Читать книгу: «Rossmoyne», страница 8

CHAPTER IX

How Terry is put in the Dock – And how the two Misses Blake baffle expectation, and show themselves in their true colors.

Monica and Kit reach the house in breathless haste. It is far later than they imagined when lingering in happy dalliance in the flower-crowned field below, and yet not really late for a sultry summer evening. But the Misses Blake are fearful of colds, and expect all the household to be in at stated hours; and the Misses Beresford are fearful of scoldings, carrying, as they do, guilty hearts within their bosoms.

"Conscience makes cowards of us all;" and the late secret interview with Brian Desmond has lowered the tone of their courage to such an extent that they scarcely dare to breathe as they creep into their aunts' presence.

The lamps are lighting in the drawing-room as they enter, though the windows are open, and Dies pater, the all-great, is still victorious over Nox. The Misses Blake both start and look up as they come in, and show general symptoms of relief which is not reciprocated by the culprits. Mrs. Mitchell, the nurse, who has followed almost on their heels, stands in the doorway, with bayonets fixed, so to speak, seeing there is every chance of an engagement. It may be as well to remark here that Mitchell has not "got on" with the Misses Blake, having rooted opinions of her own not to be lightly laid aside. The Misses Blake's opinions have also a home in very deep soil, so that the "give-and-take" principle is not in force between them and the foreign nurse, as they term Jane Mitchell, though she was bred and born on Devonshire soil.

"Mitchell," say the Misses Blake in confidence to each other, "is not altogether what one would desire in a servant assigned to the care of children. She is not nice in many ways; there is far too much of the fine lady about her," etc.

"H'elderly ladies as 'asn't been to the h'altar," says Mrs. Mitchell in confidence to cook, "can't be supposed to know what is right and proper for motherless lambs." And so the war rages.

Just now Mrs. Mitchell is plainly on the defensive, and eyes her baby – as she still calls Kit (having nursed her) – with all the air of one prepared to rush in and rescue her by bodily force, should the worst come to the worst.

"My dear Monica, what a late hour to be abroad!" says Miss Priscilla, reproachfully. "The dew falling, too, which is most unwholesome. For you, Kit, a mere child, it is really destruction. Nurse, as you are there," regarding the bony Mitchell with distrust and disfavor, "I think it as well to let you know I do not think this is a proper time for Miss Katherine to be in the open air. It is far too late."

"It isn't late, miss. It is only nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock! What is the woman thinking about? Nine! why, that means night?"

"Not at this time of the year, miss."

"At any time of year. With all the experience you say you have had, I wonder you do not consider it a most injurious hour for a child of Miss Katherine's age to be out of doors."

"I don't hold with making a child puny, miss. Coddling up, and that sort, only leads to consumptions and assmas, in my humble opingion."

"I must request that for the future you will show deference to our opinion, nurse; which is directly opposed to yours," says Miss Priscilla, straightening herself.

"I suppose I can manage my own young lady, miss," says Mitchell, undaunted, and now, indeed, thoroughly braced for conflict.

"I have grave doubts about that, Mitchell, and at least you should not answer me in this wise."

"If I brought my young lady safely all the way from Jerusalem, miss, I suppose I can take care of her 'ere."

"Her ear?" questions Miss Priscilla, not meaning to be rude at all.

"She means here," says Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper.

"Oh!" says Miss Priscilla, rather shocked at her mistake, which has been accepted by Mitchell as a deliberate insult. "Katherine, go upstairs with Mitchell, and change your shoes and stockings; they must be damp."

"I don't consider Mitchell at all a nice person," says Miss Priscilla, when the door had closed upon that veteran; "but still I hope I did not offend her with that last thoughtless slip of mine. But really, over here in Ireland, we are not accustomed to the extraordinary language in which Mitchell indulges at times. She seems to me to be saving up her aspirates for a hypothetical dearth of that article in the future."

Miss Priscilla is so pleased with this long word that she quite recovers her temper.

"Certainly, from Jerusalem is a long way to bring a child," says Miss Penelope, thoughtfully; and, indeed, this journey from Palestine has been, and probably always will be, Mrs. Mitchell's trump card when disputing with the mistresses of Moyne.

Miss Priscilla has walked to the window, and is now gazing in thoughtful fashion over the fast darkening landscape. Perhaps her mind is travelling that long journey to Palestine, perhaps it is still occupied with the inimical Mitchell; be that as it may, she keeps her senses well about her, and a keen eye behind her spectacles, because presently she says aloud, in a tone calculated to attract attention, —

"What is that in the meadow, creeping along beneath the ha-ha, Katherine?" – Kit has returned with dry shoes and stockings; – "come here, your eyes are sharper than mine!" which is a distinct libel upon her own orbs.

"Where?" says Kit, recognizing the crouching form of Terry with a pang of terror. Is she to be compelled to inform upon her own brother? Perish the thought!

"Over there," says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone, pointing to where the luckless Terence is crawling home in the fond belief that he is defying all detection; whereupon Kit, with much presence of mind, looks scrutinizingly in just the opposite direction. "It is somebody carrying a gun. Good gracious! it is remarkably like Terence!"

At this Monica starts perceptibly, and lets the book she is holding fall heavily to the ground.

"Perhaps it is a poacher," says Kit, brightly, her general reading being deeply imbued with those characters.

"Perhaps," says Miss Priscilla, grimly. "Yet I feel sure it is your brother!" Then she throws wide the sash, and calls aloud to the culprit, —

"Terence! Terence, come here!"

At this, Mr. Beresford loses his presence of mind, and stands bolt upright, gun in hand: the words have come to him distinctly across the soft green grass, and fallen upon his ears with dismal distinctness. Throwing up the sponge, he shoulders the offending weapon and marches upon the foe with head erect and banners flying. Even if death is before him (meaning the confiscation of the gun), he vows to himself he will still die game.

"Really, it is Terence," says Miss Penelope, as he approaches; "but where can he have got the gun?"

"I know!" says Miss Priscilla, whereupon Monica feels positively faint.

Feeling she is growing very pale, she rises hurriedly from her seat, and, going to the lower window, so stands that her face cannot be seen.

If Terence is cross-examined, will he tell a lie about the obtaining of the gun? And if he does not, what will happen? what dreadful things will not be said and done by Aunt Priscilla? Her breath comes quickly, and with horror she finds herself devoutly hoping that Terence on this occasion will tell a lie.

By this time Terence has mounted the balcony, and is standing in a somewhat defiant attitude before his inquisitors.

"Where have you been, Terence?" began Miss Priscilla.

"Shooting, aunt."

"And where did you get the gun, Terence?"

Silence.

"You certainly had no gun yesterday, and none this morning, as far as I can judge. Now we want the truth from you, Terence, but we do not wish to coerce you. Take time, and give us an answer your heart can approve."

Such an answer is evidently difficult to be procured at a moment's notice, because Terence is still dumb.

"I am afraid your nature is not wholly free from deceit, Terence," says Miss Priscilla, sadly. "This hesitation on your part speaks volumes; and such unnecessary deceit, too. Neither your aunt Penelope nor I have any objection to your borrowing a gun if you find such a dangerous weapon needful to your happiness. But why not confide in us?"

"Is it possible she would not be really angry if she knew?" thinks Monica, breathlessly. I regret to say that both Kit and Terence take another view of Miss Blake's speech, and believe it an artful dodge to extract confession.

"I – " says Terence, to gain time, and because speech of some kind at this moment is absolutely necessary – "I didn't think – "

"Of course you didn't think, Terence, or you would not have recorded your poor aunts, in your secret thoughts, as hard-hearted and ungenerous. If you had told us openly that Mitson, the coast-guard, had lent you a gun (as I strongly suspect, and indeed felt sure from the first moment was the case), we should not have been at all angry, only naturally anxious that you should use an instrument of death with caution. But you have no confidence in us, Terence."

Intense relief fills the breasts of the three Beresfords. Remorse that the trusting nature of the old ladies should be so abused touches Monica keenly, but of the other two I must again declare with grief that they feel nothing but a sense of delivery from peril, and no contrition at all for their past suspicions.

"I thought you might be angry, aunt," says Terence. He is looking very dirty indeed, and his hands are grimy, and altogether even Monica cannot bring herself to feel proud of him. There is, too, a covert desire for laughter about him that exasperates her terribly.

"Not angry, my dear; only nervous. I hope you know how to load, and that. I remember a cousin of ours blowing off his first finger and thumb with a powder-horn."

"This is a breech-loader, auntie," says Monica, softly.

"Eh? One of those new-fangled things I have read of. Oh, well, my dear boy, I daresay there is more need for circumspection. Let me look at it. Ah! very handsome, indeed! I had no idea coast-guards were so well supplied; and yet I cling to the old guns that your grandfather used to use."

"Did you shoot anything?" asks Miss Penelope, who has grown quite interested, and regards Terence with a glance of pride.

"Only one thrush," says Terence, drawing the dilapidated corpse from his pocket, "and a sparrow, and one rabbit I fired at and wounded mortally, I know, but it got away into its hole and I lost it."

"Rabbits!" says Miss Priscilla. "Am I to understand – nay, I hope I am not to understand – that you crossed the stile into Coole?"

"There are plenty of rabbits in our own wood," says Terence; "more than I could shoot. I am glad you don't object to my having the gun, auntie."

"I don't, my dear; but I wish you had been more ingenuous with us. Why now, Terence, why do you steal along a field with your back bent as though desirous of avoiding our observation, and with your gun under your coat, as if there was a policeman or a bailiff after you?"

"I was only trying to steal upon a crow, aunt."

"Well, that may be, my dear, but there are ways of doing things. And why put your gun under your coat? I can't think such a fraudulent proceeding necessary even with a crow. Now look here, Terence," illustrating his walk and surreptitious manner of concealing his gun beneath his coat, "does this look nice?"

"If I do it like you, auntie, it looks very nice," says Terence, innocently, but with a malevolent intention.

"What a pity you missed the rabbit, Terry!" says Monica, hurriedly.

"Oh, he is dead now, I'm certain; but I should have liked to bring him home. His leg was broken, and I chased him right through the rushes down below in the furze brake at Coole."

Sensation!

It is too late to redeem his error. "Murder wol out, that see we day by day," says Chaucer, and now, indeed, all the fat is in the fire. The two old ladies draw back from him and turn mute eyes of grief upon each other, while Kit and Monica stare with heavy reproach upon their guilty brother.

The guilty brother returns their glance with interest, and then Miss Priscilla speaks.

"So you went into Coole, after all," she says. "Oh, Terence!"

"I couldn't help it," says Terence, wrathfully. "I wasn't going to let the rabbit go for the sake of a mere whim."

"A mere whim!" Words fail me to convey Miss Priscilla's indignation. "Are you destitute of heart, boy, that you talk thus lightly of a family insult? Oh! shame, shame!"

"I'm very sorry if I have made you unhappy," says Terence, who is really a very good boy and fond. "I didn't mean it, indeed."

But Miss Priscilla appears quite broken-hearted.

"To dream of bringing a rabbit of Coole into this house!" she says, with quite a catch in her voice that brings Miss Penelope into prominent play.

"If, when you came to the stile that leads into Moyne," she says, "you had said to yourself, 'My good aunt, who loves me so dearly, would not wish me to enter this forbidden land,' you would, I hope, have paused, and come back here. But you did not. You went recklessly on, and trod upon ground where your foot is unwelcome."

"Dear Aunt Penelope, do not talk like that," says Monica, entreatingly, slipping her arm around her.

"And this to his poor old aunts who love him so fondly!" says Miss Penelope, in so dismal a voice that the two Misses Blake break into sobs.

"It wouldn't seem so bad if he hadn't equivocated about it," says Miss Priscilla, presently. "But he purposely led us to believe that he had not set his foot on that detested land."

"He has indeed been much to blame," says Miss Penelope. "Terence, what was it it said about lying in the Bible this morning? I am afraid your chapter to-day – that awful chapter about Ananias and Sapphira – did you little good."

A growl from Terence.

"He will be more careful for the future, auntie," says Monica, interpreting the growl after her own gentle fashion. "And now you will forgive him, won't you? After all, any one, even you, might forget about forbidden lands, if you were racing after a rabbit."

The idea of the Misses Blake racing through rushes and gorse after a rabbit strikes Kit as so comical that she forgets everything, and laughs aloud. And then the Misses Blake, who are not altogether without a sense of fun, catching "the humor of it," laugh too, and, drying their eyes, give Terence to understand that he is forgiven.

Just at this moment the door is opened, and Timothy enters, bearing not only an air of mystery with him, but a large envelope.

"Why, what is this at this time of night?" says Miss Priscilla, who is plainly under the impression that, once the lamps are lighted, it is verging on midnight. She takes the envelope from Timothy, and gazes at the huge regimental crest upon it with a judicial expression.

"A sojer brought it, miss. Yes, indeed, ma'am. A-hossback he come, all the way from the Barracks at Clonbree."

Redcoats at Rossmoyne are a novelty, and are regarded by the peasantry with mixed feelings of admiration and contempt. I think the contempt is stronger with Timothy than the admiration.

"From the Barracks?" says Miss Priscilla, slowly, turning and twisting the letter between her fingers, while Monica's heart beats rapidly. It is, it must be the invitation; and what will be the result of it?

"Yes, indeed, miss. I asked him what brought him at this hour, ma'am; but he took me mighty short wid his answer, so I give up me questions."

Never having been able during fifty years to make up his mind whether his mistresses should be addressed as maidens or matrons, Timothy has compromised matters by putting a "miss" and a "ma'am" into every sentence he dedicates to them.

"Ah, an invitation from Captain Cobbett for Friday next – um – um – four to seven – um – um. All of us invited, even Kit," says Miss Priscilla, in a decidedly lively tone.

"Me! am I asked?" cries Kit, excitedly.

"Yes, indeed, you are specially mentioned. Very nice and attentive, I must say, of those young men, particularly when we have not shown them any kindness as yet. I thought that Mr. Ryde a very superior young fellow, with none of the discourteous antipathy to age that disfigures the manners of the youth of the present day. Penelope, my dear, perhaps you had better indite the answer to this. Yours is the pen of a ready writer."

"Very well," says Miss Penelope, rising slowly – Oh! so slowly! thinks Monica – and going towards the davenport.

"Is the soldier outside, Timothy?" asks Miss Priscilla.

"Yes, miss. He said he wanted a bit of writing from ye for the captain."

"It is a long ride. Take him downstairs, Timothy, and give him some beer, while Miss Penelope prepares a reply."

"Begging your pardon, miss, and with due respect to ye, ma'am, but he's that stiff in his manners, an' tight in his clothes, I doubt if he'd condescend to enter the kitchen."

"Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, with much displeasure, "you have been having hot words with this stranger. What is it all about?"

"There's times, miss, as we all knows, when a worm will turn, and though I'm not a worm, ma'am, no more am I a coward, an' a red coat don't cover more flesh than a black; an' I'm an ould man, Miss Priscilla, to be called a buffer!"

It is apparent to every one that Timothy is nearly in tears.

"A buffer?" repeats Miss Priscilla, with dignity blended with disgust: she treats the word cautiously, as one might something noxious. "What is a buffer?"

Nobody enlightens her: though perhaps Terence might, were he not busily engaged trying to suppress his laughter behind a huge Japanese fan.

"Perhaps, Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, gravely, "as we all seem in ignorance about the real meaning of this extraordinary word, you are wrong in condemning it as an insult. It may be – er – a term of endearment."

At this Terence chokes, then coughs solemnly, and finally, lowering the fan, shows himself preternaturally grave, as a set-off against all suspicions.

"I wouldn't pin my faith to that, miss, if I was you," says Ryan, respectfully, but with a touch of the fine irony which is bred and born with his class in Ireland.

"Well, but as we cannot explain this word, Timothy, and you cannot, perhaps the best thing for you to do will be to go to the originator of it and ask him what he meant by it," says Miss Penelope, with quite astonishing perspicacity for her.

"Shure I did that same, miss. 'Twas the first thing I said to him, ma'am. 'What do ye mane, ye spalpeen, ye thief o' the world,' says I, 'by miscalling a dacent man out of his name like that?' says I. I gave him all that, miss, and a dale more, though I've forgotten it be now, for the Ryans was always famous for the gift o' the gab!"

"If you said all that to the poor marine, I think you gave him considerably more than you got," says Miss Penelope, "and so you may cry peace. Go down now, Timothy, and make it up with him over your beer."

Timothy, though still grumbling in an undertone death and destruction upon the hated Sassenach, retires duteously, closing the door behind him.

"Now, Penelope," says Miss Priscilla, with an air of relief, glancing at the pens and ink, at which Monica's heart fails her. She has no doubt whatever about the answer being a refusal, but a sad feeling that she dare make no protest renders her doubly sorrowful.

"Dear me!" says Miss Penelope, leaning back in her chair with pen well poised between her fingers, and a general air of pleased recollection full upon her, "it sounds quite like old times – doesn't it? – to be invited to the Barracks at Clonbree."

"Quite," says Miss Priscilla, with an amused smile.

"You remember when the Whiteboys were so troublesome, in our dear father's time, what life the officers stationed here then, threw into the country round. Such routs! such dances! such kettle-drums! You can still recollect Mr. Browne – can you not, Priscilla? – that fashionable young man!"

"You have the best right to remember him," returns Miss Priscilla, in a meaning tone. "It would be too ungrateful of you if you did not, considering what a life you led him."

And at this the two old ladies break into hearty laughter and shake their heads reproachfully at each other.

"You know you broke his heart," says Miss Priscilla.

"Tell us about it, auntie," says Kit, eagerly, who is always sympathetic where romance is concerned; but the old ladies only laugh the more at this, and Aunt Priscilla tells her how her Aunt Penelope was a very naughty girl in her time, and created havoc in the affections of all the young men that came within her reach.

All this delights Aunt Penelope, who laughs consumedly and makes feeble protest with her hands against this testimony.

"Poor fellow!" she says, sobering down presently, and looking quite remorseful. "It is unkind to laugh when his name is mentioned. He was killed in the Indian Mutiny, long afterwards, in a most gallant charge."

"Yes, indeed," says Miss Priscilla. "Well, well, things will happen. Go on with the answer now, Penelope, as the man is waiting and it is woefully late."

Monica trembles. But Kit starts into life.

"Oh, don't refuse, Aunt Priscilla!" she cries, darting from her seat and throwing her arms round Miss Blake's neck. "Don't, now! I do so want to go, when I have got my invitation, and all."

"But – " begins Miss Priscilla; whereupon Kit, tightening her hold on her neck, with a view to staying further objection, nearly strangles her.

"No 'buts,'" she says, entreatingly; "Remember how disappointed I was about Madam O'Connor's, and be good to me now."

"Bless the child!" breaks out Miss Priscilla, having rescued her windpipe and so saved herself from instant suffocation by loosening Kit's arms, and then drawing the child down upon her knee. "What is she talking about? who is going to refuse anything? Penelope, accept at once, —at once, or I shall be squeezed to death!"

"Then you will go?" exclaims Monica, joining the group near the davenport, and turning brilliant eyes upon her aunts. "Oh, I am so glad!"

"Why, we are dying to see the inside of the Barracks again, your aunt Penelope and I, especially your aunt Penelope," says Miss Blake, with a sly glance at her sister, who is plainly expecting it, "because she has tender recollections about her last visit there."

"Oh, now, Priscilla!" says Miss Penelope, modestly, but with keen enjoyment of the joke. After which an acceptance of his kind invitation is written to Captain Cobbett, and borne to him by the destroyer of Timothy's peace.