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
The grand day came, and with it the squireens, who were turned to
stone by the aspect of my lady, as by a gorgon's head. Despite the
chill which hangs over the sea at sunrise, their warm hands became
more and more clammy in Medusa's awful presence. She wore a stiff
brocade cut in an obsolete fashion, with a broad sash and full white
fichu loosely knotted behind. As a gorgon she was a success. Never in
the palmy days of Dublin Castle had she struck terror into the bosoms
of _débutantes_ as she did now into the innermost souls of these raw
youths. They mopped their brows, rubbed their moist hand-palms on
their small clothes of kerseymere, tugged at their tight vests, felt
nervously whether their pigtails were hanging straight over the tall
coat-collars which sawed their ears, stumbled over their swords,
demeaned themselves after the manner of awkward youth when in a
paroxysm of timidity. She curtseyed like Queen Elizabeth, with high
nose exalted, and they shrank back in a wave affrighted; only to ebb
again in renewed fear, having well-nigh knocked down the lovely Miss
Wolfe who was making a dignified entrance by another door. Those two
haughty women together in one room were quite too much for them. With
relief they sat down to a sort of improvised breakfast, for the shadow
of tables would conceal their shoes, the country make of which had
already been remarked by the younger lady's eagle eye. Conscience
makes fools of us. Doreen cared not about their shoes, nor saw them.
She merely thought the young men a set of oafs, and was displeased, in
that they should have arrived too early. By prearranged programme they
were to be taken to inspect the towers; then to view the English
fleet, by kind permission of Sir Borlase; then they were to return to
dinner, to get as intoxicated as if they were 'gentlemen to the
backbone,' sleep off their orgy, and return in the morning to
Letterkenny barracks. An excellent programme, no doubt, wherewith to
while away an autumn holiday--but a still better one had been prepared
for them by destiny.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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