Lord Kilgobbin Part 57

'I am turned out--in plain words, turned out!' said he aloud, as he sat with the letter spread out before him. 'It must have been no common quarrel--not a mere coldness between the families--when she resents my coming here in this fas.h.i.+on.' That innumerable differences could separate neighbours in Ireland, even persons with the same interests and the same religion, he well knew, and he solaced himself to think how he could get at the source of this disagreement, and what chance there might be of a reconciliation.

Of one thing he felt certain. Whether his aunt were right or wrong, whether tyrant or victim, he knew in his heart all the submission must come from the others. He had only to remember a few of the occasions in life in which he had to entreat his aunt's forgiveness for the injustice she had herself inflicted, to antic.i.p.ate what humble pie Mathew Kearney must partake of in order to conciliate Miss Betty's favour.

'Meanwhile,' he thought, and not only thought, but said too--'Meanwhile, I am on the world.'

Up to this, she had allowed him a small yearly income. Father Luke, whose judgment on all things relating to continental life was unimpeachable, had told her that anything like the reputation of being well off or connected with wealthy people would lead a young man into ruin in the Austrian service; that with a sum of 3000 francs per annum--about 120--he would be in possession of something like the double of his pay, or rather more, and that with this he would be enabled to have all the necessaries and many of the comforts of his station, and still not be a mark for that high play and reckless style of living that certain young Hungarians of family and large fortune affected; and so far the priest was correct, for the young Gorman was wasteful and extravagant from disposition, and his quarter's allowance disappeared almost when it came. His money out, he fell back at once to the penurious habits of the poorest subaltern about him, and lived on his florin-and-half per diem till his resources came round again. He hoped--of course he hoped--that this momentary fit of temper would not extend to stopping his allowance.

'She knows as well as any one,' muttered he, 'that though the baker's son from Prague, or the Amtmann's nephew from a Bavarian Dorf, may manage to "come through" with his pay, the young Englishman cannot. I can neither piece my own overalls, nor forswear stockings, nor can I persuade my stomach that it has had a full meal by tightening my girth-strap three or four holes.

'I'd go down to the ranks to-morrow rather than live that life of struggle and contrivance that reduces a man to playing a dreary game with himself, by which, while he feels like a pauper, he has to fancy he felt like a gentleman. No, no, I'll none of this. Scores of better men have served in the ranks. I'll just change my regiment. By a lucky chance, I don't know a man in the Walmoden Cuira.s.siers. I'll join them, and n.o.body will ever be the wiser.'

There is a cla.s.s of men who go through life building very small castles, and are no more discouraged by the frailty of the architecture than is a child with his toy-house. This was Gorman's case; and now that he had found a solution of his difficulties in the Walmoden Cuira.s.siers, he really dressed for dinner in very tolerable spirits. 'It's droll enough,' thought he, 'to go down to dine amongst all these "swells," and to think that the fellow behind my chair is better off than myself.' The very uncertainty of his fate supplied excitement to his spirits, for it is amongst the privileges of the young that mere flurry can be pleasurable.

When Gorman reached the drawing-room, he found only one person. This was a young man in a shooting-coat, who, deep in the recess of a comfortable arm-chair, sat with the _Times_ at his feet, and to all appearance as if half dozing.

He looked around, however, as young O'Shea came forward, and said carelessly, 'I suppose it's time to go and dress--if I could.'

O'Shea making no reply, the other added, 'That is, if I have not overslept dinner altogether.'

'I hope not, sincerely,' rejoined the other, 'or I shall be a partner in the misfortune.'

'Ah, you 're the Austrian,' said Walpole, as he stuck his gla.s.s in his eye and surveyed him.

'Yes; and you are the private secretary of the Governor.'

'Only we don't call him Governor. We say Viceroy here.'

'With all my heart, Viceroy be it.'

There was a pause now--each, as it were, standing on his guard to resent any liberty of the other. At last Walpole said, 'I don't think you were in the house when that stupid stipendiary fellow called here this morning?'

'No; I was strolling across the fields. He came with the police, I suppose?'

'Yes, he came on the track of some Fenian leader--a droll thought enough anywhere out of Ireland, to search for a rebel under a magistrate's roof; not but there was something still more Irish in the incident.'

'How was that?' asked O'Shea eagerly.

'I chanced to be out walking with the ladies when the escort came, and as they failed to find the man they were after, they proceeded to make diligent search for his papers and letters. That taste for practical joking, that seems an instinct in this country, suggested to Mr. Kearney to direct the fellows to my room, and what do you think they have done?

Carried off bodily all my baggage, and left me with nothing but the clothes I'm wearing!'

'What a lark!' cried O'Shea, laughing.

'Yes, I take it that is the national way to look at these things; but that pa.s.sion for absurdity and for ludicrous situations has not the same hold on us English.'

'I know that. You are too well off to be droll.'

'Not exactly that; but when we want to laugh we go to the Adelphi.'

'Heaven help you if you have to pay people to make fun for you!'

Before Walpole could make rejoinder, the door opened to admit the ladies, closely followed by Mr. Kearney and d.i.c.k.

'Not mine the fault if I disgrace your dinner-table by such a costume as this,' cried Walpole.

'I'd have given twenty pounds if they'd have carried off yourself as the rebel!' said the old man, shaking with laughter. 'But there's the soup on the table. Take my niece, Mr. Walpole; Gorman, give your arm to my daughter. d.i.c.k and I will bring up the rear.'

CHAPTER XLII

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 p.r.o.nouncing cricket, I never even saw it.'

'It is not my foreign mode of p.r.o.nouncing cricket, Herr Lieutenant,' said she pertly, 'but I guessed already you had never heard of it.'

'It is an out-of-door affair,' said d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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 a.s.sume 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, d.i.c.k Kearney, and even led him on to little displays of attention; but d.i.c.k 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.