The high sides of the pew debarred me from even the solace of inspecting the congregation, and, in the absence of other occupation, I could not altogether conceal the interest that I felt in the remark which Willy was laboriously spelling on his fingers for my edification. Becoming conscious, however, that Uncle Dominick’s eye, while fixed upon the preacher, had included us in its observations, I transferred my attention to the mural tablets, which on either side of the church set forth the perfections of dead-and-gone O’Neills and Sarsfields.
Having studied these for a few minutes with the mild sceptical interest usually excited by the tabulated virtues of the unknown departed, I leaned back in my corner, and, in doing so, noticed a brass upon the wall slightly behind my uncle’s seat. My eye was immediately caught by my father’s name.
IN MEMORIAM.
THEODORE WILLIAM SARSFIELD,
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
JANUARY 10, 185-.
AND OF
OWEN SARSFIELD,
SON OF THE ABOVE,
WHO DIED SUDDENLY IN CORK,
ON HIS RETURN FROM AMERICA,
JANUARY 9, 185-.
————
THIS MONUMENT IS ERECTED BY THEIR SORROWING SON
AND BROTHER, DOMINICK SARSFIELD, OF DURRUS.
I glanced by a natural transition to my uncle, whose head all but intervened between me and the brass. His expression of sombre melancholy harmonized well with the words “his sorrowing brother.”
I could guess what must have been his grief at the death of an only brother, from whom he had been perforce alienated. Till then I had scarcely realized how closely linked their lives must once have been, and I resolved that his chilly manner should not deter me from some day inducing him to speak to me of my father.
As I made up my mind to this, the clergyman’s voice ceased, and the congregation rose at the end of the sermon. We walked out of church close behind the O’Neills, and outside the porch Madam O’Neill stopped to shake hands with my uncle. Then, turning to me—
“I need not ask to be introduced to you, my dear. I knew your poor father very well indeed in days gone by.” This was said in a dry attenuated voice, but through the elaborate pattern of her Maltese lace veil, her eyes looked kindly at me. She was small and refined looking, with little artificial airs and graces which told that she had been a beauty in her day; and what remained of a delicate complexion was carefully sheltered from the harmless light of the grey sky by a thick parasol.
Uncle Dominick’s impatience to get away only gave me time to say a word or two in answer to her salutation.
“Come, Theodora,” he said, with the smile that lifted his moustache and showed all his teeth. “We must not keep the horses waiting;” and bidding the madam and her two daughters, who had been standing behind her, good-bye, he led the way down to the gate.
Willy was already on the box of the wagonnette, and was talking to a dark, quiet-looking young man who was standing with one foot on the wheel.