and bowing stiffly from his hips upward — his great cue playing all the time up and down his back, and sometimes so near the ground when he stood erect and threw back his head, that Toole, seeing Juno eyeing the appendage rather viciously, thought it prudent to cut her speculations short with a smart kick.
His sister Rebecca — tall, erect, with grand lace, in a splendid stiff brocade, and with a fine fan — was certainly five-and-fifty, but still wonderfully fresh, and sometimes had quite a pretty little pink colour — perfectly genuine — in her cheeks; command sat in her eye and energy on her lip — but though it was imperious and restless, there was something provokingly likeable and even pleasant in her face. Her niece, Gertrude, the general’s daughter, was also tall, graceful — and, I am told, perfectly handsome.
‘Be the powers, she’s mighty handsome!’ observed ‘Lieutenant Fireworker’ O’Flaherty, who, being a little stupid, did not remember that such a remark was not likely to pleasure the charming Magnolia Macnamara, to whom he had transferred the adoration of a passionate, but somewhat battered heart.
‘They must not see with my eyes that think so,’ said Mag, with a disdainful toss of her head.
‘They say she’s not twenty, but I’ll wager a pipe of claret she’s something to the back of it,’ said O’Flaherty, mending his hand.
‘Why, bless your innocence, she’ll never see five-and-twenty, and a bit to spare,’ sneered Miss Mag, who might more truly have told that tale of herself. ‘Who’s that pretty young man my Lord Castlemallard is introducing to her and old Chattesworth?’ The commendation was a shot at poor O’Flaherty.
‘Hey — so, my Lord knows him!’ says Toole, very much interested. ‘Why that’s Mr. Mervyn, that’s stopping at the Phoenix. A. Mervyn — I saw it on his dressing case. See how she smiles.’
‘Ay, she simpers like a firmity kettle,’ said scornful Miss Mag.
‘They’re very grand today, the Chattesworths, with them two livery footmen behind them,’ threw in O’Flaherty, accommodating his remarks to the spirit of his lady-love.
‘That young buck’s a man of consequence,’ Toole rattled on; ‘Miss does not smile on everybody.’
‘Ay, she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, but I warrant cheese won’t choke her,’ Magnolia laughed out with angry eyes.
Magnolia’s fat and highly painted parent — poor bragging, good-natured, cunning, foolish Mrs. Macnamara, the widow — joined, with a venemous wheeze in the laugh.
Those who suppose that all this rancour was produced by mere feminine emulations and jealousy do these ladies of the ancient sept Macnamara foul wrong. Mrs. Mack, on the contrary, had a fat and genial soul of her own, and Magnolia was by no means a particularly ungenerous rival in the lists of love. But Aunt Rebecca was hoitytoity upon the Macnamaras, whom she would never consent to more than half-know, seeing them with difficulty, often failing to see them altogether — though Magnolia’s stature and activity did not always render that easy. To-day, for instance, when the firing was brisk, and some of the ladies uttered pretty little timid squalls, Miss Magnolia not only stood fire like brick, but with her own fair hands cracked off a firelock, and was more complimented and applauded than all the marksmen beside, although she shot most dangerously wide, and was much nearer hitting old Arthur Slowe than that respectable gentleman, who waved his hat and smirked gallantly, was at all aware. Aunt Rebecca, notwithstanding all this, and although she looked straight at her from a distance of only ten steps, yet she could not see that large and highly-coloured heroine; and Magnolia was so incensed at her serene impertinence that when Gertrude afterwards smiled and courtesied twice, she only held her head the higher and flung a flashing defiance from her fine eyes right at that unoffending virgin.
Everybody knew that Miss Rebecca Chattesworth ruled supreme at Belmont. With a docile old general and a niece so young, she had less resistance to encounter than, perhaps, her ardent soul would have relished. Fortunately for the general it was only now and then that Aunt Becky took a whim to command the Royal Irish Artillery. She had other hobbies just as odd, though not quite so scandalous. It had struck her active mind that such of the ancient women of Chapelizod as were destitute of letters — mendicants and the like — should learn to read. Twice a week her ‘old women’s school,’ under that energetic lady’s presidency, brought together its muster-roll of rheumatism, paralysis, dim eyes, bothered ears, and invincible stupidity. Over the fire-place in large black letters, was the legend, ‘BETTER LATE THAN NEVER!’ and out came the horn-books and spectacles, and to it they went with their A-B ab, etc., and plenty of wheezing and coughing. Aunt Becky kept good fires, and served out a mess of bread and broth, along with some pungent ethics, to each of her hopeful old girls. In winter she further encouraged them with a flannel petticoat apiece, and there was besides a monthly dole. So that although after a year there was, perhaps, on the whole, no progress in learning, the affair wore a tolerably encouraging aspect; for the academy had increased in numbers, and two old fellows, liking the notion of the broth and the 6d. a month — one a barber, Will Potts, ruined by a shake in his right hand, the other a drunken pensioner, Phil Doolan, with a wooden leg — petitioned to be enrolled, and were, accordingly, admitted. Then Aunt Becky visited the gaols, and had a knack of picking up the worst characters there, and had generally two or three discharged felons on her hands. Some people said she was a bit of a Voltarian, but unjustly; for though she now and then came out with a bouncing social paradox, she was a good bitter Church-woman. So she was liberal and troublesome — off-handed and dictatorial — not without good nature, but administering her benevolences somewhat tyrannically, and, for the most part, doing more or less of positive mischief in the process.
And now the general (‘old Chattesworth,’ as the scornful Magnolia called him) drew near, with his benevolent smirk, and his stiff bows, and all his good-natured formalities — for the general had no notion of ignoring his good friend and officer, Major O’Neill, or his sister or niece — and so he made up to Mrs. Macnamara, who arrested a narrative in which she was demonstrating to O’Flaherty the general’s lineal descent from old Chattesworth — an army tailor in Queen Anne’s time — and his cousinship to a live butter dealer in Cork — and spicing her little history with not a very nice epigram on his uncle, ‘the counsellor,’ by Dr. Swift, which she delivered with a vicious chuckle in the ‘Fireworker’s’ ear, who also laughed, though he did not quite see the joke, and said, ‘Oh-ho-ho, murdher!’
The good Mrs. Mack received the general haughtily and slightly, and Miss Magnolia with a short courtesy and a little toss of her head, and up went her fan, and she giggled something in Toole’s ear, who grinned, and glanced uneasily out of the corner of his shrewd little eye at the unsuspicious general and on to Aunt Rebecca; for it was very important to Dr. Toole to stand well at Belmont. So, seeing that Miss Mag was disposed to be vicious, and not caring to be compromised by her tricks, he whistled and bawled to his dogs, and with a jolly smirk and flourish of his cocked-hat, off he went to seek other adventures.
Thus, was there feud and malice between two houses, and Aunt Rebecca’s wrong-headed freak of cutting the Macnamaras (for it was not ‘snobbery,’ and she would talk for hours on band-days publicly and familiarly with scrubby little Mrs. Toole), involved her innocent relations in scorn and ill-will; for this sort of offence, like Chinese treason, is not visited on the arch offender only, but according to a scale of consanguinity, upon his kith and kin. The criminal is minced — his sons lashed — his nephews reduced to cutlets — his cousins to joints — and so on — none of the family quite escapes; and seeing the bitter reprisals provoked by this kind of uncharity, fiercer and more enduring by much than any begotten of more tangible wrongs, Christian people who pray, ‘lead us not into temptation,’ and repeat ‘blessed are the peace-makers,’ will, on the whole, do wisely to forbear practising it.
As handsome, slender Captain Devereux, with his dark face, and great, strange, earnest eyes, and that look of intelligence so racy and peculiar, that gave him a sort of enigmatical interest, stepped into the fair-green, the dark blue glance of poor Nan Glynn, of Palmerstown, from under her red Sunday riding-hood, followed the tall, dashing, graceful apparition with a stolen glance of wild loyalty and admiration. Poor