Читать книгу A Nine Days' Wonder - B. M. Croker - Страница 5

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Mrs. Doran, generally called Mrs. “Colonel” Doran, and by her retainers “the ould wan,” was well known to fame in the immediate region of her personal influence—that is to say, within a visiting distance of fifteen Irish miles from her own door. The lady cherished a delusion that she was one of the most prominent figures in the province, and if she had been persuaded to whisper her claims to this distinction, would have announced, “high birth, good breeding, and benevolence.” But alas! how differently do others see us! The reputation she bore was in startling contradiction to her illusions. People talked openly of Mrs. Doran’s arrogance, rudeness, and parsimony, and the lower orders boldly proclaimed her to be “a holy terror.” Her blustering tyranny, her meanness, and inflexible resolve to get more than her money’s worth, revolted the souls of her miserable retainers, whilst among the upper ten her systematic assumption of superiority, and barefaced endeavours to make use of every one, added to a malignant tongue, caused the lady to be not merely disliked, but feared. As for her benevolence, no one denied that she was a most indefatigable beggar. She begged boldly for money, blankets, and cast-off garments, and distributed the alms of other people; but she never contributed herself—indeed, the malicious went so far as to say that Mrs. Doran embezzled certain of these moneys, and put them in her pocket, believing that charity began in her own home; also, they declared that she gave the collected flannel, and blankets, to her servants, and wore the pick of the clothes herself! In fact, a certain class detested Mrs. Doran so intensely that they were ready to say or believe anything to her disadvantage.

Since the days when she came to Kilmoran, a showy and self-possessed bride, the lady was much changed, and was now a stout, red-faced matron, with a bustling gait, incredible energy, and a large balance at her banker’s. To give her her due, she had worked hard, and nursed the estate for her beloved Barky, who loafed through life, whilst his active mother held the reins of government. But even her bitterest foe could not deny that the Englishwoman had wrought improvements. There was now an imposing entrance, with gilded gates; on either pier sat a great stone wolf-hound (the crest of the once noble Dorans); a pretty pleasure-ground lay before the Castle; and a smart man-servant (on board wages), opened the door; but unfortunately nothing could be done for the Castle itself!—nothing short of razing it to the ground, and rebuilding it. The rooms were all suitably furnished, with the most modern antique treasures, including tapestry. A flag waved languidly from the roof of the ancient tower. Certainly the place looked both prosperous and pretentious. Mrs. Doran, in a smart landau with a pair of fine bays, scoured the country, and established intimate relations with all the people of wealth and position. To these she was affectionate, sympathetic, and even confidential; but she was not given to hospitality, and preferred to see her friends in their own homes. Two garden-parties per summer, and a couple of hunting luncheons, were the limit of her efforts. With the professional class Mrs. Doran was stand-off, and “an Earl’s grand-daughter” (unless she required a legal opinion, or a prescription), and she was a wonderful woman to borrow! The lower orders she simply looked upon as slaves. They were a race apart, and to these she was an autocrat, and a tyrant. Those who were unluckily her workmen, and born on the property, had to work longer than elsewhere. The bell clanged at six o’clock in the morning, and at six in the evening. The payment was one shilling a day—a penny an hour! And the active lady tramped round the fields herself, and saw that there was no idling. She did not trust her steward, in fact, she trusted no one, except Barky—it was for him she was toiling and saving; he should be a wealthy man yet, and marry into the peerage! Everything that made an outside show was properly maintained; but where matters were not open to the public eye, it was otherwise. There was a stinting in fires, in lamp-oil, in the servants’ food, in matches, yea, and in washing! Time, which had wrought changes in the property, had not improved its future owner. Barky, as he was called, had been firmly secured to his mother’s apron-strings and spoiled to his heart’s content. He was naturally a lazy, self-indulgent boor, stupid and stubborn, with an enormous conception of his own importance. Much of this might have been eliminated at a good public school—where he would have been compelled to bestir himself, yield to others, and realise his own true value. In appearance he was thick-set, with short legs, and a long body: naturally no horseman. He had cunning little dark eyes, a high colour, a thick neck, and slouched as he walked. He spoke with a common accent, and rarely opened a book or wrote a letter; but he was fond of smoking, and as devoted to cards and gambling as his unworthy ancestors. He enjoyed low company, yet had a most exalted idea of his own status. Ulick, at the age of seventeen, presented a complete contrast to his brother; he was tall and slender, and spoke with an English accent, until he became roused or excited, which was seldom; like his father, he was a born horseman—in fact, he resembled him in many ways, and inherited his parent’s popularity among the country people. Although Barker would unbend, and borrow sporting-papers from the coachman, and play “spoil fire” with stable-boys in the harness-room, yet for all this condescension his companions were never sure of him—he would “round on them” at a moment’s notice, no longer the jovial comrade, but the blustering, cursing master; whilst Mr. Ulick, who made no freedom, was always the same, and a gentleman!

Mrs. Doran was a keen woman of business, and by no means a bad farmer, save that she grudged a proper supply of manure, got all that she could off the land, and put but little back. Young horses were one of her adventures, and as a rule, though they are considered a risky investment, they paid her well. In the first place, she had an invaluable head groom, an ancient retainer, who, for the sake of the old master, stayed on, receiving small wages and enduring many indignities; no better judge of a three-year-old long-tail than Peter Duffy ever stood in an Irish fair. These he brought home, handled, rode, and sold, with most satisfactory results.

Latterly, Peter was getting too heavy to ride to hounds, or school the young ones, and Master Ulick, when at home, took his place. All the world agreed that he was “the darling on a colt, with the loveliest hands in the world, and as bold as a young lion.” It is unnecessary to mention that none of his admirers had ever seen a young lion following the foxhounds; but their praise, though ignorant, was heartfelt and sincere.

Ulick loved animals, especially horses; he was crazy about hunting, and when he was at Kilmoran spent most of his time in the saddle. His mother made no objection; she was alive to the pecuniary value of a light-weight rider, and knew that after a month or two of Ulick’s training the young hunters’ prices were sensibly increased.

Even from the time he was twelve years old, this light-weight boy, with light hands, a bold heart, and mounted on an animal as youthful and eager as himself, caused many a pang of envy, and memory of the “has-been days,” to the veteran followers of the Harkaway hounds.

When Ulick was seventeen, and a cadet at Sandhurst, he met with an accident that nearly brought his career, and his neck, to an untimely end. One raw winter afternoon the hounds were running not far from Kilmoran. It had been a grand scenting day. Sport was good, and Ulick was out on a new investment—a fine upstanding four-year-old, with grand legs and quarters, but with an ugly fiddle-head and a small pig-like eye. He had, however, a famous pedigree—and with that same pedigree was allied a temper. At first he went kindly, taking all before him with extraordinary flippancy, sailing over places big or little, in a manner that it was a pleasure to witness. A hard-riding cavalry man had already bought him (mentally) and entered him for a couple of steeplechases at Punchestown and Sandown. Suddenly, something put the brown horse out—one never quite knows what upsets a hunter’s temper. Leading the field, he came thundering down to a big boundary-fence, wheeled about sharp on the edge, as if on a pivot—in short, balked before the whole hunt, knocked fifty pounds off his price, and all but shot his rider into the next field. The thrusting followers of the Harkaways stormed the obstacle and galloped on, and Ulick made another effort, put the horse at the ditch, which he again refused; and he not only refused, but reared, and snorted. As the hounds were now far ahead, his rider was determined to get the horse over, so to speak, dead or alive; the brown colt was as positively resolved not to jump. Each, boy and beast, was furious with the other; their blood was up, and it was now a frantic personal affair between them. The beast stood planted, with tucked-in tail, ears laid back, in a lather of sweat and foam, the picture of stubborn strength; the boy, with set white face, was equally dogged, and used every means in his power to conquer the brute—whip, spurs, voice. These were answered by plunges, rearings, and loud snorts of angry defiance. Then Ulick Doran tried peaceful methods, soothing and coaxing, and gentle walkings to and fro. But all to no purpose. The contest had lasted for twenty minutes. The field was empty, save for an old white goat, who stared her astonishment at the proceedings, and a little girl of ten years old, who had been watching the hunt from the top of the boundary-fence, and was the only human witness of the struggle—rather a pretty, slender child, with an amazing quantity of bright red hair; she wore no cap or hat, and was out, so to speak, in her pinafore.

It was a raw December afternoon, and little Mary Foley, her bare arms wrapped in her bib, waited on the top of the big ditch with breathless interest to see which would win, man or horse; and if Master Ulick would get the better of the baste? Her curiosity and anxiety were equally kindled. All the country knew, to use a local expression, “that Master Ulick’s riding bet all.” But, on the other hand, the horse looked a real savage, and the poor young gentleman might be hurted or killed. Anyhow, the Gripe was a terrible big lep.

The Gripe was a huge, deep ditch at the taking-off side. The landing was on a big sound bank, the top of which was only a few feet above the level of the next field; it was a wide, but otherwise perfectly safe up-jump, and the brown horse had negotiated several others of the same description with ease; he could, and he would—and—he would not.

During his exertions Ulick became aware of a figure in a fluttering blue pinafore, who was the sole spectator—a little girl, with a pair of remarkably neat black legs, who capered about on the top of the bank at a safe and discreet distance. It was the Foley child; he recognised her carroty head; she was not in the way at all, but what was she waiting for? He hated to see her watching him; he wished to goodness she would go home—indeed, he would be thankful to go home himself. As a last desperate expedient, he struck spurs into the sulky colt, and sent him round the field full gallop; wheeled suddenly, and brought him down to the fence at a pace that was terrific. The horse was taken unawares. No time now for stopping or propping: it was a case of in, or over; his own impetus carried him sheer off his legs; he made a spring—landed on the bank——

The little girl’s irrepressible yell of triumph died away on her lips when she beheld the hunter, after landing, stumble, lose his legs, and roll helplessly into the field, with his rider beneath him. At first she was too horrified to scream, or even stir. Surely to goodness they were both dead!

Presently the brown colt scrambled to his feet, shook himself, sniffed at his prostrate rider, then trotted off with high knee action, trailing reins, and proudly waving tail, as much as to say, “I think I got the best of that!”

Meanwhile, Ulick Doran lay in a motionless heap, precisely as if he were lifeless—in fact, as the child said to herself, “There was not a stir out of him! and what was to be done at all, at all?” Not a soul was likely to come near them; her father’s cottage was four fields away, and he and her mother were out, it being market day, and there was not a creature within but the cat. She crept down from the bank, and cautiously approached the still form. Master Ulick was as white as a sheet; his eyes were closed, and from a deep cut in his forehead the blood was oozing. Mary Foley, an only child, was unusually sharp and self-confident for her age; her mother, a delicate woman, was given to “weak turns” and long faints, and on some of these occasions little Mary had tended her without assistance. Perhaps Master Ulick was only overcome with the same kind of strong weakness as her mother? She eyed him critically for a moment, then boldly filched his handkerchief from his pocket, and darted off to the Holy Well, which lay within a couple of hundred yards. Returning breathless, she dabbed his temples and forehead with ice-cold water; and still he never moved, but lay like a stone. Then she sat down on the grass and raised his head, and laid it on her small lap; and as she resumed her operations with the wet handkerchief, some salt tears became mingled with the water from St. Bridget’s Well. In a short time she was weeping bitterly.

All at once Ulick Doran opened his eyes. Where was he? His head was reeling round, but he grasped that above him was a watery, wintry sky, beneath him the hard, damp earth, behind his head something small! What? He turned his glance upwards, and beheld a pair of streaming hazel eyes, and a mop of rough red hair. Was it a fairy? For a moment he lay motionless, and wondered; then, as his senses gradually returned to him, he recollected the child on the ditch. Yes, he had come a tremendous cropper! Was the horse killed? He struggled to a sitting posture. No, the brute was all right, grazing away in the corner of the field. The effort cost him agony, and he realised that he was badly hurt; his shoulder seemed twisted, and altogether he felt sick and faint, and as if he had been recently passed under a steam-roller.

“Holy Mary be praised! And ye are not killed all out, Mr. Ulick?” piped a small voice, and the child rose to her feet.

“No. Do I look like it?” he answered cheerily.

“And ye got the better of him after all!”

“I’m not so sure of that. Anyhow, he has the best of it now”; and his eyes wandered to the hunter, who was cropping grass along a headland with the zest of a gourmand.

“Are ye much hurted?” she asked. Generally, when her mother “came to,” she was all right!

“My head feels a bit buzzy, and I believe I’ve put my shoulder out, and broken some bones.”

“What’s to be done?” she asked, wringing her little red hands. “What’s to be done at all? Shall I run up to the Castle?”

“No, it’s a good mile off, and I don’t fancy sitting here; and besides, I don’t want to frighten them.” He was talking to this bare headed imp as if she were a grown-up woman. “If I could get on the horse—I know there’s a lane hereabouts—I’d manage all right.”

He made a violent effort and rose to his feet, but quickly collapsed again. “I can’t walk, that’s sure”; and he looked over at the brown colt.

“Shall I catch him for your honour?”

“You!” he repeated sarcastically. “What a chance you’d have!”

“Yes, faix, and I would,” she rejoined stoutly.

“Are you not afraid?”

“Is it me! I’m afraid of no horse or man, or any sort of beast whatever. Wasn’t it me, that bested Colgan’s old savage sow! I’m not used to horses—but I’m fine and handy with cows.”

“All right then, go and try your luck.” And as young Doran sat on the ground endeavouring to stanch the blood which trickled into his eyes, he was amazed and amused at the manœuvres of the child in the blue pinafore. First she walked boldly forward, then she stood as if meaning nothing at all; next she stalked warily; finally she pounced almost imperceptibly on the reins, and before the big sixteen-hander could jerk back his head and snatch them and his liberty, she had him by the bit. Her very boldness and audacity astonished her captive as much as her captive’s master. She soothed and patted the big, upstanding hunter, and he, being now full of grass, and also a little sobered and lamed by his recent fall, actually suffered himself to be led forward like the traditional lamb.

“Why, you are a regular horse-tamer!” cried Ulick, as she approached.

“I have a way with animals, they say,” she replied; “they are tame enough with me.”

“He has given himself a bad over-reach I see! Well, now little Foley, will you put your hand in my pocket—this one—and pull out a flask, and uncork it, as I’ve only one hand?”

She instantly did as requested, and with nimble, red fingers fished out a small silver flask.

“Whisky?” she suggested, as she unscrewed the stopper.

“No, sherry. I shall want some jumping powder to get on the fellow’s back”; and he took a long draught. As he handed the flask to her to be replaced, he said, “Hullo! little Foley, what’s this? You’ve been blubbering; there are two great dirty streaks down your cheeks! What were you crying for?”

“Well, then, Mr. Ulick,” getting very red, “sure, didn’t I think you were dead?”

“And so you were weeping over my remains? That was very kind of you, little Foley.”

“And wouldn’t any one cry after you, Master Ulick?” she demanded with an air of friendly wonder.

“Would they? Well I hope I shan’t give them a chance for some years. Now, do you stand by his head, and I’ll do my big best to get on his back.”

Apparently the effort was not merely protracted, but agonising. When Mary looked up at the rider, she was startled at what she saw; his face seemed drawn and grey, like that of an old man; the skin looked clammy.

“Now run along”—he spoke between his shut teeth—“and try and break down the stone gap into the boreen.”

This feat Mary accomplished without difficulty, and Ulick and his lame hunter passed through into the lane. All up the lane, they were closely attended by the child, who seemed to consider them both under her care. At last they reached a black wooden gate leading into the so-called demesne; as she opened it, she halted, and so did Ulick Doran.

“Well, little Foley, you are a queer little devil, and a real brick. I wish I’d something to give you, but I can’t get at my pocket, as you know.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t take anything, thank your honour,” she answered, with amusing hauteur, “not if it was gold itself.”

He stared down hard into the serious, uplifted eyes, and asked—

“But are you not Pat Foley’s girl; the one I see with the red head peeping through the gate at Foley’s corner?”

“Yes, ye’ honour, I am so.”

“You have done a good job for me to-day: you know that I’d like to do something for you. What would you say to a nice big doll?”

“Is it a doll? No, no!” reddening, “nothing, nothing.”

“Then I’m in your debt, and I hate to be in any one’s debt. You’ve got my hat, I see; I can’t put it on just now.”

“No, sir, I’ll take it up this evening; ye may be wanting it.”

“Well, good-bye. I must try and get on home, before I fall off;” and as he gave the limping brown his head, the pair moved painfully away.

It was many a day before Ulick Doran wanted his hat. He had had a bad fall—broken his arm, and two of his ribs; it was a miracle how he had ever mounted his hunter and ridden home. The doctors agreed that he was a boy of incredible fortitude and resolution, and as a man, he would be bound to go far.

Ulick explained to his family the scene of the accident, and how Foley’s little girl had come to his assistance.

“Only for her I suppose I might have lain there a week. She is a wonderful child, and has her head screwed on the right way. I daresay you know her?” he added, turning to his mother.

“Oh, yes, the little foxy thing,” she rejoined indifferently.

“She’s uncommonly plucky and handy,” urged her son.

“I hope you did not praise her to her face! She is spoiled enough as it is,” declared Mrs. Doran. “Being the only child Katty ever reared, they think the world does not hold her equal. Katty dresses her almost like a lady!—gets her shoes from Cork, and knits her long black stockings, just the same as the Rectory children wear. It’s a sin to be giving the brat a taste for dress. For my part I think she is just a flighty, impudent little monkey, and whenever I come across her I take right good care to give her a setting down.”

Little Mary often recalled the day of the hunt, and one event in her life. She had of course frequently related the incident to her mother and father, and even escorted them to the field, and shown them the very marks of the horse’s hoofs on the bank, and explained how he fell, and where Mr. Ulick lay, as if stone dead.

“Faix, if it had been the other,” muttered Pat to his wife, “he’d have been no great loss. But poor Mr. Ulick, thank God he was spared; he is the very spit of his father, the old Colonel.”

As soon as he was convalescent, Ulick Doran joined the regiment to which he had been gazetted, and was not seen again at Kilmoran for some years.