The House by the Church-YardLe Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
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The House by the Church-Yard
Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
Country life -- Ireland -- Fiction; Ireland -- Social life and customs -- 18th century -- Fiction
But with all that he had the good brute instincts too, and catered
diligently for his brood, and their 'dam'--and took a gruff
unacknowledged pride in seeing his wife well dressed--and had a strong
liking for her--and thanked her in his soul for looking after things so
well; and thought often about his boys, and looked sharply after their
education; and was an efficient and decisive head of a household; and
had no vices nor expensive indulgences; and was a hard but tolerably
just man to deal with.
All this time his uneasiness and puzzle about Dangerfield continued,
and, along with other things, kept him awake often to unseasonable hours
at night. He did not tell Mrs. Sturk. In fact, he was a man, who, though
on most occasions he gave the wife of his bosom what he called 'his
mind' freely enough, yet did not see fit to give her a great deal of his
confidence.
Dangerfield had his plans too. Who has not? Nothing could be more
compact and modest than his household. He had just a housekeeper and two
maids, who looked nearly as old, and a valet, and a groom, who slept at
the 'Phoenix,' and two very pretty horses at livery in the same place.
All his appointments were natty and complete, and his servants, every
one, stood in awe of him; for no lip or eye-service would go down with
that severe, prompt, and lynx-eyed gentleman. And his groom, among the
coachmen and other experts of the 'Salmon House,' used to brag of his
hunters in England; and his man, of his riches, and his influence with
Lord Castlemallard.
In England, Dangerfield, indeed, spent little more money than he did in
Chapelizod, except in his stable; and Lord Castlemallard, who admired
his stinginess, as he did everything else about him, used to say: 'He's
a wonder of the world! How he retains his influence over all the people
he knows without ever giving one among them so much as a mutton-chop or
a glass of sherry in his house, I can't conceive. _I_ couldn't do it, I
know.' But he had ultimate plans, if not of splendour, at least of
luxury. His tastes, and perhaps some deeper feelings, pointed to the
continent, and he had purchased a little paradise on the Lake of Geneva,
where was an Eden of fruits and flowers, and wealth of marbles and
coloured canvas, and wonderful wines maturing in his cellars, and
aquaria for his fish, and ice-houses and baths, and I know not what
refinements of old Roman Villa-luxury beside--among which he meant to
pass the honoured evening of his days; with just a few more thousands,
and, as he sometimes thought, perhaps a wife. He had not quite made up
his mind; but he had come to the time when a man must forthwith accept
matrimony frankly, or, if he be wise, shake hands with bleak celibacy,
and content himself for his earthly future with monastic jollity and
solitude.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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