first, and went trapesin ’ round furrin ’ parts, drinkin ’ hard an ’ gamblin ’ high, an ’ wenchin ’ hard too, if he ’ s annything like his grandda. ”
A rather leery look accompanied the old man ’ s final remark, and she felt herself colouring as she began to suspect Jimsy was exercising his histrionic talents with rather too much exaggeration of the national characteristics.
“ Ah well ... I ’ ll leave you the lamp an ’ fetch another to the snug in case you want to gawp here a while longer, ” he said a little huffily, and placing the lamp on a table, shuffled out.
She wandered curiously about the room, seeking for indications of its late owner ’ s personal tastes, but there were few traces of a young girl ’ s occupation, except for a shelf of dusty books and a small chest of drawers containing the discarded mementoes of parties, and a trivial assortment of unused, or unwanted presents, some still with their Christmas labels attached, and many bearing the signature Sam. Books, too, were inscribed with the same name; expensive editions of reproductions in art, lives of painters and sometimes books of verse. Some had From Sam, with love, scrawled across the fly-leaf, one or two bore more intimate effusions, and one proclaimed itself to be in memory of that unforgettable night in Dublin.
Who was this Sam, so attentive and so pervasive? wondered Harriet, shutting up the last book with an unreasoning feeling of distaste, and the v eiled portrait on the easel suddenly proved an irresistible temptation.
She twitched the drapery off with a quick, guilty jerk and stood gazing with curious eyes at the face looking back at her, the face of a young girl brimming over with life and a strange, teasing beauty, a face which proclaimed only too heartbreakingly the truth of Jimsy ’ s kindly memories of a girl who loved dancing and dressing up and the innocent pleasures of admiration; but there was something there which contradicted that suggestion of pining. The work was unfinished, and not very good, Harriet thought, and remembering that the young Mrs. Lonnegan had painted for a hobby and a distraction, wondered whether this had been a self-portrait left unfinished because death had intervened.
She shivered involuntarily and was replacing the drape when the door opened suddenly and she saw her host standing there watching her with a slightly intimidating expression on his dark face.
“ What on earth are you doing in this cold room? You should be resting that ankle by the fire, ” he said, and she moved hastily away from the easel.
“ I didn ’ t realise it was so late, ” she apologised. “ I wanted to explore these rooms again and discover more treasures. I hope you don ’ t mind. ”
“ Why should I mind? But there ’ s little here to rank as treasure. Most of the stuff ’ s worthless and has amply accumulated through the years. ”
“ So Jimsy said. ”
“ H ’ m ... and what else did Jimsy say? The old scoundrel can be like the Ancient Mariner when the fancy moves him. ”
“ ‘ He holds him with his glittering eyes—the Wedding Guest stood still, ’ ” Harriet quoted glibly to avoid a truthful answer, and he smiled.
“ Did the authorities insist you lea rn the whole of that terrible poem by heart? ” he asked, and she replied quite seriously;
“ Oh, yes. We were very well grounded in the English poets. I could recite lots to you. ”
“ Well, we ’ ll reserve that pleasure for days when conversation fails us, I think. Come with me to the warmth. I want to talk to you. ”
She followed him into another room which must, she supposed, be the oddly named snug which both he and Jimsy had mentioned, and this, she thought, was clearly the room that was used from choice. It must once have presented the formal graciousness of a small drawing-room, for it was panelled with the fine-grained wood of another decade, and still retained something of the elegance of a past generation.
A rather leery look accompanied the old man ’ s final remark, and she felt herself colouring as she began to suspect Jimsy was exercising his histrionic talents with rather too much exaggeration of the national characteristics.
“ Ah well ... I ’ ll leave you the lamp an ’ fetch another to the snug in case you want to gawp here a while longer, ” he said a little huffily, and placing the lamp on a table, shuffled out.
She wandered curiously about the room, seeking for indications of its late owner ’ s personal tastes, but there were few traces of a young girl ’ s occupation, except for a shelf of dusty books and a small chest of drawers containing the discarded mementoes of parties, and a trivial assortment of unused, or unwanted presents, some still with their Christmas labels attached, and many bearing the signature Sam. Books, too, were inscribed with the same name; expensive editions of reproductions in art, lives of painters and sometimes books of verse. Some had From Sam, with love, scrawled across the fly-leaf, one or two bore more intimate effusions, and one proclaimed itself to be in memory of that unforgettable night in Dublin.
Who was this Sam, so attentive and so pervasive? wondered Harriet, shutting up the last book with an unreasoning feeling of distaste, and the v eiled portrait on the easel suddenly proved an irresistible temptation.
She twitched the drapery off with a quick, guilty jerk and stood gazing with curious eyes at the face looking back at her, the face of a young girl brimming over with life and a strange, teasing beauty, a face which proclaimed only too heartbreakingly the truth of Jimsy ’ s kindly memories of a girl who loved dancing and dressing up and the innocent pleasures of admiration; but there was something there which contradicted that suggestion of pining. The work was unfinished, and not very good, Harriet thought, and remembering that the young Mrs. Lonnegan had painted for a hobby and a distraction, wondered whether this had been a self-portrait left unfinished because death had intervened.
She shivered involuntarily and was replacing the drape when the door opened suddenly and she saw her host standing there watching her with a slightly intimidating expression on his dark face.
“ What on earth are you doing in this cold room? You should be resting that ankle by the fire, ” he said, and she moved hastily away from the easel.
“ I didn ’ t realise it was so late, ” she apologised. “ I wanted to explore these rooms again and discover more treasures. I hope you don ’ t mind. ”
“ Why should I mind? But there ’ s little here to rank as treasure. Most of the stuff ’ s worthless and has amply accumulated through the years. ”
“ So Jimsy said. ”
“ H ’ m ... and what else did Jimsy say? The old scoundrel can be like the Ancient Mariner when the fancy moves him. ”
“ ‘ He holds him with his glittering eyes—the Wedding Guest stood still, ’ ” Harriet quoted glibly to avoid a truthful answer, and he smiled.
“ Did the authorities insist you lea rn the whole of that terrible poem by heart? ” he asked, and she replied quite seriously;
“ Oh, yes. We were very well grounded in the English poets. I could recite lots to you. ”
“ Well, we ’ ll reserve that pleasure for days when conversation fails us, I think. Come with me to the warmth. I want to talk to you. ”
She followed him into another room which must, she supposed, be the oddly named snug which both he and Jimsy had mentioned, and this, she thought, was clearly the room that was used from choice. It must once have presented the formal graciousness of a small drawing-room, for it was panelled with the fine-grained wood of another decade, and still retained something of the elegance of a past generation.
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