AN IRISH COUSIN.

BY
GEILLES HERRING AND MARTIN ROSS.


IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

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LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1889.
(All rights reserved.)

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CONTENTS.

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AN IRISH COUSIN.

PART II.

THE COST OF IT.

(Continued.)

CHAPTER II.

SUPPER EXTRAS.

We were at supper. The chaperons had at length completed their well-earned repast, and had returned, flushed and loquacious, to the dancing-room, yielding their places to the hungry throng who had been waiting outside the door.

The last waltz had been played by Miss Sissie Croly, in good time and with considerable spirit, an act of coquettish self-abnegation which elicited many tender reproaches from her forsaken partner. Making the most of the temporary improvement in the music, Nugent and I had danced without stopping, until a series of sensational flourishes announced that the end of the waltz was at hand. After it was over, he had suggested supper, and we had secured a small table at the end of the supper-room, from which, in comparative quiet, we could view the doings of the rest of the company. I was guiltily conscious of the large “W” scrawled across the supper extras on my card; but a latent rebellion against my cousin’s unauthorized appropriation conspired with a distinct desire for food to harden my heart. I made up my mind to do what seemed good to me about one at least of the extras, and dismissed for the present all further thought of Willy and his possible grievances.

I found myself possessed of an excellent appetite. Nugent’s invention as a caterer soared above the usual chicken and jelly, and we both made what, in the land of my birth, would be described as a “square meal.”

Meanwhile, the centre table was surrounded by what looked like a convivial party of lunatics. Miss Burke and Dr. Kelly had set the example of decorating themselves with the coloured paper caps contained in the crackers, and the other guests had instantly adopted the idea. Mob-caps, night-caps, fools’-caps, and sun-bonnets nodded in nightmare array round the table, Miss Burke’s long red face showing to great advantage beneath a pale-blue, tissue-paper tall hat.

“I feel I have been very remiss in not offering to pull a cracker with you,” said Nugent, “but I am afraid they have all been used up by this time!”

“Why did I not go in to supper with Dr. Kelly?” I said regretfully. “If the worst came to the worst, I am sure he would have taken off his own sun-bonnet and put it on my head!”

“Go in with him next time,” suggested Nugent. “He always goes in to supper two or three times, and works his way each time down the table like a mowing-machine, leaving nothing behind him. At the masonic ball in Cork he was heard saying to his sisters, as they were going in to supper, ‘Stuff, ye divils! there’s ice!’”

“Quite right, too,” I said, beginning upon the tipsy cake which Nugent had looted for our private consumption. “I always make a point of stuffing when there is ice. However, I think on the whole I have had enough of Dr. Kelly for one evening. I have danced once with him, and I suppose it is because he is at least a foot shorter than I am that he makes himself about half his height when he is dancing with me. But I think all small men do that; the taller their partner, the more they bend their knees.”

Nugent laughed. “I have been watching you dancing with all sorts and conditions of men, and wondering what you thought of them. I also wondered if you would find them sufficiently amusing to induce you to stay on till No. 18?” he said, putting his elbows on the table and looking questioningly at me.

“Oh, I hope so—at least—of course, that depends on your mother,” I answered.

“Should you care to stay? As in that case I think I could manage to square my mother.”

“It would be better not to bother her about it, perhaps—of course, it might be very pleasant to stay,” I answered confusedly.

The way in which he had asked the question had given me a strange sensation for a moment.

“I dare say it is not any argument, but I shall be very sorry if you go.”

I went on with the buttoning of my gloves without answering.

“For one reason, I should like you to see what it gets like towards the end.”

Nugent’s eyes were fixed on mine across the intervening woodcock and tipsy cake with more inquiry than seemed necessary, but as he finished speaking a little troop of men came in together for a supplementary supper, and I forgot everything but my own guilty conscience, as among them I saw Willy. It was, however, evident that he had not come with any gluttonous intent, for, after a cursory look round the room over people’s heads, he walked out.

“Did you see Willy?” I said, in a scared whisper.

“Yes, perfectly. He was probably looking for you.”

“Oh, I know he was!” I said, beginning to gather up my fan and other belongings. “I ought to go at once. I am engaged to him for the extras.”

“Are you afraid of Willy?” returned Nugent, without taking his elbows off the table, or making any move.

“No, of course I’m not. But I don’t like to throw him over.”

“Oh, I see!” he said, still without moving, and regarding me with an aggravating amusement.

“Well, I am going——” I began, when a hand was laid on my arm.

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Connie’s voice, “as we want this table. Get up, Nugent, and give me your chair. Nothing would induce me to sit at that bear-garden”—indicating the larger table. “What do you think I heard Miss Donovan say to that little Beamish man—English Tommy—as I was making my way up here? ‘Now, captain, if you say that again, I’ll pelt my plate of jelly at you!’ And I haven’t the least doubt that at this moment his shirt-front is covered with it.”

“Oh, all right,” said Nugent, slowly getting up, “you can have this table; we were just going. Miss Sarsfield is very anxious to find Willy. She says she is going to dance all the extras with him.”

“Then she is rather late,” replied Connie, unconcernedly. “Captain Forster, go at once and get me some game-pie. Don’t tell me there’s none; I couldn’t bear it. Well, my dear,” she continued, “perhaps you are not aware that the extras are all over, and No. 12 is going on now?”

“Have you seen Willy anywhere?” I asked, feeling rather than seeing the sisterly eye of facetious insinuation that Connie directed at her brother. “I am engaged to him for No. 12.”

“At this moment he is dancing with Miss Dennehy,” answered Connie, “but I know he has been looking for you. He has prowled in and out of the conservatory twenty times.”

“He was in here too,” said Nugent; “and I think he saw you,” he added, as we walked into the hall. “What would you like to do now? Willy has evidently thrown you over, and I expect my partner has consoled herself. I think the safest plan is to hide somewhere till this is over, and, as 13 is ours, we can then emerge, and dance it with blameless composure.”

The doors of the conservatory at the end of the hall stood invitingly open, and a cool, fragrant waft of perfume came through them. Without further deliberation, we mutely accepted their invitation, and finding, by the dim, parti-coloured light of Chinese lanterns, that two armchairs had been placed at the further end, we immediately took possession of them.

“Occasionally rest is vouchsafed even to the wicked,” said Nugent, leaning back, and picking up my fan, which I had laid on the floor, and beginning lazily to examine it. “Looking at a ball in the abstract, I think it involves great weariness and vexation of spirit. Out of twenty-four dances, there are at most four or five that one really looks forward to. You are going to stay for No. 18, you know,” he added quietly. “I shall settle that with the Madam.”

“Give me my fan, please,” I said, taking no notice of this assertion. “I can see you know just the right way to break it.”

He sat up, and, instead of returning it, began slowly to fan me. There was a brief silence. The rain pattered down on the glass overhead. We could just hear the music, and the measured stamping of the dancers’ feet.

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, “you are curiously different from what I expected you to be.”

“Why? Had you formed any definite idea about me?”

“Not in the least. That was what threw me so out of my reckoning. I thought I knew pretty well, in a general way, what you were going to be like; but somehow you have made me reconstruct all my notions.”

“If you had only told me in time, I should have tried to be less inconsiderate. It is so painful to have to give up one’s ideas.”

“I did not find it so,” he said seriously; “on the contrary. I wonder”—continuing to flap my big black fan to and fro—“if you ever had a kind of latent ideal—a sort of thing which seems so impossible that you never try to form any very concrete theory about it? I suppose it very seldom happens to a man to find that an idea he has only dreamt about is a real thing after all. Can you imagine what an effect it would have upon him when he found that he had unexpectedly met his—well, his ideal?”

He folded up the fan, and looked down at me, waiting for an answer.

“I should imagine he would think himself very clever,” I said, feeling rather nervous.

“No, not clever, I don’t think, so much as fortunate; that is to say”—he drew a short breath—“of course the ideal may have ideas of her—of its own that the man can’t live up to—independent schemes, in fact; and then—why, then that chap gets left, you know,” he ended, with a change of tone.

As he finished speaking, the far-off banging of the piano ceased. I did not know how to reply to what he had said, and his way of saying it had made me feel so shy and bewildered that I sat awkwardly silent until the dancers came crowding into the conservatory, all in turn exhibiting the same resentful surprise, as they found the only two chairs occupied. Willy was not among them, nor did I see him during the ensuing dance, and, as his late partner was in the room, I could only conclude that he was sitting out by himself. I began to feel uncomfortable about him, and half dreaded meeting him again. The dance seemed interminably long. I kept my eyes fixed on the door to see if he were among the string of black and red-coated men who wandered partnerless in and out, but could see no sign of him. I have no doubt that under these circumstances I was a very uninteresting companion; Nugent was also silent and preoccupied, and I think we were both glad when the dance was over.

“It is very strange that I do not see Willy anywhere,” I said, as we came out into the hall again.

“Who? Oh! Willy,” he said. “Are you still looking for him? Is not that he coming out of the supper-room?”

It was Willy. I dropped Nugent’s arm.

“You will excuse me, won’t you?” I said hurriedly. “I want to explain to him——”

By this time Willy had met us, and looked as if he were going to pass me by.

“Do you know that this is our dance?” I said, stopping him. “You are not going to throw me over again, are you?” My heart beat rather fast as I made this feeble endeavour to carry the war into the enemy’s country. He was looking grey and ill, and I did not think that his pleasant, boyish face could have taken on such an expression of gloomy coldness.

“Really? Is it? I did not know that I was to have the honour of dancing with you again,” he responded, with a boyish attempt at frigid dignity.

“Of course it is,” I said cheerily, though I felt rather alarmed. “Look at it in black and white.”

Willy did not look at the card which I held towards him.

“It doesn’t appear that my name being written there makes much difference,” he answered, making a movement as if to pass on.

“Oh, Willy, that isn’t fair! You know I danced ever so often with you before supper, and afterwards I was looking for you everywhere; was I not, Mr. O’Neill?”—turning for corroboration to Nugent. He, however, had left me to fight my own battles, and was at a little distance, deep in conversation with Mr. Dennehy. I saw that, whether verified or not, my explanations had but little effect upon Willy, and I boldly assumed the offensive. “You know, I never said that I was going to give you all those dances that you took.”

“Of course you were at perfect liberty to do what you liked about them,” returned Willy, without looking at me.

“Don’t be absurd! You know quite well what I mean, and if you had wanted to dance with me you might very easily have found me. I was only in the supper-room.”

He said nothing, and just then we heard the first few notes of the next waltz.

“You will dance this with me, will not you?” I said, thoroughly unhappy at the turn things were taking. “I am very sorry. I did not think you would mind. Don’t be angry with me, Willy,” I ended impulsively, putting my hand into his arm.

He looked at me almost wildly for a moment; and then, without a word, we joined the stream of dancers who were returning to the ball-room.

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CHAPTER III.

MR. CROLY’S STUDY.

“The supper’s put great heart into them,” little Dr. Kelly remarked confidentially to Willy, as he passed us, leading a stout elderly matron forth to the dance. The chaperons, with but few exceptions, had abandoned the hard chairs and narrow sofas on which they had hitherto huddled in chilly discomfort, and were, again to quote Dr. Kelly, “footing it with the best of them.”

Mrs. Croly herself was playing “Sweethearts,” and by way, as I suppose, of receiving this favour with proper enthusiasm, the guests, as they danced, sang the words of the refrain—

as often as it recurred, Mrs. Croly from the piano lending her powerful aid to swell the chorus. Madam O’Neill was sitting alone upon her sofa, and had closed her eyes during this later development of the entertainment, whether in real or simulated slumber I did not know; but an expressive glance from Connie, whom, to my surprise, I saw circling in the arms of our host, told me that the latter was more probably the case. The O’Neill I had lately espied sitting in an armchair on the landing of the stairs with a very pretty young lady, the instructress of the younger Misses Jackson-Croly. He, at all events, was enjoying himself, and as far as he was concerned I felt none of the qualms of conscience at the lateness of the hour which assailed me at sight of my chaperon’s tired face.

Willy had not spoken since we had begun to dance, but I thought it best to behave as if nothing were the matter.

“This is the most amusing dance I ever was at in my life,” I said, in the first pause that we made.

“I don’t see much difference between it and any other.”

“I do not mean to say that I have not enjoyed myself,” I said, anxious to avoid any semblance of superiority, “but you must admit that one does not usually meet people who are able to sing and dance a waltz at the same time.”

At this point there came a sudden thud on the floor, followed by a slight commotion.

“Hullo! Croly’s let Connie down!” exclaimed Willy, forgetting for an instant his offended dignity.

I was just in time to catch between the dancers a glimpse of Connie struggling, hot and angry, to her feet, while her partner lay prone on his back on the floor. The catastrophe had taken place just in front of Madam O’Neill, whose eyes, now wide open, were bent in a gaze of petrified indignation on Mr. Jackson-Croly. Nugent had not been dancing, and, on seeing Connie fall, had gone round to pick her up, and now made his way towards me.

“Did you see them come down?” he said. “Croly hung on to Connie like a drowning man to a straw, and Connie, not being exactly a straw, nearly drove his head into the floor. She won’t speak to him now, which is rather hard luck, considering she all but killed him. Was I not right in advising you to stay on till the end?”

Exceeding laughter had deprived me of all power of speech, but, in any case, Willy did not give me time to reply.

“Come out of this,” he said roughly; “I’m sick of it.” He gave me his arm as he spoke, and elbowed his way past Nugent out of the room. He walked without speaking through the hall towards the conservatory, but stopped short at the door. “It’s full of people in there. Croly’s study’s the only place where you’ve a chance of being let alone,” he said, turning down a passage, and leading the way into a dreary little room, lighted by a smoky paraffin-lamp, and pervaded by the odour of whiskey. On the inky table, two or three tumblers with spoons in them, and a bottle and decanter, were standing in shining patches of spilt whiskey and water. A few office chairs were drawn up in front of the remains of a smouldering turf fire. Long files of bills hung beside an old coat on some pegs, and Mr. Croly’s cloth slippers showed modestly from under a small horse-hair sofa. A more untempting place to sit in could not well be imagined; but Willy did not seem to notice its discomforts. He sat down on one of the chairs, and began aimlessly to poke the fire; while I, gingerly drawing my skirts together, established myself on the sofa.

“I can’t say I think this is an improvement on the conservatory,” I said at length, seeing that Willy did not seem inclined to talk. “When did you discover it?”

He threw down the poker, and, standing up, began to examine a specimen of ore that lay on the chimney-piece.

“If you want to know particularly,” he said, in a hard and would-be indifferent voice, “I came and sat in here by myself while those extras were going on.”

“That wasn’t a very cheerful thing to do.”

“Well, I didn’t feel very cheerful,” he answered, still with his back to me, and beginning to scrape the marble mantelshelf with the piece of ore which he held in his hand.

“Some one appears to have found a certain solace here,” I said, looking at the whiskey and water. “I am sure poor Mr. Croly has crept in from time to time, and put on his old coat and slippers, and tried to forget that there was a dance going on in his house.”

No answer from Willy.

“Then perhaps it was you,” I continued, with ill-assumed levity. “I am sorry to think that you have taken to such evil courses.”

He went on hammering at the chimney-piece without replying.

“It’s very rude of you not to answer; and you are ruining Mr. Croly’s mantelpiece.”

He put down the piece of ore suddenly, and, leaving the fireplace, came and stood over me.

“Theo!” he said, in a breathless sort of way, and stopped. I looked up at him with quick alarm, and saw that he was trying to get mastery enough over himself to speak. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I’m nearly mad as it is. I can’t bear it any longer; I must say it.”

“Don’t, Willy,” I said; “please don’t. It would be better for us both if you didn’t.”

“I don’t care,” he said, kneeling down beside me, and taking hold of both my hands. “You’ve got to listen to me now. You needn’t think that I don’t know I haven’t a chance. I’ve seen that plain enough to-night, if I didn’t know it before. Oh, I know, Theo; I know very well,” he ended brokenly.

I could find nothing to say. I liked him so much that I could not bring myself to frame the bitter truth which he would have to hear. I suppose my silence encouraged him, for in the same breathless, abrupt way he went on.

“I know I’m an ignorant brute; but if you would only just try me. Oh, Theo, if you could only know! I’m such a fool I can’t get hold of the right words to tell you, but you might believe me all the same. Indeed I do love you—I love you,” he repeated, with a sort of sob, gathering both my hands into one of his and kissing them passionately.

“Willy,” I said despairingly, trying to free my hands from his grasp, “you must stop; you make me miserable. I can’t bear to hear you talk like that. You know how much I like you and respect you, and everything. I am fonder of you than any one I know almost, but not in that way.”

“But if you were fond of me at all, I wouldn’t mind how little you liked me at first, if you’d let me care for you. Maybe, it would come to you afterwards; and you know the governor would like it awfully,” said the poor boy, lifting his white face, and gazing at me with desperate eyes.

“It’s no use, Willy; I can’t let you say any more about it. I’m not worth your caring for me like that,” I said unsteadily.

His hands relaxed their grasp, and, drawing mine away, I stood up. He got up also, and stood facing me in the smoky light of the lamp. He leaned his hand on the table beside him, and a little ringing of the spoons and glasses told me how it trembled. When he next spoke, however, his voice was firmer.

“That’s no answer. You’re worth more to me than everything in the world. If it was only that”—with a shaky laugh—“but I know that’s not your reason. Look here—will you tell me one thing?”—coming closer, and staring hard at me. “Is it another fellow? Is it—is it Nugent?”

“It is nothing of the kind,” I said angrily, but at the same time flushing hotly under his scrutiny. “You have no right to say such things. If I had never seen him, I should feel just the same towards you.”

I turned to take my bouquet from the sofa with the intention of leaving the room, but before I could do so, Willy snatched it up, and, taking a stride forward, he flung the flowers into the fire, and crushed them with his foot into the burning embers.

“How dare you, Willy!” I said, thoroughly roused. “What right had you to do that?”

“And what right have you to say you don’t care for him, when you carry his cursed flowers in your hand? I see how the land lies well enough. I’ve been made a fool of all through!”

“You have not been made a fool of,” I said, with equal energy. “It is cruel of you to say that.”

“Cruel? It comes well from you to say that! I dare say you think it doesn’t matter much; but maybe some day, when I’ve gone to the devil, you’ll be sorry.”

He walked to the door, as if to go.

“I am sorry, Willy,” I said, the tears rushing to my eyes. “Don’t go away like that. Oh, why did I ever come to Durrus?”

He stood irresolute for a moment, with the handle of the door in his hand, looking at me as if in a daze. Then, with an inarticulate exclamation, he came back to where I was standing, and, before I had time to stop him, took me in his arms. I was too much unstrung and exhausted by what had gone before to resist, and I stood in a kind of horror of passive endurance while he kissed me over and over again. He let me go at last.

“It’s no use,” he said, in a choked voice, which sounded almost like a groan; “it’s no use. My God! I can’t bear it!” His eye fell on the bunch of violets in my dress. “Give them to me,” he said.

I silently took out of my dress the bunch he had given me, and handed them, all limp and faded, to him. He took them without looking at me, and, turning his back to me, walked to the chimney-piece. He leaned both his arms upon the narrow shelf, and laid his head upon them.

When I left the room, he was still standing motionless in the same position.

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CHAPTER IV.

MYROSS CHURCHYARD.