AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM
The fatalism of youth, unlike that of age, is all rose-coloured. That which
is coming, and is decreed to come, cannot be very disagreeable. This is
the theory of the young, and differs terribly from the experiences of
after-life. Gorman O’Shea had gone to dinner with about as heavy a
misfortune as could well befall him, so far as his future in life was
concerned. All he looked forward to and hoped for was lost to him: the
aunt who, for so many years, had stood to him in place of all family, had
suddenly thrown him off, and declared that she would see him no more; the
allowance she had hitherto given him withdrawn, it was impossible he could
continue to hold his place in his regiment. Should he determine not to
return, it was desertion--should he go back, it must be to declare that
he was a ruined man, and could only serve in the ranks. These were the
thoughts he revolved while he dressed for dinner, and dressed, let it be
owned, with peculiar care; but when the task had been accomplished, and
he descended to the drawing-room, such was the elasticity of his young
temperament, every thought of coming evil was merged in the sense of
present enjoyment, and the merry laughter which he overheard as he opened
the door, obliterated all notion that life had anything before him except
what was agreeable and pleasant.
‘We want to know if you play croquet, Mr. O’Shea?’ said Nina as he entered.
‘And we want also to know, are you a captain, or a Rittmeister, or a major?
You can scarcely be a colonel.’
‘Your last guess I answer first. I am only a lieutenant, and even that
very lately. As to croquet, if it be not your foreign mode of pronouncing
cricket, I never even saw it.’
‘It is not my foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, Herr Lieutenant,’ said
she pertly, ‘but I guessed already you had never heard of it.’
‘It is an out-of-door affair,’ said Dick indolently, ‘made for the
diffusion of worked petticoats and Balmoral boots.’
‘I should say it is the game of billiards brought down to universal
suffrage and the million,’ lisped out Walpole.
‘Faith,’ cried old Kearney, ‘I’d say it was just football with a stick.’
‘At all events,’ said Kate, ‘we purpose to have a grand match to-morrow.
Mr. Walpole and I are against Nina and Dick, and we are to draw lots for
you, Mr. O’Shea.’
‘My position, if I understand it aright, is not a flattering one,’ said he,
laughing.
‘We’ll take him,’ cried Nina at once. ‘I’ll give him a private lesson in
the morning, and I’ll answer for his performance. These creatures,’
added she, in a whisper, ‘are so drilled in Austria, you can teach them
anything.’
Now, as the words were spoken O’Shea caught them, and drawing close to
her, said, ‘I do hope I’ll justify that flattering opinion.’ But her only
recognition was a look of half-defiant astonishment at his boldness.
A very noisy discussion now ensued as to whether croquet was worthy to be
called a game or not, and what were its laws and rules--points which Gorman
followed with due attention, but very little profit; all Kate’s good sense
and clearness being cruelly dashed by Nina’s ingenious interruptions and
Walpole’s attempts to be smart and witty, even where opportunity scarcely
offered the chance.
‘Next to looking on at the game,’ cried old Kearney at last, ‘the most
tiresome thing I know of is to hear it talked over. Come, Nina, and give me
a song.’
‘What shall it be, uncle?’ said she, as she opened the piano.
‘Something Irish, I’d say, if I were to choose for myself. We’ve plenty of
old tunes, Mr. Walpole,’ said Kearney, turning to that gentleman, ‘that
rebellion, as you call it, has never got hold of. There’s _“Cushla Macree”_
and the _“Cailan deas cruidhte na Mbo.”_’
‘Very like hard swearing that,’ said Walpole to Nina; but his simper and
his soft accent were only met by a cold blank look, as though she had not
understood his liberty in addressing her. Indeed, in her distant manner,
and even repelling coldness, there was what might have disconcerted
any composure less consummate than his own. It was, however, evidently
Walpole’s aim to assume that she felt her relation towards him, and not
altogether without some cause; while she, on her part, desired to repel the
insinuation by a show of utter indifference. She would willingly, in this
contingency, have encouraged her cousin, Dick Kearney, and even led him on
to little displays of attention; but Dick held aloof, as though not knowing
the meaning of this favourable turn towards him. He would not be cheated by
coquetry. How many men are of this temper, and who never understand that it
is by surrendering ourselves to numberless little voluntary deceptions of
this sort, we arrive at intimacies the most real and most truthful.
She next tried Gorman, and here her success was complete. All those womanly
prettinesses, which are so many modes of displaying graceful attraction of
voice, look, gesture, or attitude, were especially dear to him. Not only
they gave beauty its chief charm, but they constituted a sort of game,
whose address was quickness of eye, readiness of perception, prompt reply,
and that refined tact that can follow out one thought in a conversation
just as you follow a melody through a mass of variations.
Perhaps the young soldier did not yield himself the less readily to these
captivations that Kate Kearney’s manner towards him was studiously cold and
ceremonious.
‘The other girl is more like the old friend,’ muttered he, as he chatted on
with her about Rome, and Florence, and Venice, imperceptibly gliding into
the language which the names of places suggested.
‘If any had told me that I ever could have talked thus freely and openly
with an Austrian soldier, I’d not have believed him,’ said she at length,
‘for all my sympathies in Italy were with the National party.’
[Illustration: He knelt down on one knee before her]
‘But we were not the “Barbari” in your recollection, mademoiselle,’ said
he. ‘We were out of Italy before you could have any feeling for either
party.’
‘The tradition of all your cruelties has survived you, and I am sure, if
you were wearing your white coat still, I’d hate you.’
‘You are giving me another reason to ask for a longer leave of absence,’
said he, bowing courteously.
‘And this leave of yours--how long does it last?’
‘I am afraid to own to myself. Wednesday fortnight is the end of it; that
is, it gives me four days after that to reach Vienna.’
‘And presenting yourself in humble guise before your colonel, to say, “_Ich
melde mich gehorsamst_.”’
‘Not exactly that--but something like it.’
‘I’ll be the Herr Oberst Lieutenant,’ said she, laughing; ‘so come forward
now and clap your heels together, and let us hear how you utter your few
syllables in true abject fashion. I’ll sit here, and receive you.’ As she
spoke, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and assuming a look of intense
hauteur and defiance, affected to stroke an imaginary moustache with one
hand, while with the other she waved a haughty gesture of welcome.
‘I have outstayed my leave,’ muttered Gorman, in a tremulous tone. ‘I hope
my colonel, with that bland mercy which characterises him, will forgive my
fault, and let me ask his pardon.’ And with this, he knelt down on one knee
before her, and kissed her hand.
‘What liberties are these, sir?’ cried she, so angrily, that it was not
easy to say whether the anger was not real.
‘It is the latest rule introduced into our service,’ said he, with mock
humility.
‘Is that a comedy they are acting yonder,’ said Walpole, ‘or is it a
proverb?’
‘Whatever the drama,’ replied Kate coldly, ‘I don’t think they want a
public.’
‘You may go back to your duty, Herr Lieutenant,’ said Nina proudly, and
with a significant glance towards Kate. ‘Indeed, I suspect you have been
rather neglecting it of late.’ And with this she sailed majestically away
towards the end of the room.
‘I wish I could provoke even that much of jealousy from the other,’
muttered Gorman to himself, as he bit his lip in passion. And certainly, if
a look and manner of calm unconcern meant anything, there was little that
seemed less likely.
‘I am glad you are going to the piano, Nina,’ said Kate. ‘Mr. Walpole has
been asking me by what artifice you could be induced to sing something of
Mendelssohn.’
‘I am going to sing an Irish ballad for that Austrian patriot, who, like
his national poet, thinks “Ireland a beautiful country to live out of.”’
Though a haughty toss of her head accompanied these words, there was a
glance in her eye towards Gorman that plainly invited a renewal of their
half-flirting hostilities.
‘When I left it, _you_ had not been here,’ said he, with an obsequious
tone, and an air of deference only too marked in its courtesy.
A slight, very faint blush on her cheek showed that she rather resented
than accepted the flattery, but she appeared to be occupied in looking
through the music-books, and made no rejoinder.
‘We want Mendelssohn, Nina,’ said Kate.
‘Or at least Spohr,’ added Walpole.
‘I never accept dictation about what I sing,’ muttered Nina, only loud
enough to be overheard by Gorman. ‘People don’t tell you what theme you are
to talk on; they don’t presume to say, “Be serious or be witty.” They don’t
tell you to come to the aid of their sluggish natures by passion, or to
dispel their dreariness by flights of fancy; and why are they to dare all
this to _us_ who speak through song?’
‘Just because you alone can do these things,’ said Gorman, in the same low
voice as she had spoken in.
‘Can I help you in your search, dearest?’ said Kate, coming over to the
piano.
‘Might I hope to be of use?’ asked Walpole.
‘Mr. O’Shea wants me to sing something for _him_,’ said Nina coldly. ‘What
is it to be?’ asked she of Gorman. With the readiness of one who could
respond to any sudden call upon his tact, Gorman at once took up a piece
of music from the mass before him, and said, ‘Here is what I have been
searching for.’ It was a little Neapolitan ballad, of no peculiar beauty,
but one of those simple melodies in which the rapid transition from deep
feeling to a wild, almost reckless, gaiety imparts all the character.
‘Yes, I’ll sing that,’ said Nina; and almost in the same breath the notes
came floating through the air, slow and sad at first, as though labouring
under some heavy sorrow; the very syllables faltered on her lips like a
grief struggling for utterance--when, just as a thrilling cadence died
slowly away, she burst forth into the wildest and merriest strain,
something so impetuous in gaiety, that the singer seemed to lose all
control of expression, and floated away in sound with every caprice of
enraptured imagination. When in the very whirlwind of this impetuous
gladness, as though a memory of a terrible sorrow had suddenly crossed her,
she ceased; then, in tones of actual agony, her voice rose to a cry of such
utter misery as despair alone could utter. The sounds died slowly away as
though lingeringly. Two bold chords followed, and she was silent.
None spoke in the room. Was this real passion, or was it the mere
exhibition of an accomplished artist, who could call up expression at
will, as easily as a painter could heighten colour? Kate Kearney evidently
believed the former, as her heaving chest and her tremulous lip betrayed,
while the cold, simpering smile on Walpole’s face, and the ‘brava,
bravissima’ in which he broke the silence, vouched how he had interpreted
that show of emotion.
‘If that is singing, I wonder what is crying,’ cried old Kearney, while he
wiped his eyes, very angry at his own weakness.’ And now will any one tell
me what it was all about?’
‘A young girl, sir,’ replied Gorman, ‘who, by a great effort, has rallied
herself to dispel her sorrow and be merry, suddenly remembers that her
sweetheart may not love her, and the more she dwells on the thought, the
more firmly she believes it. That was the cry, “He never loved me,” that
went to all our hearts.’
‘Faith, then, if Nina has to say that,’ said the old man, ‘Heaven help the
others.’
‘Indeed, uncle, you are more gallant than all these young gentlemen,’ said
Nina, rising and approaching him.
‘Why they are not all at your feet this moment is more than I can tell.
They’re always telling me the world is changed, and I begin to see it now.’
‘I suspect, sir, it’s pretty much what it used to be,’ lisped out Walpole.
‘We are only less demonstrative than our fathers.’
‘Just as I am less extravagant than mine,’ cried Kilgobbin, ‘because I have
not got it to spend.’
‘I hope Mademoiselle Nina judges us more mercifully,’ said Walpole.
‘Is that song a favourite of yours?’ asked she of Gorman, without noticing
Walpole’s remark in any way.
‘No,’ said he bluntly; ‘it makes me feel like a fool, and, I am afraid,
look like one too, when I hear it.’
‘I’m glad there’s even that much blood in you,’ cried old Kearney, who had
caught the words. ‘Oh dear! oh dear! England need never be afraid of the
young generation.’
‘That seems to be a very painful thought to you, sir,’ said Walpole.
‘And so it is,’ replied he. ‘The lower we bend, the more you’ll lay on us.
It was your language, and what you call your civilisation, broke us down
first, and the little spirit that fought against either is fast dying out
of us.’
‘Do you want Mr. Walpole to become a Fenian, papa?’ asked Kate.
‘You see, they took him for one to-day,’ broke in Dick, ‘when they came and
carried off all his luggage.’
‘By the way,’ interposed Walpole, ‘we must take care that that stupid
blunder does not get into the local papers, or we shall have it circulated
by the London press.’
‘I have already thought of that,’ said Dick, ‘and I shall go into Moate
to-morrow and see about it.’
‘Does that mean to say that you desert croquet?’ said Nina imperiously.
‘You have got Lieutenant O’Shea in my place, and a better player than me
already.’
‘I fear I must take my leave to-morrow,’ said Gorman, with a touch of real
sorrow, for in secret he knew not whither he was going.
‘Would your aunt not spare you to us for a few days?’ said the old man. ‘I
am in no favour with her just now, but she would scarcely refuse what we
would all deem a great favour.’
‘My aunt would not think the sacrifice too much for her,’ said Gorman,
trying to laugh at the conceit.
‘You shall stay,’ murmured Nina, in a tone only audible to him; and by a
slight bow he acknowledged the words as a command.
‘I believe my best way,’ said Gorman gaily, ‘will be to outstay my leave,
and take my punishment, whatever it be, when I go back again.’
‘That is military morality,’ said Walpole, in a half-whisper to Kate, but
to be overheard by Nina. ‘We poor civilians don’t understand how to keep a
debtor and creditor account with conscience.’
‘Could you manage to provoke that man to quarrel with you?’ said Nina
secretly to Gorman, while her eyes glanced towards Walpole.
‘I think I might; but what then? _He_ wouldn’t fight, and the rest of
England would shun me.’
‘That is true,’ said she slowly. ‘When any is injured here, he tries to
make money out of it. I don’t suppose you want money?’
‘Not earned in that fashion, certainly. But I think they are saying
good-night.’
‘They’re always boasting about the man that found out the safety-lamp,’
said old Kearney, as he moved away; ‘but give me the fellow that invented a
flat candlestick!’