A SMALL DINNER-PARTY
It is sad to have to record that all Kate’s persuasions with her cousin,
all her own earnest attempts at conciliation, and her ably-planned schemes
to escape a difficulty, were only so much labour lost. A stern message
from her father commanded her to make no change either in the house or the
service of the dinner--an interference with domestic cares so novel on
his part as to show that he had prepared himself for hostilities, and was
resolved to meet his enemy boldly.
‘It’s no use, all I have been telling you, Nina,’ said Kate, as she
re-entered her room, later in the day. ‘Papa orders me to have everything
as usual, and won’t even let me give Miss Betty an early dinner, though he
knows she has nine miles of a ride to reach home.’
‘That explains somewhat a message he has sent myself,’ replied Nina, ‘to
wear my very prettiest toilet and my Greek cap, which he admired so much
the other day.’
‘I am almost glad that _my_ wardrobe has nothing attractive,’ said Kate,
half sadly. ‘I certainly shall never be rebuked for my becomingness.’
‘And do you mean to say that the old woman would be rude enough to extend
her comments to _me_?’
‘I have known her do things quite as hardy, though I hope on the present
occasion the other novelties may shelter you.’
‘Why isn’t your brother here? I should insist on his coming down in
discreet black, with a white tie and that look of imposing solemnity young
Englishmen assume for dinner.’
‘Dick guessed what was coming, and would not encounter it.’
‘And yet you tell me you submit to all this for no earthly reason. She can
leave you no legacy, contribute in no way to your benefit. She has neither
family, fortune, nor connections; and, except her atrocious manners and
her indomitable temper, there is not a trait of her that claims to be
recorded.’
‘Oh yes; she rides capitally to hounds, and hunts her own harriers to
perfection.’
‘I am glad she has one quality that deserves your favour.’
‘She has others, too, which I like better than what they call
accomplishments. She is very kind to the poor, never deterred by any
sickness from visiting them, and has the same stout-hearted courage for
every casualty in life.’
‘A commendable gift for a squaw, but what does a gentlewoman want with this
same courage?’
‘Look out of the window, Nina, and see where you are living! Throw your
eyes over that great expanse of dark bog, vast as one of the great
campagnas you have often described to us, and bethink you how mere
loneliness--desolation--needs a stout heart to bear it; how the simple
fact that for the long hours of a summer’s day, or the longer hours of a
winter’s night, a lone woman has to watch and think of all the possible
casualties lives of hardship and misery may impel men to. Do you imagine
that she does not mark the growing discontent of the people? see their
careworn looks, dashed with a sullen determination, and hear in their
voices the rising of a hoarse defiance that was never heard before? Does
she not well know that every kindness she has bestowed, every merciful act
she has ministered, would weigh for nothing in the balance on the day that
she will be arraigned as a landowner--the receiver of the poor man’s rent!
And will you tell me after this she can dispense with courage?’
‘_Bel paese davvero!_’ muttered the other.
‘So it is,’ cried Kate; ‘with all its faults I’d not exchange it for the
brightest land that ever glittered in a southern sun. But why should I tell
you how jarred and disconcerted we are by laws that have no reference to
our ways--conferring rights where we were once contented with trustfulness,
and teaching men to do everything by contract, and nothing by affection,
nothing by good-will.’
‘No, no, tell me none of all these; but tell me, shall I come down in my
Suliote jacket of yellow cloth, for I know it becomes me?’
‘And if we women had not courage,’ went on Kate, not heeding the question,
‘what would our men do? Should we see them lead lives of bolder daring than
the stoutest wanderer in Africa?’
‘And my jacket and my Theban belt?’
‘Wear them all. Be as beautiful as you like, but don’t be late for dinner.’
And Kate hurried away before the other could speak.
When Miss O’Shea, arrayed in a scarlet poplin and a yellow gauze
turban--the month being August--arrived in the drawing-room before dinner,
she found no one there--a circumstance that chagrined her so far that she
had hurried her toilet and torn one of her gloves in her haste. ‘When they
say six for the dinner-hour, they might surely be in the drawing-room by
that hour,’ was Miss Betty’s reflection as she turned over some of the
magazines and circulating-library books which since Nina’s arrival had
found their way to Kilgobbin. The contemptuous manner in which she treated
_Blackwood_ and _Macmillan_, and the indignant dash with which she flung
Trollope’s last novel down, showed that she had not been yet corrupted by
the light reading of the age. An unopened country newspaper, addressed to
the Viscount Kilgobbin, had however absorbed all her attention, and she
was more than half disposed to possess herself of the envelope, when Mr.
Kearney entered.
His bright blue coat and white waistcoat, a profusion of shirt-frill, and
a voluminous cravat proclaimed dinner-dress, and a certain pomposity of
manner showed how an unusual costume had imposed on himself, and suggested
an important event.
‘I hope I see Miss O’Shea in good health?’ said he, advancing.
‘How are you, Mathew?’ replied she dryly. ‘When I heard that big bell
thundering away, I was so afraid to be late that I came down with one
bracelet, and I have torn my glove too.’
‘It was only the first bell--the dressing-bell,’ he said.
‘Humph! That’s something new since I was here last,’ said she tartly.
‘You remind me of how long it is since you dined with us, Miss O’Shea.’
‘Well, indeed, Mathew, I meant to be longer, if I must tell the truth. I
saw enough the last day I lunched here to show me Kilgobbin was not what
it used to be. You were all of you what my poor father--who was always
thinking of the dogs--used to call “on your hind-legs,” walking about very
stately and very miserable. There were three or four covered dishes on
the table that nobody tasted; and an old man in red breeches ran about in
half-distraction, and said, “Sherry, my lord, or Madeira?” Many’s the time
I laughed over it since.’ And, as though to vouch for the truth of the
mirthfulness, she lay back in her chair and shook with hearty laughter.
Before Kearney could reply--for something like a passing apoplexy had
arrested his words--the girls entered, and made their salutations.
‘If I had the honour of knowing you longer, Miss Costigan,’ said Miss
O’Shea--for it was thus she translated the name Kostalergi--‘I’d ask you
why you couldn’t dress like your cousin Kate. It may be all very well in
the house, and it’s safe enough here, there’s no denying it; but my name’s
not Betty if you’d walk down Kilbeggan without a crowd yelling after you
and calling names too, that a respectable young woman wouldn’t bargain for;
eh, Mathew, is that true?’
‘There’s the dinner-bell now,’ said Mathew; ‘may I offer my arm?’
‘It’s thin enough that arm is getting, Mathew Kearney,’ said she, as he
walked along at her side. ‘Not but it’s time, too. You were born in the
September of 1809, though your mother used to deny it; and you’re now a
year older than your father was when he died.’
‘Will you take this place?’ said Kearney, placing her chair for her. ‘We
‘re a small party to-day. I see Dick does not dine with us.’
‘Maybe I hunted him away. The young gentlemen of the present day are frank
enough to say what they think of old maids. That’s very elegant, and I’m
sure it’s refined,’ said she, pointing to the mass of fruit and flowers so
tastefully arranged before her. ‘But I was born in a time when people liked
to see what they were going to eat, Mathew Kearney, and as I don’t intend
to break my fast on a stockgilly-flower, or make a repast of raisins, I
prefer the old way. Fill up my glass whenever it’s empty,’ said she to the
servant, ‘and don’t bother me with the name of it. As long as I know the
King’s County, and that’s more than fifty years, we’ve been calling Cape
Madeira, Sherry!’
‘If we know what we are drinking, Miss O’Shea, I don’t suppose it matters
much.’
‘Nothing at all, Mathew. Calling you the Viscount Kilgobbin, as I read a
while ago, won’t confuse me about an old neighbour.’
‘Won’t you try a cutlet, godmother?’ asked Kate hurriedly.
‘Indeed I will, my dear. I don’t know why I was sending the man away. I
never saw this way of dining before, except at the poorhouse, where each
poor creature has his plateful given him, and pockets what he can’t eat.’
And here she laughed long and heartily at the conceit.
Kearney’s good-humour relished the absurdity, and he joined in the laugh,
while Nina stared at the old woman as an object of dread and terror.
‘And that boy that wouldn’t dine with us. How is he turning out, Mathew?
They tell me he’s a bit of a scamp.’
‘He’s no such thing, godmother. Dick is as good a fellow and as
right-minded as ever lived, and you yourself would be the first to say it
if you saw him,’ cried Kate angrily.
‘So would the young lady yonder, if I might judge from her blushes,’ said
Miss Betty, looking at Nina. ‘Not indeed but it’s only now I’m remembering
that you’re not a boy. That little red cap and that thing you wear round
your throat deceived me.’
‘It is not the lot of every one to be so fortunate in a head-dress as Miss
O’Shea,’ said Nina, very calmly.
‘If it’s my wig you are envying me, my dear,’ replied she quietly, ‘there’s
nothing easier than to have the own brother of it. It was made by Crimp, of
Nassau Street, and box and all cost four pound twelve.’
‘Upon my life, Miss Betty,’ broke in Kearney, ‘you are tempting me to an
extravagance.’ And he passed his hand over his sparsely-covered head as he
spoke.
‘And I would not, if I was you, Mathew Kearney,’ said she resolutely. ‘They
tell me that in that House of Lords you are going to, more than half of
them are bald.’
There was no possible doubt that she meant by this speech to deliver a
challenge, and Kate’s look, at once imploring and sorrowful, appealed to
her for mercy.
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Betty to the servant who presented a dish,
‘though, indeed, maybe I’m wrong, for I don’t know what’s coming.’
‘This is the _menu_,’ said Nina, handing a card to her.
‘The bill of fare, godmother,’ said Kate hastily.
‘Well, indeed, it’s a kindness to tell me, and if there is any more
novelties to follow, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to inform me, for I
never dined in the Greek fashion before.’
‘The Russian, I believe, madam, not the Greek,’ said Nina.
‘With all my heart, my dear. It’s about the same, for whatever may happen
to Mathew Kearney or myself, I don’t suspect either of us will go to live
at Moscow.’
‘You’ll not refuse a glass of port with your cheese?’ said Kearney.
‘Indeed I will, then, if there’s any beer in the house, though perhaps it’s
too vulgar a liquor to ask for.’
While the beer was being brought, a solemn silence ensued, and a less
comfortable party could not easily be imagined.
When the interval had been so far prolonged that Kearney himself saw the
necessity to do something, he placed his napkin on the table, leaned
forward with a half-motion of rising, and, addressing Miss Betty, said,
‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room and take our coffee?’
‘I’d rather stay where I am, Mathew Kearney, and have that glass of port
you offered me a while ago, for the beer was flat. Not that I’ll detain the
young people, nor keep yourself away from them very long.’
When the two girls withdrew, Nina’s look of insolent triumph at Kate
betrayed the tone she was soon to take in treating of the old lady’s good
manners.
‘You had a very sorry dinner, Miss Betty, but I can promise you an honest
glass of wine,’ said Kearney, filling her glass.
‘It’s very nice,’ said she, sipping it, ‘though, maybe, like myself, it’s
just a trifle too old.’
‘A good fault, Miss Betty, a good fault.’
‘For the wine, perhaps,’ said she dryly, ‘but maybe it would taste better
if I had not bought it so dearly.’
‘I don’t think I understand you.’
‘I was about to say that I have forfeited that young lady’s esteem by the
way I obtained it. She’ll never forgive me, instead of retiring for my
coffee, sitting here like a man--and a man of that old hard-drinking
school, Mathew, that has brought all the ruin on Ireland.’
‘Here’s to their memory, anyway,’ said Kearney, drinking off his glass.
‘I’ll drink no toasts nor sentiments, Mathew Kearney, and there’s no
artifice or roguery will make me forget I’m a woman and an O’Shea.’
‘Faix, you’ll not catch me forgetting either,’ said Mathew, with a droll
twinkle of his eye, which it was just as fortunate escaped her notice.
‘I doubted for a long time, Mathew Kearney, whether I’d come over myself,
or whether I ‘d write you a letter; not that I’m good at writing, but,
somehow, one can put their ideas more clear, and say things in a way that
will fix them more in the mind; but at last I determined I’d come, though
it’s more than likely it’s the last time Kilgobbin will see me here.’
‘I sincerely trust you are mistaken, so far.’
‘Well, Mathew, I’m not often mistaken! The woman that has managed an estate
for more than forty years, been her own land-steward and her own law-agent,
doesn’t make a great many blunders; and, as I said before, if Mathew has no
friend to tell him the truth among the men of his acquaintance, it’s well
that there is a woman to the fore, who has courage and good sense to go up
and do it.’
She looked fixedly at him, as though expecting some concurrence in the
remark, if not some intimation to proceed; but neither came, and she
continued.
‘I suppose you don’t read the Dublin newspapers?’ said she civilly.
‘I do, and every day the post brings them.’
‘You see, therefore, without my telling you, what the world is saying about
you. You see how they treat “the search for arms,” as they head it, and
“the Maid of Saragossa!” O Mathew Kearney! Mathew Kearney! whatever
happened the old stock of the land, they never made themselves ridiculous.’
‘Have you done, Miss Betty?’ asked he, with assumed calm.
‘Done! Why, it’s only beginning I am,’ cried she. ‘Not but I’d bear a deal
of blackguarding from the press--as the old woman said when the soldier
threatened to run his bayonet through her: “Devil thank you, it’s only your
trade.” But when we come to see the head of an old family making ducks and
drakes of his family property, threatening the old tenants that have been
on the land as long as his own people, raising the rent here, evicting
there, distressing the people’s minds when they’ve just as much as they can
to bear up with--then it’s time for an old friend and neighbour to give a
timely warning, and cry “Stop.’”
‘Have you done, Miss Betty?’ And now his voice was more stern than before.
‘I have not, nor near done, Mathew Kearney. I’ve said nothing of the way
you’re bringing up your family--that son, in particular--to make him think
himself a young man of fortune, when you know, in your heart, you’ll leave
him little more than the mortgages on the estate. I have not told you
that it’s one of the jokes of the capital to call him the Honourable Dick
Kearney, and to ask him after his father the viscount.’
‘You haven’t done yet, Miss O’Shea?’ said he, now with a thickened voice.
‘No, not yet,’ replied she calmly--‘not yet; for I’d like to remind you
of the way you’re behaving to the best of the whole of you--the only one,
indeed, that’s worth much in the family--your daughter Kate.’
‘Well, what have I done to wrong _her_?’ said he, carried beyond his
prudence by so astounding a charge.
‘The very worst you could do, Mathew Kearney; the only mischief it was in
your power, maybe. Look at the companion you have given her! Look at the
respectable young lady you’ve brought home to live with your decent child!’
‘You’ll not stop?’ cried he, almost choking with passion.
‘Not till I’ve told you why I came here, Mathew Kearney; for I’d beg you to
understand it was no interest about yourself or your doings brought me.
I came to tell you that I mean to be free about an old contract we once
made--that I revoke it all. I was fool enough to believe that an alliance
between our families would have made me entirely happy, and my nephew
Gorman O’Shea was brought up to think the same. I have lived to know
better, Mathew Kearney: I have lived to see that we don’t suit each other
at all, and I have come here to declare to you formally that it’s all off.
No nephew of mine shall come here for a wife. The heir to Shea’s Barn
shan’t bring the mistress of it out of Kilgobbin Castle.’
‘Trust _me_ for that, old lady,’ cried he, forgetting all his good manners
in his violent passion.
‘You’ll be all the freer to catch a young aide-de-camp from the Castle,’
said she sneeringly; ‘or maybe, indeed, a young lord--a rank equal to your
own.’
‘Haven’t you said enough?’ screamed he, wild with rage.
‘No, nor half, or you wouldn’t be standing there, wringing your hands with
passion and your hair bristling like a porcupine. You’d be at my feet,
Mathew Kearney--ay, at my feet.’
‘So I would, Miss Betty,’ chimed he in, with a malicious grin, ‘if I was
only sure you’d be as cruel as the last time I knelt there. Oh dear! oh
dear! and to think that I once wanted to marry that woman!’
‘That you did! You’d have put your hand in the fire to win her.’
‘By my conscience, I’d have put myself altogether there, if I had won her.’
‘You understand now, sir,’ said she haughtily, ‘that there’s no more
between us.’
‘Thank God for the same!’ ejaculated he fervently.
‘And that no nephew of mine comes courting a daughter of yours?’
‘For his own sake, he’d better not.’
‘It’s for his own sake I intend it, Mathew Kearney. It’s of himself I’m
thinking. And now, thanking you for the pleasant evening I’ve passed, and
your charming society, I’ll take my leave.’
‘I hope you’ll not rob us of your company till you take a dish of tea,’
said he, with well-feigned politeness.
‘It’s hard to tear one’s self away, Mr. Kearney; but it’s late already.’
‘Couldn’t we induce you to stop the night, Miss Betty?’ asked he, in a tone
of insinuation. ‘Well, at least you’ll let me ring to order your horse?’
‘You may do that if it amuses you, Mathew Kearney; but, meanwhile, I’ll
just do what I’ve always done in the same place--I’ll just go look for my
own beast and see her saddled myself; and as Peter Gill is leaving you
to-morrow, I’ll take him back with me to-night.’
‘Is he going to you?’ cried he passionately.
‘He’s going to _me_, Mr. Kearney, with your leave, or without it, I don’t
know which I like best.’ And with this she swept out of the room, while
Kearney closed his eyes and lay back in his chair, stunned and almost
stupefied.