“Four hundred years!” cried The Macnamara scornfully. “Four hundred years! What's four hundred years in the existence of a family?” He felt that this was the exact instant for him to rise grandly to his feet, so once more he made the essay, but without a satisfactory result. As a matter of fact, it is almost impossible to release oneself from the embrace of a heavy oak chair when the seat has been formed of light cane, and this cane has become tattered.
“I don't care about the kings of Munster—no, not a bit,” said Standish, taking a mean advantage of the involuntary captivity of his father to insult him.
“I'm dead sick hearing about them. They never did anything for me.”
The Macnamara threw back his head, clasped his hands over his bosom, and gazed up to the cobwebs of the oak ceiling. “My sires—shades of the Macnamaras and the O'Dermots, visit not the iniquity of the children upon the fathers,” he exclaimed. And then there came a solemn pause which the hereditary monarch felt should impress his son deeply; but the son was not deceived into fancying that his father was overcome with emotion; he knew very well that his father was only thinking how with dignity he could extricate himself from his awkward chair, and so he was not deeply affected. “My boy, my boy,” the father murmured in a weak voice, after his apostrophe to the shades of the ceiling, “what do you mean to do? Keep nothing secret from me, Standish; I'll stand by you to the last.”
“I don't mean to do anything. There is nothing to be done—at least—yet.”
“What's that you say? Nothing to be done? You don't mean to say you've been thrifling with the young-woman's affection? Never shall a son of mine, and the offspring of The Macnamaras and the——”
“How can you put such a question to me?” said the young man indignantly. “I throw back the insinuation in your teeth, though you are my father. I would scorn to trifle with the feelings of any lady, not to speak of Miss Gerald, who is purer than the lily that blooms——”
“In the valley of Shanganagh—that's what you said in the poem, my boy; and it's true, I'm sure.”
“But because you find a scrap of poetry in my writing you fancy that I forget my—my duty—my——”
“Mighty sires, Standish; say the word at once, man. Well, maybe I was too hasty, my boy; and if you tell me that you don't love her now, I'll forgive all.”
“Never,” cried the young man, with the vehemence of a mediaeval burning martyr. “I swear that I love her, and that it would be impossible for me ever to think of any one else.”
“This is cruel—cruel!” murmured The Macnamara, still thinking how he could extricate himself from his uneasy seat. “It is cruel for a father, but it must be borne—it must be borne. If our ancient house is to degenerate to a Saxon's level, I'm not to blame. Standish, my boy, I forgive you. Take your father's hand.”
He stretched out his hand, and the young man took it. The grasp of The Macnamara was fervent—it did not relax until he had accomplished the end he had in view, and had pulled himself to his feet. Standish was about to leave the room, when his father, turning his eyes away from the tattered cane-work of the chair, that now closely resembled the star-trap in a pantomime, cried:
“Don't go yet, sir. This isn't to end here. Didn't you tell me that your affection was set upon this daughter of the Geralds?”
“What is the use of continuing such questions?” cried the young man impatiently. The reiteration by his father of this theme—the most sacred to Standish's ears—was exasperating.
“No son of mine will be let sneak out of an affair like this,” said the hereditary monarch. “We may be poor, sir, poor as a bogtrotter's dog——”
“And we are,” interposed Standish bitterly.
“But we have still the memories of the grand old times to live upon, and the name of Macnamara was never joined with anything but honour. You love that daughter of the Geralds—you've confessed it; and though the family she belongs to is one of these mushroom growths that's springing up around us in three or four hundred years—ay, in spite of the upstart family she belongs to, I'll give my consent to your happiness. We mustn't be proud in these days, my son, though the blood of kings—eh, where do ye mean to be going before I've done?”
“I thought you had finished.”
“Did you? well, you're mistaken. You don't stir from here until you've promised me to make all the amends in your power to this daughter of the Geralds.”
“Amends? I don't understand you.”
“Don't you tell me you love her?”
The refrain which was so delightful to the young man's ears when he uttered it alone by night under the pure stars, sounded terrible when reiterated by his father. But what could he do—his father was now upon his feet?
“What is the use of profaning her name in this fashion?” cried Standish. “If I said I loved her, it was only when you accused me of it and threatened to turn me out of the house.”
“And out of the house you'll go if you don't give me a straightforward answer.”
“I don't care,” cried Standish doggedly. “What is there here that should make me afraid of your threat? I want to be turned out. I'm sick of this place.”
“Heavens! what has come over the boy that he has taken to speaking like this? Are ye demented, my son?”
“No such thing,” said Standish. “Only I have been thinking for the past few days over my position here, and I have come to the conclusion that I couldn't be worse off.”
“You've been thinking, have you?” asked The Macnamara contemptuously. “You depart so far from the traditions of your family? Well, well,” he continued in an altered tone, after a pause, “maybe I've been a bad father to you, Standish, maybe I've neglected my duty; maybe——” here The Macnamara felt for his pocket-handkerchief, and having found it, he waved it spasmodically, and was about to throw himself into his chair when he recollected its defects and refrained, even though he was well aware that he was thereby sacrificing much of the dramatic effect up to which he had been working.
“No, father; I don't want to say that you have been anything but good to me, only——”
“But I say it, my son,” said The Macnamara, mopping his brows earnestly with his handkerchief. “I've been a selfish old man, haven't I, now?”
“No, no, anything but that. You have only been too good. You have given me all I ever wanted—except——”
“Except what? Ah, I know what you mean—except money. Ah, your reproach is bitter—bitter; but I deserve it all, I do.”
“No, father: I did not say that at all.”
“But I'll show you, my boy, that your father can be generous once of a time. You love her, don't you, Standish?”
His father had laid his hand upon his shoulder now, and spoke the words in a sentimental whisper, so that they did not sound so profane as before.
“I worship the ground she treads on,” his son answered, tremulous with eagerness, a girlish blush suffusing his cheeks and invading the curls upon his forehead, as he turned his head away.
“Then I'll show you that I can be generous. You shall have her, Standish Macnamara; I'll give her to you, though she is one of the new families. Put on your hat, my boy, and come out with me.”
“Are you going out?” said Standish.
“I am, so order round the car, if the spring is mended. It should be, for I gave Eugene the cord for it yesterday.”
Standish made a slight pause at the door as if about to put another question