Kitabı oku: «Only an Irish Girl», sayfa 2

"Miss Honor, do ye mind my drame?"

"Every word of it, Aileen."

"Ye mind how I dramed that the boys dug the grave out on the moss, and hid it out of sight wid green branches!"

"I do surely."

"Well, Miss Honor, ever and always in my drame that grave is there still. I watch the boys dig it deep in the black earth, and cover the gaping mouth of it; and me shaking and trembling all the time. But these past three nights – the saints be above us! – there's been another grave, alanna."

"Another grave!" The girl laughs. "Why, that is getting too dreadful!" She plucks a spray of roses from the open window behind her, as she sits on the great oak dresser, and shreds the delicate red petals all over the lap of her gown.

"Listen to me, Miss Honor, and cease your funning! This is no time to laugh and jest at a warning that comes from the saints themselves! That the masther is in danger of his life I know as well as if I saw the very bullet that was to shoot him. The grave was dug deep and broad – and deep and broad it would need to be, save us! – out there on yer own lawn, just forenent the drawing-room windies!"

She has left her ironing-table and come close up to the girl, her face – a delicate-featured face, peasant as she is – rigid with intense feeling, her eyes shining, her upraised hand tremulous.

"Oh, Miss Honor darlint, shure he'd follow you to the ends of the world! Take him away from this till the bad feeling has time to cool down. Things will right themselves, never fear – the old times will come round again; but, if the masther stays on at Donaghmore, he'll never live to enjoy them."

"But if he will not go away?" says Honor, a tone of anxiety in her voice. "You know how obstinate he is; and that letter from Dublin about landlords running away from their posts has upset him dreadfully. Oh, no, Aileen, he'll never leave Donaghmore!"

"Then the saints purtect him!" Aileen answers tremulously. "But as sure as my name is Aileen Walsh harm will come of it!"

CHAPTER III

"As sure as my name is Aileen Walsh harm will come of it!"

The words haunt Honor. They ring in her ears night and day, and spoil many hour's innocent pleasure for her.

But what harm can come? she asks herself. The country is quiet enough now to all appearance, though more than once, in the dusk, she has heard the shrill signal whistle pealing from hill to hill or dying away over the melancholy bog.

Of Power Magill she sees but little. He is now cold and absent, and so unlike himself that it is more a pain than a pleasure to be with him.

Brian Beresford she does not see at all. He has written to her father more than once since his abrupt departure, but she has not even seen his letters.

The squire blames her openly for snubbing "as decent a fellow as ever stepped in shoe-leather," and Launce stings her with covert hints to the same effect. It is all very miserable, but the girl bears it bravely. She must suffer, but she need make no sign. Even Launce's keen eyes are deceived at last, and he tells Belle Delorme that they have been on the wrong scent altogether.

"Honor never cared a button for the fellow – she never cared for any one but Power Magill, and never will, and that's the truth! So you see what a faithful family you are marrying into, my dear!"

But Belle only shakes her pretty head.

"She takes it a deal too easy to please me. I'd rather she would fret a bit. Sure it would only be natural! But the loss of a man like that out of a dull country house is something worth fretting about."

"You don't know Honor," Launce answers oracularly. "She's not the girl to lose her heart in a fortnight or three weeks' time to the best man breathing."

"I'm not saying a word about her heart, Launce; but I do say he took a mighty strong hold on her fancy."

"You think that she loves him, then?"

"I think she would if he'd give her the chance," the girl answers, smiling.

"What a queer little creature you are!" her lover says, looking at her with amused yet wondering eyes. "How on earth did you find it all out? I'll vow Honor never spoke a word to you about it."

"How do I know that the sun is shining or that there is clover in that meadow? Haven't I my senses like other people?"

So they pass on their way, laughing and happy; and the man coming out from the shelter of the larch-wood, which here borders the high-road, looks after them with a frown, and a word that is certainly not a blessing on his bearded lips.

"It's not your fault," he says to himself bitterly, as he watches the two sauntering along in the yellow sunlight, "that she cares for Power Magill, or that she ever cared for him, for that matter."

As he stands there in his well-worn shooting-coat, although he is dressed little better than one of his own keepers, no one could mistake him for other than a gentleman. He is a handsome man, with keen hazel eyes set far back under brows as dark as a Spaniard's, but his face, for all its comeliness, is almost forbidding in its sternness.

Turning off the road now, he makes his way across a field and down some rude stone steps to the bank of the river.

A little house stands here, nestling against the rocky bank. The old door hangs off its hinges, the one small-paned window is stuffed with rags.

Power Magill stoops as he enters the poor place, and his eyes, dazzled by the sunlight outside, look round the room in a vain search. He can see no one; a girl rises from a low stool by the hearth, where she has been coaxing a smoldering turf to light, and comes forward.

"Is your father in, Patsy?"

"He is not, your honor. He went to Derry to-day with one of Neil's foals, and he will not be home till the morning!"

"And your brother – where is he?"

"I can't rightly say, your honor! Maybe he is gone to the bog to – "

But he stops her, frowning impatiently.

"Tell them both that I came here for them. Say no more than that – they will understand."

Then he strikes out, glad to breathe the fresh air after that tainted atmosphere. The girl walks cautiously to the door and looks after him. She is barefooted, and on the earth floor her tread makes no sound.

"Heaven forgive yez!" she says almost fiercely. "The innocent creatures never hurt man nor beast till yez came with your foine tongue and your yellow guineas, tempting and ruining 'em! But I'll be even with yez yet!"

From this fetid little cabin on the river's side a brisk walk of ten minutes brings Power Magill to the gates of Donaghmore. As he passes up the drive he stops and turns aside for an instant to look at the ruins of the old Abbey, standing grim and cold and gray in the yellow sunshine.

The refectory is still standing, its three windows looking toward the stone house on the hill. There is a low arched gateway, but the gate is gone, and beyond in the great quadrangle the stones lie as they have fallen.

"What asses we are, the best of us!" Power Magill says grimly, as he looks at this relic of a dead man's wealth and power.

The old abbot – buried, so say the traditions of the family, under the ruins of the pile that he reared with such pride and vainglory – never lived to enjoy his riches. Twice he built the house, and twice it was destroyed; the first time partially, and by fire, the second time utterly. "For," so the story goes, "a wind rose in the night, and swept the great stones one from another, leaving the place as it is to this day." No Blake has ever been bold enough to rebuild it.

As Power Magill passes into the quadrangle, an owl flies out of the ivy, and sweeps so close before his face that he draws back, startled. The bird's cry is caught up and echoed round the empty spaces, till it seems as if the place must be full of mocking spirits. With a frown he turns and retraces his steps, never pausing to look back till he has gained the steps on Donaghmore. A dark cloud has obscured the sun, and the whole pile lies in the shadow.

Superstitious under all his cynicism, Power Magill shudders.

"It is an omen," he says: and the next moment the heavy door behind him swings open, and Honor stands on the threshold.

Her cheeks flush, her eyes brighten at the sight of him.

"Oh, Power," she says, with a ring of pleasure in her voice, "I was just longing to see you! I want to talk to you," she adds, coming down the steps and slipping her hand within his arm; "and we can talk best out-of-doors."

They go together across the lawn, and through a small green door into a high-walled garden, richly stocked with old-fashioned flowers.

"Another letter came this morning, Power – such a dreadful letter, worse than all the rest! – and last night Launce's bay mare was shot through the head. He is in an awful way about it, so is the pater. They have gone to Drum now to tell the police."

She is looking at him as she says this; and the cruel expression in his eyes and the mocking smile that stirs his lips make her heart beat with something like fear.

"They might have spared themselves the trouble – the police cannot help them."

"What can we do, Power? What ought we to do?" she says, almost piteously.

"I told you long ago what you ought to do. It's almost too late now – Launce has made the place too hot to hold him, and that's the truth, Honor. The sooner he goes back to Dublin the better for all of you."

"Poor Launce – I don't see what he has done!"

"He has done enough to get his quietus," Power answers grimly; "and he would have had it long ago if he had not had a friend to speak for him."

"And these are the people we have lived among all our lives!" the girl says, with a sigh. "Oh, Power, it seems as if it couldn't be true!"

"It's true enough," he answers her, more gently. "The men are maddened by a sense of their wrongs! They are not prepared to love those who openly side with their oppressors."

The vehement passion in his voice, the fierce flush on his cheeks, chill the girl and check the words that rise to her lips.

Why appeal to this man? He is not on their side, but against them. He loves her, she knows, but does he not love this "cause" to which he is pledged, body and soul, better than her?

"Well, we must do the best we can," she says after a pause – a lengthy, ominous pause it has seemed to Honor. "It is to be hoped the poor fellows will come to their senses in time."

"And meanwhile?" he questions her.

"Meanwhile we must take care of ourselves," the girl answers briefly and coldly.

"My darling, you don't know what you are talking about – you have been led away by Launce's boasting. You cannot see your danger as I, who loves you, see it. Come to me, Honor! Be my wife, and let me take care of you. I swear you shall never repent it – never!"

For an instant she looks at him, startled; then the color floods her face, and her eyelids droop.

"As my wife you will be safe and happy – for don't we love each other?"

"Then," she says – and she shivers even in the hot sunshine – "you think

I am not safe here, in my own home?"

"You are not!" he answers impressively.

"Then my father and the boys are not safe either?" she questions more eagerly.

"The certainly are not safe, Honor. If they had any sense they would leave the country while they can."

"And yet it is now you would ask me to leave them," she says, almost disdainfully – "to leave the dear old pater and the boys just when they need me most? It's little you know of me, Power, or you would never dream of asking me to do such a thing."

"If you could do any good," he begins; but she interrupts him with a swift, almost imperious gesture.

"I could do the good that Rooney's wife did him, if ever it should come to that with us at Donaghmore."

"Honor, why do you think of such things?"

"It's time to think of them," she says wearily, "when they are acted before our eyes. How can I tell how soon it may be our turn? I said it was not true when Launce came in and told us that poor Rooney was shot like a rabbit, before the eyes of his wife and little children. I cried out against it in horror. 'There is not a man in the place who could do such a thing!' I said; but I am beginning to know better now."

A look of anguish crosses the man's face as he listens to her. He is a gentleman, and his better nature must revolt from crimes like this.

"The man had been warned. If he had held his tongue, no harm would have come to him."

"And we have been warned," the girl says, with a bitter smile, "and we have not held our tongues, and therefore harm will come to us."

As the words pass her lips she shivers, remembering Aileen's warnings. It seems to her that Power's face has grown harsh and cruel, like the face of a man who is her judge more than her lover.

"Honor, do you want to break my heart? You know how I love you, have loved you always. Launce hates me – your father has plainly said he will 'never give his only girl to a rebel;' and I am that in his opinion. But why should they stand between us, my darling? What right has any man to come between such love as ours?"

"No man can come between us, Power. Have I not given you my plighted word? But, if my father and brother are in danger, my place is with them. You see that, don't you?"

The beautiful face is close to his own; he feels the clasp of her soft hands in his, and suddenly, with a sigh that is almost a groan, he takes her into his arms and kisses her passionately.

CHAPTER IV

"Oh, Honor, is it true?" Belle Delorme cries breathlessly, as she meets her friend midway on the Rectory lawn. "Launce has been telling us – but sure he laughed so we couldn't believe him – that the old abbot has begun to walk again."

"It is quite true that people say he has," Honor answers guardedly.

She is pale to-day, and there is a weary look in her eyes that give a pathetic expression to the whole face.

"And he has really been seen, dear?" exclaims Belle, raising her hands in dismay. "Oh, but it is dreadful! Sure we never thought such things could happen in our day."

"What a goose you are!" Launce says, coming up at this moment. "Such things, as you call them, never happened and never will; it's all a hoax – some scamps doing it for a lark; and one of these nights when I've nothing better to do, I'll go down and ferret out the rascal."

"Oh, no, no, Launce, dear! Promise me that you'll do nothing of the kind," Belle cries in genuine distress. "It would be madness. If the old abbot is walking, depend upon it it is for some good reason; trouble is coming to the family in some shape of form."

But Launce only laughs at her, and even Honor will not confess her belief in this supernatural visitor.

"If it could tell us anything," she says in her grave way, "it would be different – good might come of it; as it is, it does nothing but scare away visitors and keep our servants in such a state of terror that they can't attend to their work. It is really very disagreeable."

"Oh, Honor darling, how can you talk like that?" Belle cries with a little shiver. "I declare you are almost as bad as Launce."

The lawn at Donaghmore rectory is covered with guests. A table has been set under the trees, and Mrs. Delorme, in a delightfully cool-looking dress and with delicate ribbons in her lace cap, is busy making tea. There are pretty colors, gay voices and bursts of musical laughter on every hand.

Some of the girls are good-looking, more than one or two are handsome; and the men in their tennis flannels and gay caps show well by contrast.

"Your cousin is here – he is staying with the Frenches – so mamma had to ask him," Belle whispers almost nervously; and the next moment Honor finds herself face to face with Brian Beresford.

She has never seen him since that day he stooped and kissed her under the cherry-trees. Honor's cheeks turn crimson as she remembers that passionate kiss.

"Does he think of it?" she wonders as she meets his eyes.

"I thought you had gone back to England," she says. She hardly knows what she does say, so stupid is she feeling.

"I did go home, but could not stay long; I had business in Ireland that could not be neglected."

"Business?" she repeats wonderingly.

"Yes," he says gravely – "important business; it may keep me here for some time yet."

She listens in surprise, but she is too proud to ask him what his business may be. Perhaps he would not tell her if she did; but he is nothing to her – less than nothing. Why should she trouble about his affairs?

"What have you been doing to yourself, Honor?" They have come to the narrow wire fence that separates the rectory lawn from the rectory paddock. "You are as pale as a ghost. Have you been fretting?"

For an instant she looks at him coldly, almost angrily; then the tears come into her eyes. Something in his voice, in the way he is looking down at her, in the touch of his hand, as he lays it over hers for an instant, has gone straight to her heart.

"I am not very happy certainly; it is an anxious time for us all just now."

"Yes," he says, pretending not to see her tears, "and it is lonely at Donaghmore; but you are not so unprotected as you appear to be. There are those on the watch who would gladly die to shield you from danger."

"I used to think so," she answers sadly, "but I am not so sure of it now."

"But you may be sure of it, Honor – I will answer for that myself."

She smiles as she listens to him. What should this Englishman know of the feelings of the people? He means to be kind of course; but his words carry no comfort – how should they? Looking at him as he stands before her, she cannot but own that, if his face is proud and a trifle cold in its repose, there is something true and winsome in it. The keen eyes meet hers unflinchingly, the firm lips under the heavy moustache have not a harsh curve about them; it is a face with power in it, and some tenderness and passion too, under all its chill composure.

"He has the look of a man one might trust through everything," she says to herself almost with a sigh; and then she turns to go back to her friends, angry that he should have won so much thought from her.

"Don't go yet, Honor; it's cooler here than among all those chattering women; and if you want any tea, I can bring you some."

The sunshine is beating fiercely down upon the groups scattered over the center of the lawn; but here under the trees the grass is flecked with cool shadows, and the two catch the breeze – such as it is – that comes from the river.

"I don't care for any tea, thanks; but I do enjoy this shade," she says almost reluctantly; and still indifferent to a degree that might be called rude, she lets him find a seat on the low bough of one of the ash-trees, well out of reach of the sunshine.

He does not offer to sit down beside her, though there is plenty of room.

With his shoulder against a tree and his hat well pulled over his eyes he stands and talks in his easy, half-grave, half-mocking way, that, in spite of herself, the girl finds charming.

He does not appear to be in the least anxious to interest or amuse her; yet he does both. Before long she is laughing as she has not laughed for weeks – a pretty color has come into her cheeks, her eyes are sparkling. No wonder the man looking at her feels his heart thrill!

If ever he thought that he could go away and leave this willful Irish girl, whose very willfulness has caught and chained him, he knows now that the thought was a vain one.

She is the one woman in the world for him, her love the one thing needful to crown his life. Other women may be fairer, other women may be ready to give him love where this girl gives him but a mocking tolerance; but no other woman can ever be to him what she is.

Of love and lovers there is no thought in Honor's head this sunny afternoon. She thinks her cousin has improved, that he has even grown quite tolerable, and there it ends, so far as she is concerned.

On their way back to the house they pass Launce and Mrs. Dundas walking very close together, and talking seriously.

Honor looks at her coldly. She does not like the woman. Her bold eyes, her lithe figure, in its French-cut gown, the very grace and chic that have made Kate Dundas the belle of the county jar upon Honor.

"I am very sorry Launce has gone so far in that quarter," her companion says, when they are well out of ear-shot. "These fascinating women are always more or less dangerous."

"Oh, Launce can take care of himself!"

"I doubt it," Brian answered dryly.

"Oh, but he can!" Honor persists, with a laugh. "We all can, for that matter; indeed, and it's my opinion there is not a susceptible heart in the whole family."

"Probably not. I don't believe in susceptible hearts myself."

A faint smile stirs her lips as she listens. It was not true, then, that passionate declaration that has rung in her ears since she first heard it:

"Heavens, child, how I love you!"

"How would it have been with me now if I had believed him?" she asks herself. She can quite believe that the loss of this man's love – after once believing in it – might prove a source of very keen regret to any girl; but fortunately she had never believed in it; and now it could never be anything – true or false, faithful or unfaithful – since she has given her plighted word to Power Magill.

"I wish Launce would go back to Dublin," Brian says after a pause. "He is only getting himself and other people into mischief down here. Can't the pater see that?"

"My father can see no fault in Launce – neither can I, for that matter.

I really don't see what harm the poor fellow is doing."

"He is doing harm, Honor – take my word for it! He would be best away."

"We do not think so," she says coldly; and there the matter ends.

It is getting dark as the little party – Honor, her two brothers, and young Jack Delorme – turn in at the gates of Donaghmore. They have been talking and laughing merrily; Honor is in good spirits to-night, or pretends to be; but as they pass inside the gate a silence falls upon them.

Launce is walking on the grass, well under the trees, Jack Delorme in the very middle of the gravel path, swinging a light stick, while Honor and Horace are a little in advance. As they reach the ruins Jack stops.

"I wonder if the old abbot is above ground to-night, Launce," he says.

"It would be only polite of us to pay him a visit if he is."

As the mocking words pass his lips, Honor turns to gaze at the gray pile, which looks very rugged in the dusk. She stops instantly.

Is she dreaming, she asks herself with a gasp of surprise, or is that a shape moving slowly between her and the doorless space that leads into the old quadrangle?

Horace sees it at the same instant; and the solo he is whistling – "My Queen" – with variations more or less ear-piercing, not to say distracting, dies away on his lips. He is little better than a lad, and his scorn of the supernatural is not by any means real.

"Oh, Honor," he exclaims, drawing close to her, "what can it be? Don't you see something over there?"

"It is a shadow of some branch, dear; it can be nothing else! Wait and see if the others notice it."

"Honor, I dare not stay!" the boy says nervously. "It is cowardly of me, I know, but there is a terror on me, and I – oh, what is that?"

A sudden shriek – so long, so shrill, so blood-chilling that the hearers stand aghast – breaks out upon the still air. A second later it is followed by an imprecation and a rapid rush of feet, as Launce and Jack Delorme spring, with one impulse, toward the ruins.

Honor neither stirs nor cries out. She holds her brother's hand tightly in both her own, and prays in an incoherent fashion; and all the time a strange unreal feeling is creeping over her.

"Can these things be?" she is asking herself. "Are spirits allowed to come back and torture the living?" – for this fear is the keenest torture her vigorous young life has ever known.

It is all over in a few minutes, though it seems to her that they have been standing there a long time, and then her brother and Jack Delorme come up to them.