My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
One day my lord returned from his accustomed cruise down Lough Swilly
in huge delight. The circle of flame, which had swept past this
portion of the coast as well as others, had informed the dwellers in
Ennishowen that peril threatened somewhere. Then had come suspense and
vague rumours of the French nightmare, which people put from them at
once as idle chatterings of a danger that was over. My lord had sailed
from tower to tower--those stalwart towers whose creation he had
himself superintended--but no keeper could tell him more than that he
had lit his bonfire upon seeing one blazing to westward, and that his
own warning had been answered by a similar blaze to eastward. The
soldier-sprigs of Letterkenny even could say nothing positive. It was
reported that the French had come at last, they said; but at this
eleventh hour the notion was absurd. Doreen's heart had leaped within
her. The French! Was Theobald with them? She condescended to coax and
wheedle Shane, and put forth all her blandishments to obtain more
positive information. Suspense was racking her. She even offered to go
with him on his yacht, and be civil to those horrible bumpkins in
uniform, if he would sail forthwith to Letterkenny and discover
something tangible. He went alone; but wrung from her a promise that
if he organised an aquatic _fête_ shortly, to which he proposed to
invite the aforesaid bumpkins, she would cast aside her reserve, and
make herself agreeable to them.
'You know, Doreen,' he said, 'that my lady's breaking up. She looks
like a ghoul. By the Hokey, she'd frighten 'em all away! and it's
devilish dull here for a young man like me. For political reasons I've
borne the penance all this weary time. But may I be well triangled if
I put up with it much longer.'
Though the speech was rude, as conveying a hint to his cousin that her
constant presence by no means made up to him for the vanished orgies
of Cherokees and Blasters, yet did she smile her sweetest smile on
him. It proved that she need never dread being tormented with his
attentions; and so she promised, and he went. He was several days
absent; then returned, as I have said, in huge delight. The festival
was organised. The squireens were much _obleeged_, and would make
a point of responding to his lordship's _feevour_. It was to take
place in ten days. Doreen must see to details. They would dine
in the low-arched hall, and take their claret in the garden. What
pleasanter than to enjoy the delicious autumn air, laden as it was
with health-inspiring brine?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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