“And whose pet are you?” I asked.
“Oh—I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when he’s in a good humour. Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?”
“I have none. But if I had I should not make pets of them.”
“Not of your own sisters?”
“No. As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great deal.”
“How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of surprise imaginable.
“Not at all unnatural I think,” said I, looking tenderly and lovingly into her face. Where does one find girls so pretty, so easy, so sweet, so talkative as the Irish girls? And then with all their talking and all their ease who ever hears of their misbehaving? They certainly love flirting as they also love dancing. But they flirt without mischief and without malice.
I had now quite forgotten my misfortune, and was beginning to think how well I should like to have Fanny O’Conor for my wife. In this frame of mind I was bending over towards her as a servant took away a plate from the other side, when a sepulchral note sounded in my ear. It was like the memento mori of the old Roman;—as though someone pointed in the midst of my bliss to the sword hung over my head by a thread. It was the voice of Larry, whispering in his agony just above, my head—
“They’s disthroying my poor feet intirely, intirely; so they is! I can’t bear it much longer, yer honer.” I had committed murder like Macbeth; and now my Banquo had come to disturb me at my feast.
“What is it he says to you?” asked Fanny.
“Oh nothing,” I answered, once more in my misery.
“There seems to be some point of confidence between you and our Larry,” she remarked.
“Oh no,” said I, quite confused; “not at all.”
“You need not be ashamed of it. Half the gentlemen in the county have their confidences with Larry;—and some of the ladies too, I can tell you. He was born in this house, and never lived anywhere else; and I am sure he has a larger circle of acquaintance than anyone else in it.”
I could not recover my self-possession for the next ten minutes. Whenever Larry was on our side of the table I was afraid he was coming to me with another agonised whisper. When he was opposite, I could not but watch him as he hobbled in his misery. It was evident that the boots were too tight for him, and had they been made throughout of iron they could not have been less capable of yielding to the feet. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. And I pitied myself also, wishing that I was well in bed upstairs with some feigned malady, so that Larry might have had his own again.
And then for a moment I missed him from the room. He had doubtless gone to relieve his tortured feet in the servants’ hall, and as he did so was cursing my cruelty. But what mattered it? Let him curse. If he would only stay away and do that, I would appease his wrath when we were alone together with pecuniary satisfaction.
But there was no such rest in store for me. “Larry, Larry,” shouted Mr. O’Conor, “where on earth has the fellow gone to?” They were all cousins at the table except myself, and Mr. O’Conor was not therefore restrained by any feeling of ceremony. “There is something wrong with that fellow today; what is it, Jack?”
“Upon my word, sir, I don’t know,” said Jack.
“I think he must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister, who always sat at her brother’s left hand. But a whisper though it was, it was audible all down the table.
“No, ma’am; it aint dhrink at all,” said the coachman. “It is his feet as does it.”
“His feet!” shouted Tom O’Conor.
“Yes; I know it’s his feet,” said that horrid Tizzy. “He’s got on great thick nailed shoes. It was that that made him tumble down in the hall.”
I glanced at each side of me, and could see that there was a certain consciousness expressed in the face of each of my two neighbours;—on Kate’s mouth there was decidedly a smile, or rather, perhaps, the slightest possible inclination that way; whereas on Fanny’s part I thought I saw something like a rising sorrow at my distress. So at least I flattered myself.
“Send him back into the room immediately,” said Tom, who looked at me as though he had some consciousness that I had introduced all this confusion into his household. What should I do? Would it not be best for me to make a clean breast of it before them all? But alas! I lacked the courage.
The coachman went out, and we were left for five minutes without any servant, and Mr. O’Conor the while became more and more savage. I attempted to say a word to Fanny, but failed. Vox faucibus haesit.
“I don’t think he has got any others,” said Tizzy—“at least none others left.”
On the whole I am glad I did not marry into the family, as I could not have endured that girl to stay in my house as a sister-in-law.
“Where the d⸺ has that other fellow gone to?” said Tom. “Jack, do go out and see what is the matter. If anybody is drunk send for me.”
“Oh, there is nobody drunk,” said Tizzy.
Jack went out, and the coachman returned; but what was done and said I hardly remember. The whole room seemed to swim round and round, and as far as I can recollect the company sat mute, neither eating nor drinking. Presently Jack returned.
“It’s all right,” said he. I always liked Jack. At the present moment he just looked towards me and laughed slightly.
“All right?” said Tom. “But is the fellow coming?”
“We can do with Richard, I suppose,” said Jack.
“No—I can’t do with Richard,” said the father.
