Читать книгу Doreen, The Story of a Singer - Ada Ellen Bayly - Страница 13

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"Her summer nature felt a need to bless,

And a like longing to be blest again."—Lowell.

Miss Latouche remained obligingly ill for the next fortnight, and Doreen was fortunate enough to be asked to take three of her engagements in the provinces. Nothing, however, chanced to interfere with her visit to Firdale, and Mrs. Hereford arranged to call for her in the carriage and take her to the station; for she was one of those people who, although rich themselves, have enough imagination to understand how to be really helpful to those who have to think of every sixpence. Her visitors were always made to understand that no gratuities must be given to her servants, and the servants themselves, who were amply compensated in other ways by their mistress, would no more have accepted a fee than an attendant in a well-ordered theatre or a waitress in an aerated bread shop. In this way it was possible to make Monkton Verney the greatest boon to many who were sorely in need of change, yet had little enough to live upon.

Doreen was just sufficiently tired to enjoy most thoroughly the prospect of a rest, and, though she was far from being self-indulgent, and was quite content with the simplest style of living, she was nevertheless conscious of keen enjoyment as she lay back in the luxurious carriage, and still more when at the station she found everything beautifully arranged for her. It was delightful to be waited upon by Max Hereford; it was pleasant to have no anxiety about luggage, or recalcitrant porters, or grasping cabmen; it was restful, too, to be tucked up cosily in the corner seat of a first-class carriage, instead of skirmishing for oneself in a crowded third-class compartment; and, above all, it was a treat not to be alone, but to have companions who at every turn seemed to consider her comfort. She made them laugh with her merry account of her three journeys into the provinces.

"Aunt Garth did not half like my going alone," she said, "and persuaded me at Exeter to go to a very small, quiet, old-fashioned hotel, thinking it would be nicer for me. But nothing could have been worse. It was so very quiet that there was only one other visitor. I came down rather early to dinner, and thought that at such an hour I should probably dine alone. But at the long table were two places laid, and scarcely had the soup been removed, when in stalked a solemn, black-bearded Frenchman. He spoke no word, but sat down opposite me, tucked his table napkin into his collar, felt in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a pill-box, from which he produced two huge black pills as big as the top of my thumb,—they truly were quite as big. Whether he saw me shaking with suppressed laughter I don't know. We simultaneously grasped the water caraffe; he withdrew his hand; I poured out a tumblerful, and gulped down my mirth as well as I could; he followed my example, and with frightful agility swallowed his pills. After that experience, I don't think I shall venture on small hotels again!"

The first sight that greeted them on the Firdale platform was Michael's eager little face, which lighted up till it positively shone as he caught sight of Doreen.

"The coachman let me drive part of the way to the station," he said gleefully. "He is the jolliest man you ever saw, and, oh, there are such heaps of things to show you! Mollie wanted to come too, but we thought she'd better not, because I shall have to be inside going back, as the what-you-call-it—the waiter—no, I mean the footman,—from London, will be on the box."

Michael's unfailing tongue chattered the whole way to Monkton Verney, and his pride in pointing out to Doreen every possible point of interest greatly amused Mrs. Hereford.

"Why, Michael, I think you must be intended for a newspaper correspondent," said Max, greatly taken with the bright-eyed boy. "Nothing seems to escape you."

"Oh, I don't want to write," said Michael. "It's Dermot that means to go in for that. I do so want to be an engineer."

"Yes, indeed, I counted it a great proof of your affection that you were looking out for me, when our train came in, and not studying the engine," said Doreen, laughing. "Engines are his latest hobby; he will read the driest books about them, and will rattle off the names of their component parts in a way that makes my brain reel."

"But you like them yourself," said Michael, wistfully.

"Why, yes, asthore, of course I do. I like anything that you like, and will never forget to tell you the name, and the sort, and the colour of every engine I travel by."

"It will be a great help to you, if both boys have some marked inclination to guide you in their education," said Mrs. Hereford. "You had better talk to the Worthingtons, who are coming to stay with us to-morrow. Sir Henry Worthington is a great railway director, and would be able to give you plenty of advice as to Michael's future."

"You will like the Worthingtons," said Max. "They are the most delightful people; and Lady Worthington is Irish. We must keep off politics, though; for they are of the opposite party. Have you heard yet, mother, when Uncle Hereford comes?"

"He says he will ride over from the camp to-morrow afternoon. His portmanteau must be brought from the station with the Worthingtons' things. Now, Doreen, this is the beginning of Monkton Verney, and we shall soon be home. I am sure you must be longing for afternoon tea."

"And for the children," said Max, with a glance at her eager eyes.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "What a paradise it has been for them!"

The road skirted the park, of which glimpses could now and then be seen through a thick wild-wood which bordered it. On the other side lay peaceful, green meadows, a narrow, winding river, and the woods of a neighbouring estate, not yet in leaf, but with those varying hues of early spring which are almost more beautiful than the following stage. Presently they came to a place where four ways met.

A steep, sandy road led upwards among stately fir groves, and Max drew her attention to it.

"That is the way we shall take you to Rooksbury," he said.

"And there is the water-mill that I sketched for you in my letter," said Michael.

"And here we are at home," said Mrs. Hereford, as the carriage turned in at the pretty gate-way near the mill.

But Doreen had hardly a glance to spare for the solid, well-built, slightly prosaic mansion; she only saw two little figures dancing about on the steps, and in another minute Dermot and Mollie had flung themselves upon her.

"And if you choke me with the four arms of you round my throat, what will become of us all then?" she said gaily, carrying off Mollie to greet Mrs. Hereford, her heart full of joy at the sight of the bonny little face so dear to her.

The country air had brought the colour back to all the pale little faces, and Mrs. Muchmore, established in a large, airy nursery, was full of pride in the well-being of her small charges.

"Hagar Muchmore is really the most wonderful woman," said Doreen, as she rejoined Mrs. Hereford in the drawing-room. "She has the art of making herself at home everywhere; she does not seem cramped in a crowded little cabin, or in dreary lodgings; and yet she does not look out of her element in that beautiful nursery of yours, where a dozen children would have room and to spare."

"Ah, my dear, I often wished I had the dozen to fill it," said Mrs. Hereford. "It used to look gaunt and bare, somehow, when there was only Max to tenant it. As often as we could we had Miriam with us, but being both only children, they quarrelled a good deal, and it was not always a successful experiment. The servants have nothing but praise for your four little ones,—never were such children, according to my housekeeper."

"Well, I think they are all pretty good hands at amusing themselves," said Doreen. "I was a little bit afraid that Hagar Muchmore, with her brusque, independent ways and republican frankness, might not get on very well, but she seems to have made friends all round and looks as happy as a queen. Perhaps her intense veneration for the first real ruin she has ever seen was in her favour. The ruins and the ivy seem quite to have taken her breath away. You see we can't supply old priories in America, and ivy does not grow there."

When they had had tea, Max proposed that she should come out and see the Priory; and together they crossed the smooth, well-kept lawn, and, skirting the side of the little lake, passed through the shrubbery to the park beyond, where, in the soft sunset light, stood the gray old ruin, with its air of peaceful decay, its forlorn, roofless walls, its graceful arches and fragments of delicate tracery. Sheep were peacefully grazing within the dismantled choir, and birds flew homeward to their nests in the thick ivy which clustered about the pillars.

"I don't think you are so enthusiastic as Mrs. Muchmore," said Max, looking into her face, which had grown sad and wistful.

"Ruins are somehow depressing," she said. "Do you remember the ruined Abbey near Castle Karey? I never could understand how your cousin could spend whole days in painting it. One can't help thinking of the builders and how all their hopes and efforts are at an end; failure seems written over the whole place in spite of its loveliness."

"It shelters sheep still, though not the two-legged ones it was intended for," said Max, smiling.

"Yes; but it is much too good for mere animals," said Doreen.

"What would you do with it if it were yours?" he said. "Some people think I ought to restore it; but I am not going to be such a fool as to plant a huge church in a place where there is not even a village."

"I think," she said musingly, "I should turn it into almshouses for old people, or into a convalescent home for Londoners. You could use the choir for the chapel. It would perhaps spoil your view a little from the house, but the building could be low and need not be unsightly."

"I wonder what my heir would say to it," said Max. "However, I need not trouble much about that thought, for the property will certainly never come to him."

"Why not? Is it only yours for your lifetime?"

"It is a curious thing," he said. "But this property never remains in the same family long. It may pass from father to son, but the grandson has never been known to succeed. I am told it is the case with all estates that were once church property, and there is a book containing many instances of the kind. I would not like to say that I altogether believe in the legend, and yet it certainly seems something more than a mere coincidence." Doreen shivered a little. At heart she was superstitious, and this idea appealed to her Keltic imagination.

"How did it come into your possession?" she asked.

"The estate was in the market. My father bought it, but died only a year after the purchase. Do you see that old crone over there picking up sticks? She told me, as a child, all manner of legends about the former owners. She is rather a character; I should like you to see her."

They walked on towards a plantation, where a skinny old woman was slowly tying up her bundle of firewood, with many muttered ejaculations.

"She looks like a witch," said Doreen.

"As children, we used to call her Goody Grope, after the old woman in Miss Edgeworth's story; and the name has stuck to her ever since. But she is a worthy old body, and full of humour when you get her in the right mood. Good evening, Goody; how are you?" he exclaimed, as the old woman looked up and caught sight of them. "This lady comes from Ireland, and she wants to hear all the stories about Monkton Verney,—all that you used to tell us long ago. Don't you remember?"

"Glad to see you home again, sir," said Goody, curtseying to them both. "The lady, I take it, is of kin to the pretty little lass I saw up at the house last week."

"I am her sister," said Doreen, with her usual happy pride in claiming kinship with Mollie. "Have you been telling your delightful tales to the children, I wonder? There's nothing they would like half so well; they are just crazy about stories."

"Bless their little hearts!" said Goody; "there's many a tale I could tell them."

"But don't you go telling them about the ghost, Goody; I don't allow that ghost to be talked about. He's part of my property; and now that I'm of age, I'll manage him myself. You'll be scaring the children if you tell them the Priory is haunted. Many's the time as a child, that I've made myself go shivering to the window, ashamed to lie quaking in bed, and have looked out at the ruins to see if he was really there."

"And did you ever see it?" said Doreen, who, like Minna Troil, did not believe in ghosts, but was, nevertheless, afraid of them.

"Never," he said, with a mischievous glance; "but Goody has often seen him; you ask her."

"What is it like, and where did you see it?" asked Doreen, with an interest that charmed Goody.

"Thrice have I seen it, but never again will I run the risk; for afterwards it makes a body feel badly for weeks to come," said the old woman. "Drains all the strength out of you, that it does."

"Is it, then, so dreadful to look at?"

"No," said the old woman, musingly; "it's not that it is altogether horrible to see, but it's uncanny to look up all at once, as you are crossing the park on a moonlight night, and thinking of nothing in particular, to be taken right back into the past,—to see a figure kneeling there in the ruins in the old-time dress, a wide ruffle about the throat of him, and a little beard cut in a point, and a cloak cast about his shoulders. You can see his picture in Monkton Verney Hall now, and the ghost is as like the picture as eggs is like eggs."

"Is he inside the Priory or outside?"

"Well, I reckon it is where it would have been the inside, but the outer wall being all down, you can see him plain enough as you cross the park; he kneels there prayin' and prayin' to be forgiven. Many's the night I've heard his pitiful cries,—fit to make your blood run cold."

"A banshee, is it?" said Doreen. "Does he foretell misfortune?"

"Owls," whispered Max; "I have often seen them, and heard them, too."

"Oh yes," said Goody, not heeding the murmur of the Sadducee who owned the ruin. "Doubtless, he foretells misfortune; there's always misfortune to them as owns this property."

"Now, Goody, put it mildly," said Max, laughing. "You know there are exceptions to prove every rule. You always admitted that I might be the happy exception. And if you made out such a black case against Monkton Verney, you will be frightening my guest away the very day she has come."

"I always had hopes of you, sir," said Goody, looking into his blithe, cheerful face. "If ever there was one fit to reverse the ill-fortune of the place,—why then, it's you. But it's seen many a sad tale. There was Lord Royle, who got it first in King Henry's time, and turned out the Prior and spoiled the church; that's the one that walks," she added, with a glance at Doreen. "He lived to be an old man, and saw every one of his children come to a bad end. Then there was Sir Peregrine Blount, in King Charles' days; his only son was killed in battle. Next, the Lepines had the place, and all went well for a time, and there was two bonny lads born to them; but the heir and his brother, they both fell in love with the same lady, and they fought a duel together, and one was killed and the other was hung for his murder. Then the Wintons bought the place, and did well for a bit till the South-Sea Bubble burst,—I don't rightly know where, but it ruined them somehow, and the place was in the market again till the Chorleys took it; and they did well and were good to the poor, and the father saw no ill in his time, nor the son in his; and men thought the doom was at an end. But when the grandson came into the estate, men saw that the delay had only made the doom all the worse; such trouble there had never been before. From being a pleasant enough boy, young Mr. Chorley grew into the wildest and wickedest man that Monkton Verney had ever known for its owner. He went to the bad, and there were shocking doings, I've heard my mother say. And one night, when there was a great party of them in the house, drinking and gambling, sudden destruction came upon them. The master was taken ill, and the next day two of the guests were stricken down. The rest fled, but before the week was out Squire Chorley was carried to the churchyard. After that the house stood empty many years, until Squire Hereford bought it. There's a doom on the place,—nobody can deny that, though nowadays folk laugh at such things. They can't get over facts; and it's my hope that the squire here will be warned in time, and give back to the Almighty what is His by right."

"For my part," said Max, smiling, "I think it's uncommonly hard that I should be made to suffer for the sins of Lord Royle, which took place in 1536. The place was bought with money which my father had honourably earned as a civil engineer, and why can't you let me enjoy it in peace, Goody?"

The old woman shook her head. "There'll never be peace in Monkton Verney," she said; "not lasting peace."

"The same might be said of most houses in the world," said Max, entirely unconvinced. "Show me the family that in three generations contrives to escape great and grievous trouble, and I will believe your legend."

"Have ye heard the doom, miss?" asked Goody, turning to Doreen for sympathy, and scanning her Keltic face with a keen but appreciative glance.

"Oh, is there really some rhyme about it?" asked Doreen, eagerly.

"Some beautiful doggerel; but it sounds impressive when Goody says it, specially in the twilight," said Max, with a mischievous twinkle of fun in his eyes.

"The rhyme was found, miss, in the old church register, written in the margin by the entry of Lord Royle's burial," said Goody; and in slow, measured accents, she repeated solemnly the following doom:—

" 'Gained by fraud,

No good shall come;

None shall find

A lasting home.

Peace shall ne'er

Be here again,

Till the land

Is freed from stain.

This is Monkton Verney's doom.

Lord, let Thy blessed kingdom come!' "

There was a minute's silence, then the old woman picked up her bundle of firewood.

"'Tis getting late, sir, and the lady will be taking cold," she said. "I wish ye both good evening."

They bade her a kindly farewell, and thanked her for the story.

"Lady Worthington will be here to-morrow, and she will be coming to see you for certain, Goody," said Max; "she loves nothing better than to hear you tell of the ghost."

They turned away and crossed the park to the shrubbery, the old crone pausing more than once to look after them.

"Yon's a bonny-looking lady," she said to herself; "and there's that in her face that might likely enough reverse the doom. It would be a fine-thing if she was, indeed, to bring peace to Monkton Verney and lay the ghost. The squire, he do seem took with her, but he be young and a bit headstrong, and with a temper that ill brooks contradicting; and I reckon the lady herself is a trifle too much of the same sort of temper,—holds her head like a queen, she does."

"Isn't she a funny old soul?" said Max, as they walked briskly home; "I like to see her solemn dark eyes grow bigger as she says that wretched bit of doggerel which, to her, is more beautiful, I am sure, than any poem in the world."

"There was something quite uncannily prophetic about her whole air as she said it," replied Doreen, smiling. "And yet, you know, there is truth in the words,—

'Gained by fraud,

No good can come.'

Why, really, the whole rhyme might be applied to the way in which the Act of Union was gained. It's a sort of Home Rule song, and I couldn't help thinking, as she said it, how you English cheated and tricked us out of our parliament."

"Now, here is fresh light on the problem," said Max, laughing. "Lady Worthington and her sister are for ever telling me to restore the church, and I tell them I will wait till the congregation is ready for it. You think that by turning Home Ruler I shall set right this ancient wrong."

"No, not this one; this is your own private affair, and the other a national matter. I only compared one with the other."

"Ah, yes, it was to be almshouses, or a convalescent home. But I don't really think it's fair that I should suffer and try to make amends for somebody else's wrong-doing."

Doreen turned and looked at him for a moment with puzzled eyes.

"Why," she said, "I thought that was exactly what we had all promised to do. Isn't that following Christ?"

She had the usual Irish habit of speaking with the utmost frankness of spiritual things; in her voice there was no slightest change, no conventional tone of piety: there was to her no borderland between sacred and secular, and the effect was strange enough to startle an Englishman. Some would have deemed the tone irreverent, but to Max, after the first shock of surprise, it seemed like the unaffected sincerity of a child; and back into his mind there flashed a remembrance of a mountain-side, and of a little figure in a red cloak, and of a sweet-toned voice, ending the graphic description of a night of terror with the words, "Afterwards God talked to me, and it was better."

"Do you recollect that morning on Kilrourk," he said, "when you began to make plans for the future and fired me with the ambition of being a public speaker? You seem to have the gift of inspiring people with ideals. Your scheme is certainly more practical than Lady Worthington's. It even begins to make me feel a little uncomfortable."

"Why uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable as one feels in the morning when the bell rings, and you know that before long you must get up just when you long to lie lazing."

"You are not very complimentary," said Doreen, laughing. "Never before have I been compared to anything so disagreeable as a dressing-bell." Then, as they paused to close the gate leading into the shrubbery, she glanced once more at the gray old Priory. "Do you know," she exclaimed, "when old Goody was saying that misfortune always followed the owner of Monkton Verney, I couldn't help wondering whether that had anything to do with your ill-luck in being present that day on Lough Lee, and witnessing the struggle between Mr. Desmond and—"

She broke off suddenly with an involuntary start, for at that moment, as they turned a sharp angle in the path hedged in by closely clipped shrubs, they came suddenly upon Baptiste, the French servant.

"Mr. Stanley has called to know if he can speak to you, sir," said the man, speaking, as usual, in his native tongue; for he had proved singularly slow in acquiring English, and still protested that he could not understand it unless spoken very slowly.

"It is the manager of our coffee tavern," said Max. "What a plague the fellow is to come just now! I suppose I must go and see him, and, perhaps, you have had as much walking as you care for."

"Do you think," said Doreen, with a feeling of vague discomfort, "that Baptiste can have heard what I was talking about? We came upon him so suddenly, when I never dreamt any one was there."

"Oh, I don't think he could possibly make anything out of such a fragment as that, even if he heard the words. And, as a matter of fact, I don't suppose he did hear, for he is a regular duffer at learning English, and knows little more than when he first came to us. We should not have kept him, only he is such a handy fellow, and always gets on with people."

"It was careless of me to speak about it at all," said Doreen; "but I made sure we were quite alone, and it is somehow such a relief to be able to speak of it now and then."

At that moment Michael caught sight of her, and came running across the lawn, while Max, very loath to attend to business, went in to interview the manager of the coffee tavern.

Baptiste, in the mean time, had retired to his room in the servants' wing, and, unlocking a desk, had drawn forth a shabby little note-book. Sitting down by the window to catch the fading light, he made the following entry in French:—

"To-day the 18th April, being five years and eight months from the time of Mr. Foxell's disappearance, I travelled down from London to Monkton Verney with my master, Mrs. Hereford, and a young Irish lady, Miss Doreen O'Ryan, now becoming noted as a public singer. Heard much talk about this lady's childhood, she being a daughter of one concerned in the Fenian rising some years ago. She was also staying near Castle Karey at the time of Mr. Foxell's death, and accompanied my master and Mr. Desmond on the 18th August on an expedition to Lough Lee, as before mentioned in my journal. Taking a message to my master late this afternoon, I heard him closing the shrubbery gate, and paused behind a bush in hopes of overhearing their talk; was fortunate enough to hear Miss O'Ryan use the following noteworthy words, 'Your ill-luck in being present that day at Lough Lee, and witnessing the struggle between Mr. Desmond and—'

"Compared with Mr. Desmond's words let fall during delirium, I am in hopes that at length we have the clue."