Читать книгу Bobbie - Dorothea Conyers - Страница 6

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“Yes, I’ll read the letter, Bob.”

Bob Bryan tossed a sheet of stiff notepaper back to his sister and buttered a slice of toast with elaborate care.

“But, Bobbie, it’s rather wonderful. After all these years.”

“Too many years, old girl. Bah!”

Bobbie stared at the letter as if it were a paper wasp with a sting. “Knockbui, Kilderry,” was printed in red type on it.

“Knockbui, the Yellow Hill. Father’s home, and father dragged out his life anywhere, anyhow, because that wicked pig-headed old man would not forgive him for marrying our mother.” The boy waved his teacup. “A governess. Not good enough for a Bryan of Knockbui. Rob, do you expect me to forgive? I’ve seen father fretting, fretting—his dear tired eyes fixed on that picture there. I’ll hold out no finger of reconciliation.”

Robina turned her head and looked sadly at a water-colour hanging on the wall, the picture of a long old house, dark against a spring sky of tender blue. Great trees massed and, to the right of the house, a conical hill of a curious yellow hue.

Crudely painted as the picture was, it gave the idea of being true to life.

“Mother did that. Read that letter again, Bobbie.”

“It’s full of damnable pride, of I, I, and I again. I have decided to overlook the past. I do not wish my heir to be a girl. (He refers to Yvonne, of course.) I will receive my grandson, and if we get on he shall inherit Knockbui.... I wouldn’t go to his house for all his money.”

“Father always longed. Oh, he wanted you to have the place, Bobbie. He just dreamt of it. Couldn’t you? I would.”

“You’re a girl, my lady. I bear malice.”

“And inherit some of your grandfather’s pigheadedness,” snapped Robina.

“Maybe. Grandfather can leave it to Yvonne. Bit unlucky, wasn’t he? He hated his daughter marrying a Frenchman. Now, Rob, be sensible. We’ve scraped and half starved on our miserable income—an income from the compassionate fund given to Robert Bryan’s grandchildren. I’ve got this job in Valparaiso, and to Valparaiso I go, and up country until I can send for you.”

The boy’s face hardened.

“I shall not go to Knockbui,” he said tersely.

“Father wished ... you ... to have ... Knockbui.”

The twins stared at each other across their little breakfast table.

Rob had boiled the kettle on a gas stove fixed in the sparsely-furnished room. She had fried bacon for her brother, and only ate bread and butter herself.

The Bryans were twins, both tall, lightly but strongly made, grey-eyed, brown-haired, but the girl’s face was cast in a stronger mould than the boy’s. Robina was broad-shouldered, lithe in her movements, thin as a lath and heavily boned for a woman. Robert was slower on his feet, and a discontented wrinkle, young as he was, puckered his forehead. But irrepressible humour twinkled behind his eyes.

Robina was pale and worn; the bones on her wrists stood out; she looked underfed as she stood up, pleading, wistful.

“Rob, you must pull along. I can leave you the whole of our dole now to help you out. I’ll make good. What is this place? A phantasy, a wraith. I’ll go on no trial. What is Knockbui?”

Robina’s eyes were fixed on her brother. She was obstinate. “It was father’s home, Bobbie. Father’s home. Ah, Bobbie, do.”

“It is grandfather’s home. A fetish made of stone and mortar and wood and iron. I’ll not worship at his shrine, I tell you. Oh, I know, I know. Don’t talk. Horses to ride, horses.” His own eyes grew wistful. “Hounds to ride after. Motors to drive. Big rooms and air and comfort. But he would not let my father have all these things, and he shall not dole them out to me. Yes, I’d like to be Bryan of Knockbui, but I won’t bow down to that wicked old man.”

“Well, you know,” mused Robina; “if father looked at matters from that standpoint, I cease to wonder at the quarrel continuing. Seems to me, Bobbie, if your son marries a half-caste you’ll cut him off.”

The boy said “Huh!” furiously, and flushed an angry scarlet.

“I’d like to hunt, but I won’t sell my pride for it, Rob, I won’t. I’m off to make my own way in the world. Answer the letter if you like. Tell him his grandson is as proud a Bryan as he is. I must get off to see Hilton now.”

The boy walked away. His blue suit showed signs of decrepitude; the polish on his shoes could not disguise the age of the leather; his socks were darned.

Robina was left alone, and it was time to go to work, but instead she sat thinking.

Thinking of a big house, far away. Of air blowing across the bogs, bringing scents of wild thyme and meadowsweet, of bluebells and daffodils rioting in the woods; of birds in the trees and little rabbits scuttling and hopping from hole to hole. Of foxes, gloriously red, stealing by, of the yellow hill which she had never seen. And of horses standing in stables, glossy-coated, spirited, waiting to strain and strive across country with hounds flitting ahead. Rob had ridden when her father was alive, for he had managed a stud farm and trained the owner’s young hunters there. She had even hunted for two seasons. But that was all past, for her father had faded slowly and quietly, always longing for his heritage.

He had had to give up his work; they had drifted to a tiny cottage, and scraped along somehow. Robina got a place as typist to a lawyer. Robert took a situation in a garage. There was just enough to exist on for the two when their father was laid to rest, and now the boy was being sent off to a job in a distant country. Something concerning tractors, which sounded problematical to Robina, but which was, at least, a chance.

And ... Robert Bryan might become the owner of Knockbui. He might ride to hounds in pink, and drive a high-powered car. He might come to his rightful place. Oh, it must be.

“I hate all Bryans,” said Robina, getting up. “I wonder if my mother did. Not always, of course, but the more one loses the more one sees things.” She re-read the letter.

“Robina, I notice, is left to bloom unseen,” she murmured. “Oh! ‘a provision for your twin sister.’ I observe that. I’ll make Bobbie go....” Robina’s eyes flashed, and she sat down again, crushing the fateful letter in her hands. Her lips came together.

Words are boastful things, yet actions often beat them in life’s tourney, and women get their way.

For, three weeks after, a letter from Knockbui had reached the little town of Redbray, and Bobbie Bryan got into a first-class carriage at Euston, giving a little pleased sigh as he leant back in a softly-cushioned seat.

A battered leather bag stamped with “R. B.” was poised in the rack; the shabby blue suit was replaced by one of grey tweed, of very dubious cut and fit. The youngster’s grey eyes twinkled a little, as if he regarded life with quiet humour, yet his mouth was firmly set.

A cheque for twenty-five pounds had been sent to him, and he had reserved half of it for travelling expenses.

Out with a gliding drive through a crisp autumn night, on and on through England. Rugby, Crewe, Chester, then the keener tang of air from the sea. Windows were closed, sleepy passengers turned up the collars of their coats. Holyhead, keeping its vigil, and the mail boat throbbing at the quay.

The channel was choppy. Bobbie Bryan endured the nervous pangs of a dubious sailor, but was not actually ill.

Kingstown was veiled by a pearly morning mist, and the Customs had to be passed.

A tall young fellow opened Bobbie’s bag and, glancing at a weather-stained pink coat, ceased to fumble at the contents as the label caught his eye.

“In the name of God, did he send for one of you?” the man said breathlessly. “I’m Mike Guinane, the steward’s son, sir. And we never thought to see a grandson home.”

“You come from Knockbui? You know the Bryans?”

“Aren’t I after telling you me father is the steward? He gave me a good eddication. And you are Mr. Bobbie. Me father taught your father to shoot, sir. But the old gentleman is a holy terror. Six foot tall, an’ he’ll be faultin’ your size.”

“Will he?” said Bobbie calmly.

“Yet he can be kind sometimes. Good luck, sir. Don’t miss the train. Pass this gentleman on, Pat; see to his things. The like of that!” muttered the official, fumbling blindly in another case. “Anything to declare, any spirits, or Bobbies ... or ...”

A choleric gentleman replied snappishly that he was not in the habit of secreting policemen, and Guinane, unaware of his own slip, promptly turned out the contents of the bag on to the table.

Young Bryan passed to an empty carriage and was carried southward, on and on through the wild lovely country, with the pearly mist still capping the hills. Past the brown bog of Allen, through a green land fenced by green banks, until he reached Ballin, his destination.

Shabby boy and worn luggage were eventually deposited on a small platform. A little crowd jostled and hummed. Women put down bulky packages for the unwary to trip over; the guard’s voice rumbled, replying to numerous hecklers.

“The meal, Mrs. Malone? God above us, can ye not see a stream of it rollin’ down the platform? No, Mikey, I have no consignment of iron bars. Bars is goods. Let her off. I will so. Out of me van, Michael Dunne, or I’ll carry ye to Loughmore. Did I not tell ye I had no iron? Give her the flag, Dennis.”

The train began to move, the guard cast a forgotten parcel on to the platform, hoping optimistically that it was not eggs, and Bobbie, who had listened to the altercations, looked round him.

The only porter, a stalwart, good-humoured looking man, touched Bobbie’s shoulder.

“Mr. Bryan, ye’re welcome, sir. His honour sent the chestnuts down, an’ Hartigan has his work med out to hold them, so he tolt me to fetch ye.”

Chestnuts! Horses! Bobbie hurried into a little street which was packed with carts, some standing, some drifting along, meeting and crossing and recrossing as the occupants talked to each other. A Ford car was throbbing noisily, and Bobbie spied a four-wheeled dog-cart with two blood chestnuts harnessed to it, a groom in livery at their heads.

“Oh, beauties!” cried Bobbie.

“That trumpetin’ old Ford had thim off their heads, sir. Easy, Silk. Ah, steady, Satin. An’ Mulcaty says if he lets the contraption out she might never go agin. Paste up that luggage, Mick. Don’t make a funeral of it, man; they’re wild this day.”

“I’ll drive,” announced Bobbie. “Oh, this is fun.”

“They are ticklish stuff, sir”—Hartigan looked nervous—“an’ it is market day. Woa, steady. Is it chickens ye think they are, Anne Malone, drippen’ meal under their noses?”

A trickle of Indian meal fell at Silk’s feet, causing the chestnut to plunge.

“Hold them, sir! The Ford is hit, an’ mend it for a concertina! It’s Mrs. Malone’s ass now. Brake, sir, brake, or they’ll kick down the hill.”

Bobbie gripped the reins, a merry grin on his face. He found the brake and steadied the pair to a swinging trot.

“Oh, topping,” said Bobbie. “Fun.”

Hartigan moved his lips in silent prayer, for it was market day.

But they passed, still complete, from the town on to a quiet country road.

“I know now what it is to get ye’re head above wather an’ ye drownin’.” Hartigan wiped his face.

“Straight on to the right at the next cross roads, sir. Ye can drive.”

“Father taught us.” Bobbie felt the steady pull on the reins. He loved the rhythmical swing of the highly-bred pair, the clink and jangle of bit and bar; the horses began to sweat lightly as they flew along.

The chestnuts felt the sympathy of the young hands on the reins. They slacked to a walk up a long ascent.

Slopes rose and fell all round, humping greenly as they topped the rise. A saucer-like valley lay in front, rimmed round by ranges of hills, hills flecked by golden lights and purple shadows; the land was touched by the wondrous shades which Ireland alone can paint. Gleams of pearl, and of silver, shades of brown and ochre, flashes of vivid emerald. Smudges of smoke drifted from little houses; cattle wandered in the fields and on the narrow road.

Ireland wrapped her tendrils round Bobbie’s heart. He knew that he had come to his own land. The chestnuts walked soberly.

“That’s a big fly, Hartigan.” Bobbie pointed to the bank fencing the road.

“It is no fly, but a double,” expounded the groom. “A horse must hop on to it and hop off it, nate and light and stheady too, for there is a fall on to the road, and it is the main way to Cara now. Tar on it no less, that the poor horses go skeetin’ over, losin’ every leg.”

“Yes.” Bobbie’s eyes scanned the wide stretch of pasture land. It was a permanency, and he was coming on approval. His lips tightened.

“Hartigan, d’ye think my grandfather’ll be glad to see me?” Bobbie looked round at the groom.

“A lot’ll depend on the ways you take ’em up the avenue,” mused Hartigan. “A lot. He is a hard man, sir, is the master, but I’d say he’d be glad to see an heir to folly him. Wimmin isn’t heirs at all.”

“No? I wonder. Well, go, you beauties.” The chestnuts sprang into their collars, flying along, their hoofs beating rhythmically, their harness jingling; the soft air rushed against Bobbie’s cheeks and he let the pair go until the hedges swam past, and Hartigan’s thoughts flew once more to his gods.

“Steady ’em. Keep ’em in hand. There is the gates.”

Bobbie’s heart thumped. Knockbui, at last! The chestnuts were sweating, but they fought for their heads as he swung through the wide white gates.

Knockbui. Great beeches at either side of the long rambling house, Virginia creeper flaming on the grey walls, peaceful green lawns all round the front.

Bobbie pulled the horses to a walk. There was the yellow hill lumping up to the west, the hill from which the place took its name.

The boy’s eyes grew dark. He looked dreamily, steadily at his father’s old home.

“Let ’em off, sir,” said Hartigan. “Never did we walk this hill. He’ll kill us.”

“The horses are hot, and I like looking round me. Woa, boys, steady.”

Nothing grazed on the stretches of grass on either side. Robert Bryan disliked palings and gates.

Bobbie looked at the conical hill. Yes, it was really yellow. Golden, rising from a green base of grass.

Bobbie’s eyes, eyes which took in so much and gave away so little, drank the hill in. He came at a walk to the front door.

“May I ask why you walk horses up an avenue?” thundered a mighty voice.

So this was his welcome. Bobbie Bryan looked down at his grandfather, and Hartigan rushed to the chestnuts’ heads.

“The horses were hot, sir,” said Bobbie quietly. “I let them slip along, the beauties,” he added boyishly.

“Um! You did, you let ’em slosh all over the place, did you?”

“I let ’em go,” Bobbie laughed, but his heart felt heavy, and his cheeks whitened.

Robert Bryan was a splendid old fellow, six feet high, straight as a larch pole, hardly a line on his tanned skin. Fierce, keen blue eyes burning under heavy eyebrows, a hooked nose, bending to greet a jutting chin. His mouth hidden by a white moustache. A beau sabreur of the old school, autocrat and despot.

Bobbie jumped down and held his hand out.

“Glad to see you, boy. Lord! what chickens you city-bred pups are.”

“I’m not city bred.” Grey eyes met the glare of fierce blue. “But we hadn’t much chance of growing p’raps for the last few years. Lord! I’m jaded.”

“Canter the hill next time, m’lad. Take ’em round, Hartigan. Oh, Costello, take in Mr. Bobbie’s traps, will you?”

Arrived! Bobbie was taking Knockbui to his heart. He smiled at an elderly butler.

“You’d like a bath, of course. My man will look after you. Huh!” Robert Bryan took note of the boy’s cheap, ready-made overcoat.

Bobbie, sauntering into the hall, replied that he always looked after himself, and studied some foxes’ heads attentively.

“ ‘Fiona to Drumree, forty minutes.’ Seven miles. That was some hunt, sir.”

Old Robert was now scanning a badly-fitting tweed suit and Bobbie’s thick brogue shoes, so his reply was “Huh,” given grumpily.

“Turn on a cold bath, James.” A second man appeared.

“A hot one, thanks. ‘Drumree to Ballingary, thirty minutes.’ What’s that—hot baths sap strength? I like ’em hot, sir.”

The boy seemed to have slipped into a place in the house.

“Cold,” roared old Robert. “Cold, James.”

Bobbie nodded and smiled. The taps, after all, were his once he got to a bathroom. He followed James.

His room was a vast one. Heavy curtains draped a carved mahogany bed. Heavy curtains shrouded the high windows.

“I’ll have those curtains off, James,” said Bobbie, flinging the windows wide. “Lord! it’s lovely out there.”

He looked across the trimly-shaven lawns, over the tops of trees, at Knockbui. Yellow in the sunlight, a lump of pale gold set in a coronet of rich green.

“Have a whiskey and soda?” thundered a voice from the stairs.

“Tea, thank you,” called out Bobbie.

“Bathroom next door, sir. Glad to see you home here, Mr. Bobbie. Very glad.” James tried to open one of the shabby cases.

“Thank you, James.” Bobbie gripped the old fellow’s hand. “That’s locked. P’raps ... you knew my dad, James?”

“I bought him his first razor, Master Bobbie. Ah, we missed him sorely. Be a bit quick, sir; the master is fidgetin’.”

James went away. Bobbie stood at the window and looked out. Knockbui washed over him in a wave of sunlight, soft airs, comfort, luxury, riches; and his father had been sent away to die in poverty. Bobbie’s lips tightened.

He lingered in his bath, and changed into riding kit.

Old Robert was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He wheeled as he heard footsteps, and stared at his grandchild.

A splendid old man, but a hard one. Young eyes returned the stare, and as old Robert realised that he too was being summed up he roared “Huh!” throatily.

“Luncheon time. God, who made ’em, lad? Cocktails ready.”

“Not taking any, thanks, sir. I’ll be glad of a spot of lunch.”

“I ... hope we’ll ... get on, Bobbie.” Robert’s eyes softened.

“I hope so indeed, sir.” Bobbie lighted a cigarette.

“Throw that fag away. Sapping your strength. Take to a pipe.”

“I like fags.” Bobbie moved out of the light, for his grandfather was staring at him intently.

“You remind me, Bobbie. Oh, hang it. Huh! Luncheon.”

A gong thundered.

The old man dashed—he never walked quietly—towards the dining-room, in which portraits of Bryans were hanging on the dark walls.

“That’s your father.” Old Robert pointed to a picture of a man on a grey horse, a little boy clinging to a stirrup.

“There ... as a child,” said Bobbie, a little bitterly. “Oh, fizz! How good.”

“We celebrate an occasion.”

Bobbie liked the spotless damask, the shining silver and glass; even the stiffly-arranged vases of flowers toned with the proud austerity of the old room.

“Late as usual. This is Yvonne, Bobbie.”

A girl came in with a little rush, came nervously.

Yvonne was very slight, her slenderness giving one a false impression of fragility, for Yvonne was seldom tired. Her eyes were widely set apart in a little heart-shaped face; her skin was creamy, delicately pale, with a faint flush of rose on her cheeks.

Bobbie had forgotten the rival heir. He flushed. Yvonne gave a scared glance at her grandfather.

“This is Bobbie. Don’t patter French at him.”

“I wouldn’t understand it.” Bobbie shook his cousin’s hand. He was coming to supplant her, yet she smiled welcome to him.

“Roast beef?” thundered Robert.

“Chicken, thank you. Hens are a treat to me. We seemed to live on foreign meat at Redbray.”

“Have you forgotten how to ride?” shot out the old man.

“Oh no, sir. One doesn’t forget. I can ride all right.”

“You shall try Rufus, then. He put Yvonne off.”

“He is a pig, that animal. Do not ride him, Bobbie.” Yvonne’s voice was slow and very soft.

“Oh, I’ll ride anything. I just love it so. No port, thank you.”

He was refusing nectar, and did it carelessly.

“You must drink your wine, boy. Pour it out, Costello.”

“Sorry no. It would go to my nose.”

Costello shook the precious bottle and Robert flushed scarlet. He was accustomed to obedience.

“So you’ve got a will of your own,” growled old Robert.

“P’raps I inherit it,” said Bobbie, meeting his grandfather’s glance, his own eyes twinkling.

“Huh!” The old man gulped a glass of port down. “I believe you are a Bryan,” he said, as one reluctant to believe in his own words.

“Father thought so,” said Bobbie gravely.

“La! le bon garçon.” Yvonne’s soft laugh rang out. “Eh!” She grew white.

For Robert Bryan flung a withering glance at Yvonne and rushed out of the room.

“Do not mind that. He always rushes in and out.” Yvonne lighted a cigarette, and looked happy.

“For God’s sake don’t answer him back, or ye won’t be here a month,” pleaded old Costello. “He is cruel aisy to anger, Mister Bobbie.”

“I am not afraid of him,” ruminated Bobbie. “You are, Yvonne.”

“But ... soon will you learn to be.” Yvonne spoke with a slight French accent. “He is so difficult, stupendous in his rages, Bobbie.”

“I never saw but one to enter this house that was not afraid of the master.” Costello had dropped butlerdom and become a friend. “But one—his wife. She’d smile back at him, the same, why, the very same way that Mister Bobbie did.”