LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

shadowed stillness to that of his Irish home. There had this woman lived! At the name of Earlsfont she became this witch, snake, deception. Earlsfont was the title and summary of her black story: the reverberation of the word shook up all the chapters to pour out their poison.

      CHAPTER II. MR. ADISTER

      Mr. Patrick O’Donnell drove up to the gates of Earlsfont notwithstanding these emotions, upon which light matter it is the habit of men of his blood too much to brood; though it is for our better future to have a capacity for them, and the insensible race is the oxenish.

      But if he did so when alone, the second man residing in the Celt put that fellow by and at once assumed the social character on his being requested to follow his card into Mr. Adister’s library. He took his impression of the hall that had heard her voice, the stairs she had descended, the door she had passed through, and the globes she had perchance laid hand on, and the old mappemonde, and the severely-shining orderly regiment of books breathing of her whether she had opened them or not, as he bowed to his host, and in reply to, ‘So, sir! I am glad to see you,’ said swimmingly that Earlsfont was the first house he had visited in this country: and the scenery reminded him of his part of Ireland: and on landing at Holyhead he had gone off straight to the metropolis by appointment to meet his brother Philip, just returned from Canada a full captain, who heartily despatched his compliments and respects, and hoped to hear of perfect health in this quarter of the world. And Captain Con the same, and he was very flourishing.

      Patrick’s opening speech concluded on the sound of a short laugh coming from Mr. Adister.

      It struck the young Irishman’s ear as injurious and scornful in relation to Captain Con; but the remark ensuing calmed him:

      ‘He has no children.’

      ‘No, sir; Captain Con wasn’t born to increase the number of our clan,’ Patrick rejoined; and thought: By heaven! I get a likeness of her out of you, with a dash of the mother mayhap somewhere. This was his Puck-manner of pulling a girdle round about from what was foremost in his head to the secret of his host’s quiet observation; for, guessing that such features as he beheld would be slumped on a handsome family, he was led by the splendid severity of their lines to perceive an illimitable pride in the man likely to punish him in his offspring, who would inherit that as well; so, as is the way with the livelier races, whether they seize first or second the matter or the spirit of what they hear, the vivid indulgence of his own ideas helped him to catch the right meaning by the tail, and he was enlightened upon a domestic unhappiness, although Mr. Adister had not spoken miserably. The ‘dash of the mother’ was thrown in to make Adiante, softer, and leave a loophole for her relenting.

      The master of Earlsfont stood for a promise of beauty in his issue, requiring to be softened at the mouth and along the brows, even in men. He was tall, and had clear Greek outlines: the lips were locked metal, thin as edges of steel, and his eyes, when he directed them on the person he addressed or the person speaking, were as little varied by motion of the lids as eyeballs of a stone bust. If they expressed more, because they were not sculptured eyes, it was the expression of his high and frigid nature rather than any of the diversities pertaining to sentiment and shades of meaning.

      ‘You have had the bequest of an estate,’ Mr. Adister said, to compliment him by touching on his affairs.

      ‘A small one; not a quarter of a county,’ said Patrick.

      ‘Productive, sir?’

      ‘‘Tis a tramp of discovery, sir, to where bog ends and cultivation begins.’

      ‘Bequeathed to you exclusively over the head of your elder brother, I understand.’

      Patrick nodded assent. ‘But my purse is Philip’s, and my house, and my horses.’

      ‘Not bequeathed by a member of your family?’

      ‘By a distant cousin, chancing to have been one of my godmothers.’

      ‘Women do these things,’ Mr. Adister said, not in perfect approbation of their doings.

      ‘And I think too, it might have gone to the elder,’ Patrick replied to his tone.

      ‘It is not your intention to be an idle gentleman?’

      ‘No, nor a vagrant Irishman, sir.’

      ‘You propose to sit down over there?’

      ‘When I’ve more brains to be of service to them and the land, I do.’

      Mr. Adister pulled the arm of his chair. ‘The professions are crammed. An Irish gentleman owning land might do worse. I am in favour of some degree of military training for all gentlemen. You hunt?’

      Patrick’s look was, ‘Give me a chance’; and Mr. Adister continued: ‘Good runs are to be had here; you shall try them. You are something of a shot, I suppose. We hear of gentlemen now who neither hunt nor shoot. You fence?’

      ‘That’s to say, I’ve had lessons in the art.’

      ‘I am not aware that there is now an art of fencing taught in Ireland.’

      ‘Nor am I,’ said Patrick; ‘though there’s no knowing what goes on in the cabins.’

      Mr. Adister appeared to acquiesce. Observations of sly import went by him like the whispering wind.

      ‘Your priests should know,’ he said.

      To this Patrick thought it well not to reply. After a pause between them, he referred to the fencing.

      ‘I was taught by a Parisian master of the art, sir.’

      ‘You have been to Paris?’

      ‘I was educated in Paris.’

      ‘How? Ah!’ Mr. Adister corrected himself in the higher notes of recollection. ‘I think I have heard something of a Jesuit seminary.’

      ‘The Fathers did me the service to knock all I know into me, and call it education, by courtesy,’ said Patrick, basking in the unobscured frown of his host.

      ‘Then you are accustomed to speak French?’ The interrogation was put to extract some balm from the circumstance.

      Patrick tried his art of fence with the absurdity by saying: ‘All but like a native.’

      ‘These Jesuits taught you the use of the foils?’

      ‘They allowed me the privilege of learning, sir.’

      After meditation, Mr. Adister said: ‘You don’t dance?’ He said it speculating on the’ kind of gentleman produced in Paris by the disciples of Loyola.

      ‘Pardon me, sir, you hit on another of my accomplishments.’

      ‘These Jesuits encourage dancing?’

      ‘The square dance—short of the embracing: the valse is under interdict.’

      Mr. Adister peered into his brows profoundly for a glimpse of the devilry in that exclusion of the valse.

      What object had those people in encouraging the young fellow to be a perfect fencer and dancer, so that he should be of the school of the polite world, and yet subservient to them?

      ‘Thanks to the Jesuits, then, you are almost a Parisian,’ he remarked; provoking the retort:

      ‘Thanks to them, I’ve stored a little, and Paris is to me as pure a place as four whitewashed walls:’ Patrick added: ‘without a shadow of a monk on them.’ Perhaps it was thrown in for the comfort of mundane ears afflicted sorely, and no point of principle pertained to the slur on a monk.

      Mr. Adister could have exclaimed, That shadow of the monk! had he been in an exclamatory mood. He said: ‘They have not made a monk of you, then.’

      Patrick was minded to explain how that the Jesuits are a religious order exercising worldly weapons. The lack of precise words admonished him of the virtue of silence, and he retreated—with a quiet negative: ‘They have not.’

      ‘Then, you are no Jesuit?’ he was asked.

      Thinking it scarcely required a response, he shrugged.

      ‘You

Скачать книгу