CHAPTER VII
As winter advanced, the outlook for hunting was excellent, but, on the other hand, the prospects of the poor were lamentable. It had been a miserably wet harvest; there was a blight on most of the potato crops. Altogether, times were bad, and many decent, respectable old people were just struggling to keep the workhouse at arm’s length. The upper class in this part of the world were not wealthy; times were bad with them also, but they did what they could, and started a fund to provide firing, blankets, soup, and tea. In order to augment this subscription, Mrs. Doran, the ever bustling and benevolent, suggested holding a concert in the big drawing-room of the old part of the Castle, which, with one or two small passages, a cavernous kitchen, and pantries, was all of the dwelling that remained from the fire. This drawing-room lay at the opposite end of the yard from the present somewhat jerry-built mansion, and was utilised as a sort of general lumber- and store-room. It proved, when emptied, capable of holding three or four hundred people, and Mrs. Doran generously offered it free of charge. Decorations, she declared, were easy; chairs and forms could be borrowed; she would lend her piano—yes, and her youngest son should be one of the performers; for Ulick, as most people knew, had a delightful voice. The eager lady drove about the country and expounded her scheme to her neighbours with convincing eloquence. The concert, of course, to be undenominational: the schoolmistress could get up glees, Lady Tandragee would play the violin, Father Daly, the parish priest, should sing, and the rectory girls perform on the piano; kind friends must contribute their talents, and the public their money. Tickets were to be ten shillings, five shillings, and two shillings, and there were to be—oh, marvel!—refreshments, which would be served in the Castle dining-room and servants’ hall, according to the rank of the ticket-holders. For, as Mrs. Doran declared, people could not be expected to come for miles and sit out two mortal hours and more, and then go away hungry. Her hearers listened and approved. But was this really Mrs. Doran who was setting forth such an innovation?—she, of all people, who suffered acquaintances to come and visit her from many miles distant, and rarely “put up” a horse, or offered the caller a cup of tea! What had come to her? Possibly now that her youngest son was at home, he had wisely prevailed on his mother to be less penurious, and more like other people. At any rate, Mrs. Doran was in her element; she was a born organiser; arranged a stage, wall-lamps, programmes, chairs, forms, and collected a really capital company. She borrowed far and she borrowed near; her pen, as she said herself, was never out of her hand! and, thanks to her exertions, which were prodigious, every ticket was sold. Lady Borrisokane was coming, weather permitting, with a large party, and General and Mrs. Haverstock were bringing a houseful of guests. For many days the grand concert and little but the concert was discussed in cabin, cottage, and Castle. The schoolmistress drilled a selection of girls to sing in the glees, and among the chosen was Mary Foley. The others were the daughters of strong farmers, or of people of the shopkeeping class; but Mary had a deliciously sweet treble, and could not well be overlooked; although her companions were a bit above her station, her voice soared above theirs, as a lark’s above the twittering of finches. All were commanded to appear in white, and Mary’s dress for her first communion came in nicely for the splendid occasion.
A full moon and a hard frost, made locomotion easy on the eventful evening, and by seven o’clock the yard of the Castle was packed with every description of vehicle, from an ass’s car to a smart private omnibus, and a bicycle to a mourning coach; “the house,” so to speak, was crammed to the door, the farmers and tradespeople gladly paid five shillings for a good charity, which combined songs, a supper, and a sight of all the quality in the country! The poorer folk expended two shillings, to show they could afford it, and were not coming on the parish; the boys also paid for the girls. There was much to see: the old drawing-room did not know itself; its walls were decorated with holly and pink paper, lit up by flaring wall-lamps. At the upper end was a platform (covered and draped in turkey red, rising from a forest of palms and exotic plants) on which stood a grand piano, chairs, and yet more palms. Behind this platform hung the doctor’s best drawing-room curtains, concealing the exit and entrance to the green-room (down three rickety steps and into a mouldy pantry), where was a lamp and a couple of kitchen chairs. By the time the five- and two-shilling seats had digested all these splendid details, the ten-shilling places began to arrive. It was the first time that many of the simple crowd had seen a real diamond necklace, or a black velvet dress. Lady Borrisokane’s head was covered with white plumes, “for all the world,” as some one said, “like a child’s hearse!” There was his lordship, bent in the shoulders, bald on the head, and furious in the face! Undoubtedly he was here against his will. Lady Tandragee, smart and showy in spangled pink satin, with a low body and pearls—the sight of her was worth at least one shilling. Next came Sir Thomas, in his pink coat, the honourable Mrs. Fagan and three daughters, all heiresses, but as plain as a heap of stones. The general, very gay-looking, with grand company; the rector of the parish; the parish priest. Each party or individual was loudly clapped as they entered; some were embarrassed, some laughed, others accepted the demonstration as their due, and indeed, Mrs. Fagan went so far as to scatter half a dozen stately bows! By the time they had all found seats, the doors were closed. The room was full—even the window-sills were occupied, and no less than five boys were seated (half-price) upon the chimney-piece.
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention that the concert opened with a duet—the Overture to Zampa! After this the comic man sang a capital song, “Lannigan’s Ball.” The next item was a solo on the violin by Lady Tandragee, much appreciated by the ten-shilling places, but the performance was rather over the heads of the others; she gave a concerto delightfully. The farmer folk thought it most amazing to see a lady playing the fiddle; the working of her arms was a real wonder, but she was not getting out much tune! However, when she concluded, they clapped and stamped from politeness, and a good-natured appreciation of her desperate exertions. After an encore, there was a humorous recitation by the rector; and the last item on the first part was a song by Ulick Doran, Esq. When he stepped forward in his evening-dress clothes, looking remarkably handsome and well groomed, there was a loud burst of applause, and a noisy shuffling of feet under the cheap forms. Mr. Doran was entirely at his ease, the result of a long apprenticeship to soldiers’ sing-songs, and he sang in a fine, clear voice the well-known melody—
“Rich and rare were the gems she wore.”
This being wildly encored, he gave them “Father O’Flynn,” and subsequently, without waiting for an uproarious demonstration, descended headlong into the so-called green-room—which he had named “the black hole.”
The interval lasted ten minutes only, and during the time people talked to one another, some even leaving their places, and visiting about; their voices sounded like the buzzing of a great swarm of bees; so far every one agreed that the concert was a wonderful success.
The second part of the entertainment opened with a glee. Ten young girls trooped up, and bashfully took their places on the stage, and sang “The Hunting Morn,” no doubt in compliment to the members of the Harkaway pack, who were present. The glee went capitally, and was loudly encored; the ten maidens were duly prepared, and sang another with equal success.
Among the group, Mary Foley was supreme; she had a brilliant colour, her eyes shone with excitement, her voice was clear and high, she was not the least self-conscious, although the gaze of all her little world was concentrated on her, including the gaze of Mr. Ulick Doran—for, owing to the exigencies of space already indicated, performers who had played their parts, immediately resumed their seats among the audience. The girl created a sensation, not merely in the cheap, but the ten-shilling places. Her neighbours and friends asked one another if Mary didn’t look for all the world like a lady born? as good as the best! and twice as natural as some that were there?
“An will ye luck at the turn of her neck,” said Mrs. Hogan of “The Arms,” “and the grand set of her head. She might well be somebody, instead of just a working girl, the daughter of John Foley.”
Among the upper ten she was prodigiously admired; but Mrs. Doran did her utmost to damp all enthusiasm and extinguish curiosity, and was uncommonly sorry she had allowed the Foley girl to appear. She was far too conspicuous.
“Oh, she was just taken in to make up the dozen,” she explained, “and is only the daughter of one of our cottagers; indeed, she lives in a humble way, and is not in the same class as the rest.”
“Now, I should have said it was the other way about,” exclaimed Lady Borrisokane. “It shows one should not judge by appearances. She really looks almost ladylike—have you noticed her hands?”
“No!” impatiently, “I never looked at them, though she is my egg-girl this six years. She is inclined to be a bit above her station, and I make a point of keeping her in her place. It is the really truest kindness.”
“She is most awfully pretty and jolly-looking,” put in a young man. “I only wish——”
“Hussh!” interrupted the presiding lady. “Father Daly is going to sing.”
And the parish priest, who was a general favourite, emerged from the curtain, and gave them “Killarney” in a fine mellow voice, which was clapped to the echo by his parishioners. After a violin solo, and another glee, and a duet on the grand piano (Irish melodies and fireworks), there was a considerable delay. The lamp in the black hole had gone out, and an embarrassing collision occurred between coming and going performers. Then Ulick Doran stepped up on the platform; on this occasion carrying a much-beribboned guitar. He fetched a chair forward, sat down, deliberately tuned up the instrument, struck one or two rich chords, and then broke into “Torear por lo fino” (“The song of the Spanish bull-fighter”).
“El tipo mas flamena que hayen
Espa-ña.”
he sang—
“Es este cuerpecito con tanta
Gra-cia.
Con tanta gracia y este cuerpecito
Y este cuerpecito, Salero!
Con tanta gracia.
Olé con, olé ola, y olé, barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Not one word could his audience understand; they could, however, realise that a remarkably good-looking young man, playing a guitar, decorated with beautiful crimson and yellow ribbons, was singing a catching and delightful melody with extraordinary spirit and expression; so much so, they felt fired with an almost irrepressible desire to join in the inspiriting refrain—
“Olé con, olé ola, y olé barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Indeed, for many a day the boys in the neighbourhood might be heard whistling the air, or bursting suddenly into—
“Olé con, olé ola,”
for the Irish peasant is naturally musical, and has a true ear.
The audience, by the end of the third verse, were completely carried away. Something in the Toreador song stirred them. And if the general audience were thus touched, what of an impressionable girl? Something in the voice and the air seemed to call forth a sudden joy in the heart of Mary Foley—a joy, an ecstasy, that thrilled her. “Olé con, olé ola!” rang in her ears for months!
After the bull-fighter’s song burst a wild hurricane of applause. Mrs. Doran trembled for the poor old cracked ceiling. And then with “God Save the Queen” the concert came to an end. People began to talk, to criticise, to collect wraps, and to wonder, “what sort of refreshments would be forthcoming?”
The light supper in the dining-room was excellent, as far as it went—hot soup, sandwiches, tea, coffee, claret-cup, jelly, cakes.
In the servants’ hall were buns, bread and jam, tea, roasted potatoes, and cold corned beef. “A great spread entirely,” agreed the company. Barky and Ulick looked in, in order to see how the guests were looked after, Barky from curiosity and a profound sense of his own importance, Ulick carried there by an overwhelming desire to speak to Mary Foley. They found an immense crush, and a merry, noisy, hungry crew. People were standing, sitting, eating, drinking, and enjoying themselves just anyhow. At last he discovered Mary in a corner, hemmed in by a circle of admirers, which included Patsie Maguire. She seemed to stand out from her entourage in the most extraordinary way. Certainly Mary had a wonderful personality, and an intangible quality of refinement and piquancy. As her circle suddenly fell back, in order to make room for Mr. Ulick, she coloured vividly.
“Well, Mary, I congratulate you,” he said. “You did splendidly.”
“I—I,” she stammered, “ah, sure it was nothing at all; but oh, sir”—and her eyes shone—“your song, although I did not know the language, it gave me a sort of wild feeling, a queer longing: I don’t believe I’ll ever get it out of my head”—here she caught Katty’s eye, and added hastily, “humbly begging your honour’s pardon for speaking so free.”
“Not at all,” he rejoined. “I’m only too flattered. I picked up some Spanish songs at Gib—Spanish music has a charm of its own, half Arab, half I don’t know what. Don’t you think the concert was a great success?”
“Yes, sir, I do, indeed. I wish we had one once a week.”
“Ah!” he rejoined, “you’d soon get tired of it: the second of a thing is never the same as the first.”
“I don’t think I could give in to that, sir,” and she smiled. “What about second thoughts?”
He was about to retort, “What about first love?” but prudently refrained, and said, “I suppose this is the first function of the sort you have ever been to?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m afraid it will be the last.”
“No fear of that,” he answered gaily.
As he looked at the girl in her dainty white muslin, with her delicate features and wonderful hair, he could have imagined he was addressing one of his own class; then he noticed the surrounding faces, the grooms, gardeners, and labouring men, and their families, and realised that Mary was one of these. She was unaccountably shy, and would only say yes or no, being aware that her mother was watching her keenly; so was Mrs. Hogan, and, to tell the truth, also the jealous eyes of a dozen other girls and young men were wondering to see Mr. Ulick making so much of little Mary Foley! Possibly the situation struck him as somewhat prononcé, and he hastened to distribute greetings and nods among a number of the crowd, in his pleasant off-hand manner; then he took himself away to his proper sphere, among the somewhat dull quality in the dining-room!
Mary walked home, one of a large and merry party that clear frosty night, silent herself, but listening to the “talk” about the gentry—their grand dress and looks—the quality of the refreshments, Father Daly’s singing, and Mr. Ulick’s, which “just beat all.” “Begob, ’tis him could sing the heart out of a girl’s breast,” declared one admirer, and in this opinion Mary silently concurred; his song was still ringing in her ears. How different he was to the young men and boys, with his white glossy shirt-front, and beautiful little neat tie, the faint scent of cigars about him, and his nice clean hands—how superior to Patsie Maguire, with his coarse hair, broken nails, and atmosphere of turf and tallow. Even in his new tweeds, Patsie looked nothing at all, and had a great slouch on him. Undoubtedly it was hard on poor Patsie thus to draw comparisons between him and his master, who had the advantage of a drill-sergeant and a first-rate tailor; but at any rate Ulick Doran had unwittingly accomplished one feat.
He had “sung the heart out of Mary Foley’s breast.”