Читать книгу Dark Rosaleen - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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He found the large rooms with the windows open on to the terrace empty except for the servants who were lighting the candles in the girandoles before the mirror and on the side tables. Presently his mother came into the room. He did not speak to her about Louise, because of some deep reserve that he did not himself understand. He did not ask where she had gone, or what was her name, or if she might come back again, although he wanted to know these things.

His mother kissed him and told him that it would soon be time for his bed. Mr. Ogilvie came in and stood by the bookshelf, turning over a volume with his long fingers. The child watched the gleaming table being set with silver, blue and white china, glasses that had a gilt line round the rim, and napkins of shining linen with an edge of thick lace. Some one sang outside, quite a distance away, but the voice came clearly through the open window into the silent company.

'Mother, what song is that?'

'It is an Irish sing; do you like it?'

'What is the name of it?'

'Oh, it is just some ballad, dear, that the peasants sing.'

'You are not Irish, are you?'

'No, Neddy, darling, I'm English.'

'And Mr. Ogilvie isn't Irish?'

'No, sweetheart, he is Scotch.'

'And I?'

'Oh, you are Irish.'

'I see. Then the song belongs to me.'

'Why, yes, if you like to put it like that,'

He thought again, then asked seriously:

'Mother, are there slaves in Ireland?'

The lady was a little confused by this. 'Well, dear, there are slaves if people bring them. A few blacks from the plantations of America.'

'The people, the Irish themselves, they are not slaves, are they?'

'Why, no; what made you think of it?'

'I don't know,' he replied hastily, suddenly fearful of betraying his secret about the man in the tapestry. Mr. Ogilvie looked up from his book. With the serenity of a member of a nation that has been, from time immemorial, free, both from domestic and foreign tyranny, he said quietly:

'I'm afraid, Neddy, there are slaves in Ireland, though they may not have that name. They are a misgoverned, oppressed people. You may be able, when you are older, to do something about that.'

The boy reddened so suddenly that his mother was alarmed and thought he had had a flush of fever. He saw himself rushing to the slave in the arras, saving him from his abject position, freeing him, and with him would be Louise offering her sun-warm nectarines. 'Shall I?' he asked eagerly.

'Why, certainly,' said Mr. Ogilvie, closing his book. 'There'll be a great deal that you will be able to do, Edward.'

His mother kissed his hot cheeks. She did not care to think of the future when he would be no longer a child. 'Never mind about that, now; you must go to bed—you are very late, you know.'