Daireen. Complete

|MY son,” said The Macnamara with an air of grandeur, “my son, you've forgotten what's due”--he pronounced it “jew”--“to yourself, what's due to your father, what's due to your forefathers that bled,” and The Macnamara waved his hand gracefully; then, taking advantage of its proximity to the edge of the table, he made a powerful but ineffectual attempt to pull himself to his feet. Finding himself baffled by the peculiar formation of his chair, and not having a reserve of breath to draw upon for another exertion, he concealed his defeat under a pretence of feeling indifferent on the matter of rising, and continued fingering the table-edge as if endeavouring to read the initials which had been carved pretty deeply upon the oak by a humorous guest just where his hand rested. “Yes, my son, you've forgotten the blood of your ancient sires. You forget, my son, that you're the offspring of the Macnamaras and the O'Dermots, kings of Munster in the days when there were kings, and when the Geralds were walking about in blue paint in the woods of the adjacent barbarous island of Britain”--The Macnamara said “barbarious.”

“The Geralds have been at Suanmara for four hundred years,” said Standish quickly, and in the tone of one resenting an aspersion.

“Four hundred years!” cried The Macnamara scornfully. “Four hundred years! What's four hundred years in the existence of a family?” He felt that this was the exact instant for him to rise grandly to his feet, so once more he made the essay, but without a satisfactory result. As a matter of fact, it is almost impossible to release oneself from the embrace of a heavy oak chair when the seat has been formed of light cane, and this cane has become tattered.

“I don't care about the kings of Munster--no, not a bit,” said Standish, taking a mean advantage of the involuntary captivity of his father to insult him.

“I'm dead sick hearing about them. They never did anything for me.”

The Macnamara threw back his head, clasped his hands over his bosom, and gazed up to the cobwebs of the oak ceiling. “My sires--shades of the Macnamaras and the O'Dermots, visit not the iniquity of the children upon the fathers,” he exclaimed. And then there came a solemn pause which the hereditary monarch felt should impress his son deeply; but the son was not deceived into fancying that his father was overcome with emotion; he knew very well that his father was only thinking how with dignity he could extricate himself from his awkward chair, and so he was not deeply affected. “My boy, my boy,” the father murmured in a weak voice, after his apostrophe to the shades of the ceiling, “what do you mean to do? Keep nothing secret from me, Standish; I'll stand by you to the last.”

“I don't mean to do anything. There is nothing to be done--at least--yet.”

“What's that you say? Nothing to be done? You don't mean to say you've been thrifling with the young-woman's affection? Never shall a son of mine, and the offspring of The Macnamaras and the----”

“How can you put such a question to me?” said the young man indignantly. “I throw back the insinuation in your teeth, though you are my father. I would scorn to trifle with the feelings of any lady, not to speak of Miss Gerald, who is purer than the lily that blooms----”

“In the valley of Shanganagh--that's what you said in the poem, my boy; and it's true, I'm sure.”

“But because you find a scrap of poetry in my writing you fancy that I forget my--my duty--my----”

“Mighty sires, Standish; say the word at once, man. Well, maybe I was too hasty, my boy; and if you tell me that you don't love her now, I'll forgive all.”

“Never,” cried the young man, with the vehemence of a mediaeval burning martyr. “I swear that I love her, and that it would be impossible for me ever to think of any one else.”