Читать книгу: «Rossmoyne», страница 21

"I wonder," says Brian, dreamily, – it is very late, and he is in a gently, kindly, somnolent state, born of the arm-chair and his pipe, – "I wonder if one was to give in to them entirely, would they be generous enough to – "

"If you can't talk sense," interrupted his uncle, angrily, "don't talk at all. I am surprised at you, Brian! Have you seen or noticed nothing all these years, have you been blind to the state of the country, that you give sound to such utter trash? Pshaw! the weakly sentiment of the day sickens me."

"But suppose one was to humor them. I am not alluding to you, my dear George," to his uncle, – "I know you have humored them considerably, – but I mean landlords generally: would not peace be restored? That fellow Donovan to-day was beyond doubt impertinent to the last degree; but of course he meant nothing: they would, I should think, hesitate, in their own interest, before falling foul of you."

"You don't understand them as I do," says the squire, slowly.

"I still think peace, and not war, should be instilled into them," says Brian. "Too many landlords are harsh and unyielding in an aggravated degree, when a little persuasion and a few soft words would smooth matters. They, of course, are visited with the revenge of the League, whilst such as you escape."

These complacent words are still upon his lips, he has had time to lean back in his chair with the languid air of one who has given to the world views not admitting of contradiction, when a sharp whirring noise is heard, followed by a crash of broken glass and the dull thud of a bullet that has found its home in the wall right opposite the squire. Right opposite Brian, too, for they had been side by side with Owen Kelly, fortunately not quite, but very nearly, opposite.

For a moment nobody quite knows what has happened, so sudden is the thing; and then they spring to their feet, full of the knowledge that a bullet has been fired into their midst.

It had passed right over The Desmond's shoulder, close to his ear, between him and Brian, and had grazed the sleeve of Kelly's coat, who, as I have said, was sitting almost opposite.

With an oath Brian rushes to the window, tears open the shutters, throws up the sash, and jumps down into the garden, followed by Kelly and the Squire.

It is a dark night, murky and heavy with dense rain-laden clouds, and so black as to render it impossible to see one's hand before one. Search after a while is found to be impossible and the cowardly would-be assassin so far is safe from arrest. Dispirited and indignant, they return to the room they left, to discuss the outrage.

"Now, who will preach to me of peace again?" says the squire turning to Brian a face pale with excitement.

"Not I," says Brian, with a face pale as his own, and eyes that burn fiercely with the wrath of an incomplete revenge.

"I retract every foolish word I said a few minutes since. Henceforth it shall be war to the knife between me and my tenantry, as well as yours."

"War to the bullet would be more in harmony," says Mr. Kelly, seriously. He has extracted the bullet in question from the wall with the aid of a stout penknife, and is now regarding it mournfully as it lies in the palm of his hand. "Don't you think they take a very unfair advantage of you?" he says, mildly. "They come here and shoot at you; why don't you go to their cabins and shoot at them?"

"Let them keep their advantage," says Brian, disdainfully. "We shall conquer at last, no matter how many lives it costs us."

"At all events, they won't get a glimpse of the white feather here," says the squire, who is looking quite ten years younger. There is nothing like a row for an Irishman, after all.

"Still, I think I wouldn't sit with my back to that window any more, if I were you," suggests Mr. Kelly, meekly, seeing the squire has sunk into his usual seat again.

"It will be a bad winter, I fear," says the squire shaking his head.

"A lively one, no doubt. I quite envy you. I should rather like to stay here and see you through it. My dear sir, if you and that enormous chair are inseparables, let me entreat you to move it at least a little to the left."

 
"'I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me from loving this old arm-chair?'"
 

quotes the squire, with quite a jolly laugh. "Eh? well, Kelly, this is hardly a pleasant time to ask a fellow on a visit, and I expect you'll be glad to get back to more civilized parts; but we'll write and tell you how we're getting on, my lad, from time to time. That is, as long as we are alive to do it."

"You shall hear of our mishaps," says Brian laughing too.

"It is rather inhospitable of you not to take the hint I have thrown out," says Kelly, with a faint yawn. "Won't you ask me to spend this winter with you?"

"My dear fellow, you really mean it?" says Brian, looking at him.

"Oh, yes, I really mean it. Excitement of the sort I have been treated to to-night seldom comes in my way. I should like to see this affair through with you."

"You're a brave lad!" says the squire; "but there is always a risk in this kind of thing, and it is quite probable you will have the roof burned over your head one of these dark nights to come. You will have to chance that if you stay, as I intend to persevere with these blackguardly tenants and fight it out with them to the last."

"To the very last," says Brian, regarding his friend meaningly.

"That's why I'm staying," returns his friend, languidly. Which is half, but not the whole, truth, as the fact that Mrs. Bohun and her cousin Hermia are going to spend the winter at Aghyohillbeg has a good deal to do with it too.

CHAPTER XXVI

How rations fall short in the enemy's camp; and how Monica, armed with a strange ammunition, marches into the hostile land.

"Did ye hear, miss? Oh, faix, there's terrible news, ma'am!" says old Timothy, trotting into the breakfast-room at Moyne the following morning, his face pale with excitement.

"You alarm me, Ryan! what is it?" says Miss Priscilla, laying down her fork.

"Oh, it's beyant everything, ma'am! Oh, the blackguards o' the world! It was last night, miss, it happened. The ould squire, there below, was sittin' in his library, as paceable as ye plaze, ma'am, when they fired a bullet at him, an' shot him an' wounded Misther Brian – No, be the powers, I b'lave I'm wrong; they kilt Misther Brian an' wounded the Squire; an' there's the greatest commotion ye iver see down below, miss."

For one awful moment Monica thinks she is going to faint. A mist rises between her and Timothy's face; his voice sounds far away, in the next county as it were, and then ceases altogether. Then a sharp sting of pain rushing through her veins rouses her, and sends the blood back with a tumultuous haste to cheek and neck and brow. The pain is short but effective, and is, indeed, nothing more than a pinch of a pronounced type, administered by the watchful Kit, with a promptitude very creditable to her.

"He is exaggerating," says the astute Kit, in a subdued whisper apparently addressed to her plate. "Don't believe him; take courage; and, at all events, remember their eyes are upon you!" Her tone is great with mystery and kindly encouragement. More revived by it than even by the pinch, Monica takes heart of grace, and listens with maddening impatience for what is yet to come. Glancing at Miss Priscilla, she can see that her aunt is as pale as death, and that her hands are trembling excessively. Miss Penelope is looking with anxiety at her, whilst trying to elicit the truth from Ryan.

"Collect yourself, Ryan," she says, severely. "Who was killed?"

"No one outright, I'm tould, miss, – but – "

"Then who is wounded?"

"The bullet went right through them, miss."

"Through both! But that is impossible. I must beg you again to collect yourself, Timothy; all this is most important, and naturally Miss Blake – that is, we– are much upset about it. Through whom did the bullet go?"

"The ould squire an' his nephew, miss."

"Through their bodies?" cries Miss Penelope, throwing up hope and both her hands at the same time.

"No, ma'am, jist between them, as it might be between you an' Miss Priscilla now." He illustrates the real truth as he says this.

"Bless me, man! sure they weren't touched at all so," says Miss Penelope.

"No more they were, miss. Sorra a bit, praise be – "

"Then why did you say they were killed?" says Terence, indignantly, who has been stricken dumb by the appalling fate of his dear Desmond.

"An' sure how much nearer could they be to it? What saved thim, but maybe the hitch of a chair? Oh! wirrasthrue this day!" says old Ryan, beginning to cry.

"Timothy sit down directly. Terence get him a glass of whiskey," says Miss Penelope. "Now, don't excite yourself, Timothy; you know it is very bad for you at your age. Take time, now. Collect yourself!"

"Have the assassins been discovered?" asks Miss Priscilla, in a trembling tone.

"No, miss. But I'm tould the polis is very eager afther 'em."

"Was nobody hurt, Timothy?"

"No one, ma'am."

Here Monica, feeling the relief greater than she can support, gives way to a dry but perfectly audible sob.

"Don't be afeard, miss, dear," says old Ryan, with heartfelt but most ill-judged sympathy: "the young gentleman is all right. Not a single scratch on him, they say; so you needn't be cryin' about him, honey."

"Miss Monica is in no wise anxious about Mr. Brian Desmond," says Miss Priscilla, recovering from her nervousness with as much haste as though she had been subjected to an electric shock. "She is only distressed – as I am – by these lawless proceedings."

"An' we hear they're boycotted, too, ma'am," says old Ryan, still oppressed with news that must be worked off. "John Bileman, the Protestant baker in the village they always dealt wid, has been forbidden to give 'em another loaf, and the butcher is threatened if he gives 'em a joint, an' the Clonbree butcher has been telegraphed to also, miss, an' there's the world an' all to pay!"

"Do you mean that they are going to treat him as they did Mr. Bence Jones?" says Miss Penelope, indignantly.

"Troth, I believe so, ma'am."

"Will Mr. Brian have to milk the cows?" says Terence, at which astounding thought both he and Kit break into merry laughter until checked by Monica's reproachful gaze. How can they laugh when Brian may be starving?

"Faix, it's awful, miss; an' the ould man to be wantin' for things now, – he that allus kep' a fine table, to spake truth of him, and liked his bit an' sup amazin', small blame to him. I'm thinkin' 'tis hungry enough he'll be now for the future, the crathur! Oh, wirra! wirra!" says Timothy, sympathetically, as he shambles towards the door.

When he is gone, Miss Priscilla turns upon Terence and Kit.

"I must say, I think your mirth at such a time most unseemly," she says. "I am glad Monica takes no part in it. Terence, did you go up to the widow Driscoll with my message this morning?"

"Yes, aunt."

She had evidently expected him to say "no," because her tone is considerably mollified when she speaks again.

"Was she pleased, do you think?"

"Yes, aunt."

"She said so, perhaps?"

"No, aunt."

"Then what did she say? I wish, my dear boy, you would try to be a little less reticent."

"She said, 'Her duty to you, aunt, and her very coarse veins were worse than ever.'"

"Varicose, Terence – varicose!"

"She said very coarse, aunt, and I suppose she knows more about them than any one else."

He has a very sweet face, and it is more than usually so as he says all this.

"And her son, how is he, poor soul?" asks Miss Penelope, as Miss Priscilla withdraws, beaten, into the background.

"His duty to you, too, and 'he is better, but has been much afflicted with the egg-cups for the last two days.'"

"The what!" says Miss Penelope, shifting her pinceneze uneasily, and looking perplexed in the extreme.

"Oh, Terry! how can you be so silly?" says Kit, with another merry laugh.

"How am I silly?" with an impassible countenance. "Young Driscoll is silly, of course, and evidently looks upon part of the breakfast-ware as enemies of some sort. But that is not my fault."

"Hiccoughs he must have meant, my dear," says Miss Priscilla, hastily. "Dear – dear – dear! what a terrible shock he – they – must have got last night at Coole!"

When day is deepening into eventide, Monica, finding Kit alone, kneels down beside her, and lays her cheek to hers.

All day long she has been brooding miserably over her lover's danger, and dwelling with foolish persistency upon future dangers born of her terrified imagination.

She had been down to their trysting-place at the river, hardly hoping to find him there, yet had been terribly disappointed when she had not found him, Brian at that very moment being busy with police and magistrates and law generally.

"What is it, ducky?" says Kit, very tenderly, laying down her book and pressing her pretty sister close to her.

"Kit," says Monica, with tearful eyes, "do you think it is all true that Timothy said this morning about their – their starving at Coole? Oh Kit, I can't bear to think he is hungry!"

"It is dreadful! I don't know what to think," says Kit. "If nobody will sell them anything, I suppose they have nothing to eat."

At this corroboration of her worst fears, Monica dissolves into tears.

"I couldn't eat my chicken at lunch, thinking of him," she sobs. "It stuck in my throat."

"Poor sweet love! – it was dry," says Kit, expanding into the wildest affection. She kisses Monica fondly, and (though you would inevitably have suffered death at her hands had you even hinted at it) is beginning to enjoy herself intensely. Once again this luckless couple look to her for help. She is to be the one to raise them from their "Slough of Despond," – difficult but congenial task! "Then you have been existing on lemon tart and one glass of sherry since breakfast time?" she says, with the deepest commiseration. "Poor darling! I saw it; I noticed you ate nothing except the tart. You liked that, didn't you?"

"I didn't," says Monica. "I hated it. And I was a cruel, cold-hearted wretch to touch it. But it was sweet – and – I – it – somehow disappeared."

"It did," says Kit, tenderly.

"Oh, Kit, help me!"

"You mean you want to take him something wherewith to stave off the pangs of hunger," says the younger Miss Beresford, with that grandeur of style she usually affects in moments of strong excitement, and with the vigor that distinguishes her. "I see; certainly." She grows abstracted. "There's a leg of mutton hanging in the larder, with some fowl, and a quarter of lamb," she says, presently. "But I suppose if we took them, Aunt Priscilla would put us in the hue and cry."

"It mustn't be thought of. No, no; think of something else."

"Bread, then. Ordinary, of course, very ordinary, but yet the staff of life."

"I couldn't take him anything so nasty as mere bread," says Monica, in despair. "But, if cook would make us a cake – "

"A big one, with currants! The very thing!" says Kit, with decision. "And she will never betray us. Reilly, in little affairs of this kind, – though sadly wanting where soups are concerned, – is quite all she ought to be."

"When will it be baked? He must get it to-night," says Monica, who is evidently afraid her lover, if not succored, will die of want before morning.

"Leave all to me," says Kit, flitting away from her through the gathering gloom to seek the lower region and its presiding goddess.

Leaving all to Kit means that when dinner is over, about half-past eight, the two Misses Beresford may be seen crossing the boundary that divides Moyne from Coole with anxious haste and a hot cake.

This last is hugged to Monica's breast, and is plainly causing her the greatest inconvenience. It is a huge cake, and has to be carried parcelwise, being much too big for the smaller basket they had, and much too small for the bigger. But Monica – though it is heavy beyond description (though, I hope, light in every other way for the sake of Reilly's reputation) and still appallingly hot– trudges along with it bravely, resisting all Kit's entreaties to be allowed to share the burden.

"Who are those coming towards us through the elms down there?" says Mr. Kelly, suddenly.

He and Brian Desmond are sitting upon a garden seat outside the dining-room windows, enjoying an after dinner cigar.

"There?" says Brian, following his glance. "Eh? – What?" There is a second pause, then, rising to his feet with much precipitancy, he flings his cigar to the winds, and, before Owen has time to recover from his astonishment at these proceedings, is well out of sight. A turn in the lawn has hidden Brian and the advancing figures from his view.

"Monica!" says Desmond, as he reaches her; "what has brought you here at this hour? My darling! how pale and tired you look!"

"She has been much perturbed," says Kit, solemnly. She has been meditating this remark for some time.

"We heard all about last night," murmurs Monica, with a sweet troubled face, out of which her eyes look into his, full of a tender pathos, like violets drowned. "And you were not at the river this afternoon, and so I came here to find you, and – " Her voice trembles ominously.

"I was obliged to be with the sergeant and the other men all day," says Desmond, hurriedly. "Do not blame me, my love. When I went to the river towards evening it was then of course too late. I meant to go up to Moyne when the moon was up – But what have you got there, dearest?" pointing to the enormous thing she is still holding tightly to her breast.

She colors and hesitates; seeing which, the faithful Kit comes once more to the rescue.

"It's a cake!" she says, with a nod of her sleek head. "We knew of you being boycotted, and we thought you would be hungry, so we brought it to you. But," eyeing him with disfavor, and as one might who feels herself considerably done, "you are evidently not. You are looking just the same as ever, and not a bit pinched or drawn, as people are when they are found starved in garrets."

"Yes, I was afraid you would get nothing to eat," says Monica, timidly. There is in her lovely eyes a certain wistfulness suggestive of the idea that she hopes her cake has not been made in vain.

Mr. Desmond, seeing it, grasps the situation.

"I am hungry," he says; and I hope, and think, the gentle lie will be forgiven him. "We have had nothing in the house all day but bread, and that is not appetizing."

"There!" says Monica, turning to Kit with sparkling eyes, "I told you he wouldn't like bread."

"But," goes on Desmond, with a view to making her future happier, "to-morrow all will be right again. We know of a few faithful people who will smuggle us in all we may require. So do not be unhappy about me again. Sweetheart, what a terrible weight you have been carrying!"

"It is a fine one, isn't it?" says Kit. "But give it to me now, Monica," taking the cake from her, "while you talk to Brian: when you are ready to come home, I can give it to him."

So saying, this inestimable child withdraws herself and Monica's offering to a safe distance, and pretends for the remainder of the interview an absorbing interest in some wild flowers growing near.

"I have only a moment to stay," says Monica, nervously. "I shall be missed; and now I have seen you safe and unhurt," with a very sweet smile, "I shall be able to sleep. But all day long I have been haunted by timid thoughts," she sighs.

"I doubt it was a sorry day for you, that first one when we met," says Desmond, remorsefully. "I have brought you only trouble. By and by you will regret you ever knew me."

"Do not say that. I have no regrets, – none! Even if – if – we cannot be – " reddening vividly, "more to each other than we are now, I can still be happy in the thought that you love me and are near me, and that I can sometimes, in spite of every one– " with a recklessness that sits very funnily upon her – "see you."

"But we shall be more to each other, Monica," says the young man, earnestly. "We shall be all in all to each other. No human being has the right to separate two hearts for the sake of a mere whim."

"There are so many things. But now, indeed, I must go. Good-night."

"Good-night, my own. But I shall go with you as far as the boundary fence."

"No, no, indeed!"

"But indeed I shall!" and of course he has his own way, and parts from her and Kit there, and answers her parting injunction "to take care of himself for her sake" – this last very low – with a lingering lover's kiss, and watches the two slight figures with a beating heart, until they are out of sight.

Then, picking up the cake, he goes back again to where Mr. Kelly is still awaiting him.