you were so much
taken up with talking about Boston or something, that you never even
heard me.”
“Then you must have said it absolutely in a whisper,” I said, in heated
self-defence. “Mr. O’Neill was not saying anything in the least
interesting, only that he should never have thought I had been brought
up in America.”
“H’m!” said Willy, in a more mollified tone. “He must have meant that
for a compliment. _I_ know what he thinks of Yankee girls. He’s told me
many a queer story of one he met at Cannes last winter.”
We rounded a turn in the road, and in the twilight I could see the
Durrus woods spreading darkly down to the sea. It would take another ten
minutes to reach home, and, though Willy was simmering down, I knew that
we were still on dangerous ground.
“What did Miss Watson say of your hand?” I asked, with the view of
changing the conversation. “Did she tell you that you had ‘no sense of
humour, and homicidal tendencies, combined with unusual
conscientiousness’? That’s what a man once told me.”
“No,” answered Willy, quite seriously; “she didn’t say very much about
my character. She was looking at my line of heart most of the time, I
think. She told me that I would have ‘two great passions’ in my life,
and that I was to be married soon.” He stopped, and looked at me.
“How exciting!” I said hurriedly. “My man did not tell me any of those
interesting sort of things.”
“She said my line of fate was broken,” resumed Willy, “whatever that may
mean. She told me I had a very good line of intellect, but it wasn’t
properly developed. I dare say the last part of that’s true enough,” he
added, with a sigh. “I never got a chance to learn anything when I was
a boy. The governor sent me from one dirty little school to another for
a couple or three years, and then the national schoolmaster had a go at
me, and that’s about all the education I ever had.”
“I dare say you get on just as well without being very good at classics
and those sort of things. And, you see, you passed your exam. for your
captaincy in the West Cork quite easily,” I said, with a rather lame
attempt at consolation.
“That’s quite a different thing; any fool could do that. What makes me
sick is to see Nugent and chaps like him, who have been to Harrow and
Oxford, and all the rest of it--and here I’ve been stuck all my life,
without a chance to get level with them. It’s when I’m talking to you
that I feel what an ignorant brute I am!”
“I hate to hear you talk like that, Willy,” I said, really distressed.
“_I_ never thought you so--not for an instant. On the contrary, I think
you know more than any one I ever met--about practical things; and if
you don’t look where you’re going, you will drive over that old woman
who is going in at the gate”--as we turned sharply off the road at the
Durrus lodge--“and I believe it is that dreadful old Moll, too. I am
thankful to say I have not seen her for ever so long.”
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