“I don't know,” he replied doggedly. “Wickedness and goodness have ceased to be anything more to me than vague conditions of life in a world I have nothing to say to. I cannot be either good or bad here.”
Daireen looked very solemn at this confession of impotence.
“You told me you meant to speak to The Mac-namara about going away or doing something,” she said.
“And I did speak to him, but it came to the one end: it was a disgrace for the son of the———bah, you know how he talks. Every person of any position laughs at him; only those worse than himself think that he is wronged. But I'll do something, if it should only be to enlist as a common soldier.”
“Standish, do not talk that way, like a good boy,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm. “I have a bright thought for the first time: wait just for another month until papa is here, and he will, you may be sure, tell you what is exactly right to do. Oh, there is grandpapa, with his gun as usual, coming from the hill.”
They saw at a little distance the figure of a tall old man carrying a gun, and followed by a couple of sporting dogs.
“Daireen,” said Standish, stopping suddenly as if a thought had just struck him. “Daireen, promise me that you will not let anything my father may say here to-day make you think badly of me.”
“Good gracious! why should I ever do that? What is he going to say that is so dreadful?”
“I cannot tell you, Daireen; but you will promise me;” he had seized her by the hand and was looking with earnest entreaty into her eyes. “Daireen,” he continued, “you will give me your word. You have been such a friend to me always—such a good angel to me.”
“And we shall always be friends, Standish. I promise you this. Now let go my hand, like a good boy.”
He obeyed her, and in a few minutes they had met Daireen's grandfather, Mr. Gerald, who had been coming towards them.
“What, The Macnamara here? then I must hasten to him,” said the old gentleman, handing his gun to Standish.
No one knew better than Mr. Gerald the necessity that existed for hastening to The Macnamara, in case of his waiting for a length of time in that room the sideboard of which was laden with bottles.
CHAPTER IV.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit: what is't, Laertes?
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow' leave
By laboursome petition; and at last,
Upon his will I sealed my hard consent.
Horatio. There's no offence, my lord.
Hamlet. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too.
—Hamlet.
THE Macnamara had been led away from his companionship in that old oak room by the time his son and Miss Gerald returned from the garden, and the consciousness of his own dignity seemed to have increased considerably since they had left him. This emotion was a variable possession with him: any one acquainted with his habits could without difficulty, from knowing the degree of dignity he manifested at any moment, calculate minutely the space of time, he must of necessity have spent in a room furnished similarly to that he had just now left.
He was talking pretty loudly in the room to which he had been led by Mr. Gerald when Daireen and Standish entered; and beside him was a whitehaired old lady whom Standish greeted as Mrs. Gerald and the girl called grandmamma—an old lady with very white hair but with large dark eyes whose lustre remained yet undimmed.
“Standish will reveal the mystery,” said this old lady, as the young man shook hands with her. “Your father has been speaking in proverbs, Standish, and we want your assistance to read them.”
“He is my son,” said The Macnamara, waving his hand proudly and lifting up his head. “He will hear his father speak on his behalf. Head of the Geralds, Gerald-na-Tor, chief of the hills, the last of The Macnamaras, king's of Munster, Innishdermot, and all islands, comes to you.”
“And I am honoured by his visit, and glad to find him looking so well.” said Mr. Gerald. “I am only sorry you can't make it suit you to come oftener, Macnamara.”
“It's that boy Eugene that's at fault,” said The Macnamara, dropping so suddenly into a colloquial speech from his eloquent Ossianic strain that one might have been led to believe his opening words were somewhat forced. “Yes, my lad,” he continued, addressing Mr. Gerald; “that Eugene is either breaking the springs or the straps or his own bones.” Here he recollected that his mission was not one to be expressed in this ordinary vein. He straightened himself in an instant, and as he went on asserted even more dignity than before. “Gerald, you know my position, don't you? and you know your 'own; but you can't say, can you, that The Macnamara ever held himself aloof from your table by any show of pride? I mixed with you as if we were equals.”
Again he waved his hand patronisingly, but no one showed the least sign of laughter. Standish was in front of one of the windows leaning his head upon his hand as he looked out to the misty ocean. “Yes, I've treated you at all times as if you had been born of the land, though this ground we tread on this moment was torn from the grasp of The Macnamaras by fraud.”
“True, true—six hundred years ago,” remarked Mr. Gerald. He had been so frequently reminded of this fact during his acquaintance with The Macnamara, he could afford to make the concession he now did.
“But I've not let that rankle in my heart,” continued The Macnamara; “I've descended to break bread with you and to drink—drink water with you—ay, at times. You know my son too, and you know that if he's not the same as his father to the backbone, it's not his father that's to blame for it. It was the last wish of his poor mother—rest her soul!—that he should be schooled outside our country, and you know that I carried out her will, though it cost me dear. He's been back these four years, as you know—what's he looking out at at the window?—but it's only three since he found out the pearl of the Lough Suangorm—the diamond of Slieve Docas—the beautiful daughter of the Geralds. Ay, he confessed to me this morning where his soft heart had turned, poor boy. Don't be blushing, Standish; the blood of the Macnamaras shouldn't betray itself in their cheeks.”
Standish had started away from the window before his father had ended; his hands were clenched, and his cheeks were burning with shame. He could not fail to see the frown that was settling down upon the face of Mr. Gerald. But he dared not even glance towards Daireen.
“My dear Macnamara, we needn't talk on this subject any farther just now,” said the girl's grandfather, as the orator paused for an instant.
But The Macnamara only gave his hand another wave before he proceeded. “I have promised my boy to make him happy,” he said, “and you know what the word of a Macnamara is worth even to his son; so, though I confess I was taken aback at first, yet I at last consented to throw over my natural family pride and to let my boy have his way. An alliance between the Macnamaras and the Geralds is not what would have been thought about a few years ago, but The Macnamaras have always been condescending.”
“Yes, yes, you condescend to a jest now and again with us, but really this is a sort of mystery I have no clue to,” said Mr. Gerald.
“Mystery? Ay, it will astonish the world to know that The Macnamara has given his consent to such an alliance; it must be kept secret for a while for fear of its effects upon the foreign States that