Aunt Becky and Lilias were chatting just under those pollard osiers by the river. She was always gentle with Lily, and somehow unlike the pugnacious Aunt Becky, whose attack was so spirited and whose thrust so fierce; and when Lily told a diverting little story—and she was often very diverting—Aunt Becky used to watch her pleasant face, with such a droll, good–natured smile; and she used to pat her on the cheek, and look so glad to see her when they met, and often as if she would say—' I admire you a great deal more, and I am a great deal fonder of you than you think; but you know brave stoical Aunt Becky can’t say all that—it would not be in character, you know.' And the old lady knew how good she was to the poor, and she liked her spirit, and candour, and honour—it was so uncommon, and somehow angelic, she thought. 'Little Lily’s so true!' she used to say; and perhaps there was there a noble chord of sympathy between the young girl, who had no taste for battle, and the daring Aunt Becky.
I think Devereux liked her for liking Lily—he thought it was for her own sake. Of course, he was often unexpectedly set upon and tomahawked by the impetuous lady; but the gay captain put on his scalp again, and gathered his limbs together, and got up in high good humour, and shook himself and smiled, after his dismemberment, like one of the old soldiers of the Walhalla—and they were never the worse friends.
So, turning his back upon the fiddles and tambourine, Gipsy Devereux sauntered down to the river–bank, and to the osiers, where the ladies are looking down the river, and a blue bell, not half so blue as her own deep eyes, in Lilias’s fingers; and the sound of their gay talk came mixed with the twitter and clear evening songs of the small birds. By those same osiers, that see so many things, and tell no tales, there will yet be a parting. But its own sorrow suffices to the day. And now it is a summer sunset, and all around dappled gold and azure, and sweet, dreamy sounds; and Lilias turns her pretty head, and sees him;—and oh! was it fancy, or did he see just a little flushing of the colour on her cheek—and her lashes seemed to drop a little, and out came her frank little hand. And Devereux leaned on the paling there, and chatted his best sense and nonsense, I dare say; and they laughed and talked about all sorts of things; and he sang for them a queer little snatch of a ballad, of an enamoured captain, the course of whose true love ran not smooth;—
The river ran between them,
And she looked upon the stream,
And the soldier looked upon her
As a dreamer on a dream.
'Believe me—oh! believe,'
He sighed, 'you peerless maid;
My honour is pure,
And my true love sure,
Like the white plume in my hat,
And my shining blade.'
The river ran between them,
And she smiled upon the stream,
Like one that smiles at folly—
A dreamer on a dream.
'I do not trust your promise,
I will not be betrayed;
For your faith is light,
And your cold wit bright,
Like the white plume in your hat,
And your shining blade.'
The river ran between them,
And he rode beside the stream,
And he turned away and parted,
As a dreamer from his dream.
And his comrade brought his message,
From the field where he was laid—
Just his name to repeat,
And to lay at her feet
The white plume from his hat
And his shining blade.[1]
And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to make rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he was altogether very agreeable. But it was time she should see what Miss Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends that she left them to their devices.
'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character. There are no river gods, but nymphs. Look at that river, Miss Lilias; what a girlish spirit. I wish she would reveal herself; I could lose my heart to her, I believe—if, indeed, I could be in love with anything, you know. Look at the river—is not it feminine? it’s sad and it’s merry, musical and sparkling—and oh, so deep! Always changing, yet still the same. 'Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself, or the stars; and it’s so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and—so cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing. It’s so pure, and so playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and fatal. I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I’ve seen this river spirit; and she’s like—very like you!'
And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than usual. I don’t know all that was passing in pretty Lilias’s fancy—in her heart—near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical voice. Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and tones tell his tale most truly. So Devereux’s talk held her for a while in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful. There must be, of course, the affinity—the rapport—the what you please to call it—to begin with—it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell steals on and grows. See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine, or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support—the elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:—see all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and beauty not its own. Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation—strength perfected in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life. I must not be mistaken, though, for Devereux’s talk was only a tender sort of trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but she now felt sure that Devereux liked her—that, indeed, he took a deep interest in her—and somehow she was happy.
And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her side—not to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking. But the merry thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of the fiddles, and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company were a sort of protection. And perhaps she fancied that within that pleasant and bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so charming, might be longer maintained. It was music heard in a dream—strange and sweet—and might never come again.
CHAPTER XXV.
IN WHICH THE SUN SETS, AND THE MERRY–MAKING IS KEPT UP BY CANDLE–LIGHT IN THE KING’S HOUSE, AND LILY RECEIVES A WARNING WHICH SHE DOES NOT COMPREHEND.
Dr. Toole, without whom no jollification of any sort could occur satisfactorily in Chapelizod or the country round, was this evening at the 'King’s House,' of course, as usual, with his eyes about him and his tongue busy; and at this moment he was setting Cluffe right about Devereux’s relation to the title and estates of Athenry. His uncle Roland Lord Athenry was, as everybody knew, a lunatic—Toole used to call him Orlando Furioso: and Lewis, his first cousin by his father’s elder brother—the heir presumptive—was very little better, and reported every winter to be dying. He spends all his time—his spine being made, it is popularly believed, of gristle—stretched on his back upon a deal board, cutting out paper figures with a pair of scissors. Toole used to tell them at the club, when alarming letters arrived about the health of the noble uncle and his hopeful nephew—the heir apparent—'That’s the gentleman who’s back–bone’s made of jelly—eh, Puddock? Two letters come, by Jove, announcing that Dick Devereux’s benefit is actually fixed for the Christmas holidays, when his cousin undertakes to die for positively the last time, and his uncle will play in the most natural manner conceivable, the last act of "King Lear."' In fact, this family calamity was rather a cheerful subject among Devereux’s friends; and certainly Devereux had no reason to love that vicious, selfish old lunatic, Lord Athenry, who in his prodigal and he
artless reign, before straw and darkness swallowed him, never gave the boy a kind word or gentle look, and owed him a mortal grudge because he stood near the kingdom, and wrote most damaging reports of him at the end of the holidays, and despatched those letters of Bellerophon by the boy’s own hand to the schoolmaster, with the natural results.
When Aunt Rebecca rustled into the ring that was gathered round about the fiddles and tambourine, she passed Miss Magnolia very near, with a high countenance, and looking straight before her, and with no more recognition than the tragedy queen bestows upon the painted statue on the wing by which she enters. And Miss Mag followed her with a titter and an angry flash of her eyes. So Aunt Rebecca made up to the little hillock—little bigger than a good tea–cake—on which the dowager was perched in a high–backed chair, smiling over the dancers with a splendid benignity, and beating time with her fat short foot. And Aunt Becky told Mrs. Colonel Stafford, standing by, she had extemporised a living Watteau, and indeed it was a very pretty picture, or Aunt Becky would not have said so; and 'craning' from this eminence she saw her niece coming leisurely round, not in company of Mervyn.
That interesting stranger, on the contrary, had by this time joined Lilias and Devereux, who had returned toward the dancers, and was talking again with Miss Walsingham. Gertrude’s beau was little Puddock, who was all radiant and supremely blest. But encountering rather a black look from Aunt Becky as they drew near, he deferentially surrendered the young lady to the care of her natural guardian, who forthwith presented her to the dowager; and Puddock, warned off by another glance, backed away, and fell, unawares, helplessly into the possession of Miss Magnolia, a lady whom he never quite understood, and whom he regarded with a very kind and polite sort of horror.
So the athletic Magnolia instantly impounded the little lieutenant, and began to rally him, in the sort of slang she delighted in, with plenty of merriment and malice upon his tendre for Miss Chattesworth, and made the gallant young gentleman blush and occasionally smile, and bow a great deal, and take some snuff.
'And here comes the Duchess of Belmont again,' said the saucy Miss Magnolia, seeing the stately approach of Aunt Becky, as it seemed to Puddock, through the back of her head. I think the exertion and frolic of the dance had got her high blood up into a sparkling state, and her scorn and hate of Aunt Rebecca was more demonstrative than usual. 'Now you’ll see how she’ll run against poor little simple me, just because I’m small. And this is the way they dance it,' cried she, in a louder tone; and capering backward with a bounce, and an air, and a grace, she came with a sort of a courtesy, and a smart bump, and a shock against the stately Miss Rebecca; and whisking round with a little scream and a look of terrified innocence, and with her fingers to her heart, to suppress an imaginary palpitation, dropped a low courtesy, crying—
'I’m blest but I thought 'twas tall Burke, the gunner.'
'You might look behind before you spring backward, young gentlewoman,' said Aunt Becky, with a very bright colour.
'And you might look before you before you spring forward, old gentlewoman,' replied Miss Mag, just as angry.
'Young ladies used to have a respect to decorum,' Aunt Becky went on.
'So they prayed me to tell you, Madam,' replied the young lady, with a very meek courtesy, and a very crimson face.
'Yes, Miss Mac—Mag—Madam—it used to be so,' rejoined Aunt Rebecca, ''twas part of my education, at least, to conduct myself in a polite company like a civilised person.'
'"I wish I could see it," says blind Hugh,' Magnolia retorted; 'but 'twas a good while ago, Madam, and you’ve had time to forget.'
'I shall acquaint your mother, Mrs.—Mug—Mac—Macnamara, with your pretty behaviour to–morrow,' said Miss Rebecca.
'To–morrow’s a new day, and mother may be well enough then to hear your genteel lamentation; but I suppose you mean to–morrow come never,' answered Magnolia, with another of her provoking meek courtesies.
'Oh, this is Lieutenant Puddock,' said Aunt Becky, drawing off in high disdain, 'the bully of the town. Your present company, Sir, will find very pretty work, I warrant, for your sword and pistols; Sir Launcelot and his belle!'
'Do you like a belle or beldame best, Sir Launcelot?' enquired Miss Mag, with a mild little duck to Puddock.
'You’ll have your hands pretty full, Sir, ha, ha, ha!' and with scarlet cheeks, and a choking laugh, away sailed Aunt Rebecca.
'Choke, chicken, there’s more a–hatching,' said Miss Mag, in a sort of aside, and cutting a flic–flac with a merry devilish laugh, and a wink to Puddock. That officer, being a gentleman, was a good deal disconcerted, and scandalised—too literal to see, and too honest to enjoy, the absurd side of the combat.
'Twas an affair of a few seconds, like two frigates crossing in a gale, with only opportunity for a broadside or two; and when the Rebecca Chattesworth sheered off, it can’t be denied, her tackling was a good deal more cut up, and her hull considerably more pierced, than those of the saucy Magnolia, who sent that whistling shot and provoking cheer in her majestic wake.
'I see you want to go, Lieutenant Puddock—Lieutenant O’Flaherty, I promised to dance this country dance with you; don’t let me keep you, Ensign Puddock,' said Miss Mag in a huff, observing little Puddock’s wandering eye and thoughts.
'I—a—you see, Miss Macnamara, truly you were so hard upon poor Miss Rebecca Chattesworth, that I fear I shall get into trouble, unless I go and make my peace with her,' lisped the little lieutenant, speaking the truth, as was his wont, with a bow and a polite smile, and a gentle indication of beginning to move away.
'Oh, is that all? I was afraid you were sick of the mulligrubs, with eating chopt hay; you had better go back to her at once if she wants you, for if you don’t with a good grace, she’ll very likely come and take you back by the collar,' and Miss Mag and O’Flaherty joined in a derisive hee–haw, to Puddock’s considerable confusion, who bowed and smiled again, and tried to laugh, till the charming couple relieved him by taking their places in the dance.
When I read this speech about the 'mulligrubs,' in the old yellow letter which contains a lively account of the skirmish, my breath was fairly taken away, and I could see nothing else for more than a minute; and so soon as I was quite myself again, I struck my revising pen across the monstrous sentence, with uncompromising decision, referring it to a clerical blunder, or some unlucky transposition, and I wondered how any polite person could have made so gross a slip. But see how authentication waits upon truth! Three years afterwards, I picked up in the parlour of the 'Cat and Fiddle,' on the Macclesfield Road, in Derbyshire, a scrubby old duodecimo, which turned out to be an old volume of Dean Swift’s works: well, I opened in the middle of 'Polite Conversation,' and there, upon my honour, the second sentence I read was 'Lady Smart,' (mark that—'LADY!') 'What, you are sick of the mulligrubs, with eating chopt hay?' So my good old yellow letter–writer ('I.' or 'T.' Tresham, I can’t decide what he signs himself)—you were, no doubt, exact here as in other matters, and I was determining the probable and the impossible, unphilosophically, by the rule of my own time. And my poor Magnolia, though you spoke some years—thirty or so—later than my Lady Smart, a countess for aught I know, you are not so much to blame. Thirty years! what of that? Don’t we, to this hour, more especially in rural districts, encounter among the old folk, every now and then, one of honest Simon Wagstaff’s pleasantries, which had served merry ladies and gentlemen so long before that charming compiler, with his 'Large Table Book,' took the matter in hands. And I feel, I confess, a queer sort of a thrill, not at all contemptuous—neither altogether sad, nor altogether joyous—but something pleasantly regretful, whenever one of those quaint and faded old servants of the mirth of so many dead and buried generations, turns up in my company.
And now the sun went down behind the tufted trees, and the blue shades of evening began to deepen, and the merry company flocked into the King’s House, to dance again and drink tea, and make more love, and play round games, and jo
ke, and sing songs, and eat supper under old Colonel Stafford’s snug and kindly roof–tree.
Dangerfield, who arrived rather late, was now in high chat with Aunt Becky. She rather liked him and had very graciously accepted a gray parrot and a monkey, which he had deferentially presented, a step which called forth, to General Chattesworth’s consternation, a cockatoo from Cluffe, who felt the necessity of maintaining his ground against the stranger, and wrote off by the next packet to London, in a confounded passion, for he hated wasting money, about a pelican he had got wind of. Dangerfield also entered with much apparent interest into a favourite scheme of Aunt Becky’s, for establishing, between Chapelizod and Knockmaroon, a sort of retreat for discharged gaol–birds of her selection, a colony, happily for the character and the silver spoons of the neighbourhood, never eventually established.
It was plain he was playing the frank, good fellow, and aiming at popularity. He had become one of the club. He played at whist, and only smiled, after his sort, when his partner revoked, and he lost like a gentleman. His talk was brisk, and hard, and caustic—that of a Philistine who had seen the world and knew it. He had the Peerage by rote, and knew something out–of–the–way, amusing or damnable about every person of note you could name; and his shrewd gossip had a bouquet its own, and a fine cynical flavour, which secretly awed and delighted the young fellows. He smiled a good deal. He was not aware that a smile did not quite become him. The fact is, he had lost a good many side teeth, and it was a hollow and sinister disclosure. He would laugh, too, occasionally; but his laugh was not rich and joyous, like General Chattesworth’s, or even Tom Toole’s cozy chuckle, or old Doctor Walsingham’s hilarious ha–ha–ha! He did not know it; but there was a cold hard ring in it, like the crash and jingle of broken glass. Then his spectacles, shining like ice in the light, never removed for a moment—never even pushed up to his forehead—he eat in them, drank in them, fished in them, joked in them—he prayed in them, and, no doubt, slept in them, and would, it was believed, be buried in them—heightened that sense of mystery and mask which seemed to challenge curiosity and defy scrutiny with a scornful chuckle.
The House by the Churchyard Page 17