“I will not go on any farther,” cried Standish, unawed by the reference to the consequences of the inopportune hilarity of The Desmond. “How could you think that I would have the presumption to fancy for the least moment that—that—she—that is—that they would listen to—to anything I might say? Oh, the idea is absurd!”
“My boy, I am the head of the line of The Munster Macnamaras, and the head always decides in delicate matters like this. I'll not have the feeling's of the lady trifled with even by a son of my own. Didn't you confess all to me?”
“I will not go on,” the young man cried again. “She—that is—they will think that we mean an affront—and it is a gross insult to her—to them—to even fancy that—oh, if we were anything but what we are there would be some hope—some chance; if I had only been allowed my own way I might have won her in time—long years perhaps, but still some time. But now——”
“Recreant son of a noble house, have you no more spirit than a Saxon?” said the father, trying to assume a dignified position, an attempt that the jerking of the imperfect spring of the vehicle frustrated. “Mightn't the noblest family in Europe think it an honour to be allied with The Munster Macnamaras, penniless though we are?”
“Don't go to-day, father,” said Standish, almost piteously; “no, not to-day. It is too sudden—my mind is not made up.”
“But mine is, my boy. Haven't I prepared everything so that there can be no mistake?”—here he pressed his tall hat more firmly upon his forehead, and glanced towards Eugene's boots that projected a considerable way beyond the line of the car. “My boy,” he continued, “The Macnamaras descend to ally themselves with any other family only for the sake of keeping up the race. It's their solemn duty.'
“I'll not go on any farther on such an errand—I will not be such a fool,” said Standish, making a movement on his side of the car.
“My boy,” said The Macnamara unconcernedly, “my boy, you can get off at any moment; your presence will make no difference in the matter. The matrimonial alliances of The Macnamaras are family matters, not individual. The head of the race only is accountable to posterity for the consequences of the acts of them under him. I'm the head of the race.” He removed his hat and looked upward, somewhat jerkily, but still impressively.
Standish Macnamara's eyes flashed and his hands clenched themselves over the rail of the car, but he did not make any attempt to carry out his threat of getting off. He did not utter another word. How could he? It was torture to him to hear his father discuss beneath the ear of the boy Eugene such a question as his confession of love for a certain lady. It was terrible for him to observe the expression of interest which was apparent upon the ingenuous face of Eugene, and to see his nods of approval at the words of The Macnamara. What could poor Standish do beyond closing his teeth very tightly and clenching his hands madly as the car jerked its way along the coast of Lough Suangorm, in view of a portion of the loveliest scenery in the world?