“No; Miss Joyce’s harmonium has a sore throat.”
Poor Bingham struggled hard to say his prayers, to collect his wandering thoughts. He was badly hit; the ruddy archer had sent his arrow home to the very feathers. He humbly waited for a glance as Miss Joyce drove away after Mass, and he got it. He was supremely happy and supremely miserable.
The “missioner,” a young Dominican, very tall and very distinguished-looking, crossed the chapel yard, followed by exclamations of praise and admiration from voteens who still knelt about in picturesque attitudes: “God be good to him!” “The heavens open to him!” “May the saints warm him to glory!” while one old woman, who succeeded in catching the hem of his robe, exclaimed enthusiastically:
“Och, thin, but it’s yerself that knows how to spake the word o’ God; it’s yerself that’s the darlint fine man. Shure we never knew what sin was till ye come amongst us.”
Percy Bingham found Knockshin a square-built, stone mansion, with a “disinheriting countenance” of many windows, surrounded by huge elms containing an unusually uproarious rookery. A huge “free classic” porch surmounted a set of massive steps, supported by granite griffins grasping shields with the Joyce arms quartered thereon. A lily-laden pond, encircled by closely-shaven grass sacred to croquet, stood opposite the house, and a pretentious conservatory of modern construction ran along the greater portion of one wing.
The gallant warrior, regretting certain London-built garments reposing at Westport, arrayed himself in his “Sunday best,” and, being somewhat vain of his calves, appeared in all the woollen bravery of Knickerbockers and Highland stockings.
Miss Joyce did the honors of the breakfast-table in white muslin and sunny smiles. Possessing the air of a high-born dame, there was an Irish softness, like the mist on the mountains, that imparted an indescribable charm to all her movements, whilst a slight touch of the brogue only added to the music of a voice ever soft, gentle, and low.
Percy, who could have talked like a sewing-machine to Lady Clara Vere de Vere, found his ideas dry up, and, when violently spurred, merely develop themselves in monosyllables. He had rehearsed several bright little nothings which were to have been laid like bonbons at her feet. Where were they now?
She knew some men in the service—Mr. Poynter in the Rifles. Did he know Mr. Poynter, who danced so well, talked so charmingly, and was so handsome? Yes, he knew Poynter, and hated him from that moment. Did he know Captain Wyberts of the Bays, the Victoria Cross man whom she had met at the Galway Hunt Ball? He knew Wyberts, and cursed the luck that placed no decoration upon his tunic but a silken sash.
“By the way, you must be the gentleman who interested himself in my toilet on Friday night. Lanty Kerrigan spoke burning words in your favor, if you are the preux chevalier. Are you?”