Читать книгу The Daughter of a Soldier: A Colleen of South Ireland - L. T. Meade - Страница 4

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Dominic had never in his short life of fifteen years been known to do an underhand or mean thing. It is true he had plenty of faults—for what lad has not—but his virtues outshone strong passions, and nobody in reality guessed that he possessed a wild, fearless, and adventurous nature.

At the present moment he stood listening as though stunned. He knew quite well that he was eavesdropping. The study door was a little open, and he could hear as distinctly as though he were in the room. He did not mind eavesdropping on this occasion. In fact, he meant to eavesdrop. What did it matter to him just then what the world thought of him. They were talking—his father—his most beloved father—and his equally detestable step-mother; and Dominic fully resolved with all his boyish heart to listen to each word they said, for he had caught the word "Maureen," and he had further noticed the anguish in his father's voice.

"Constance, you can't do it—you cannot be so cruel!"

"I was half-way to Kingsala," was the reply, "when it suddenly flashed over me, Patrick, that you had better know my intentions, so I returned on purpose. I'm going straight to see Mr. Murphy, the solicitor, and after telling you first, I shall have a round talk with him. My talk will be with regard to Maureen."

"Yes," replied the Rector.

There was a pause, but the young eavesdropper had very sharp ears.

"You told me yourself, you silly man, that you are dying. It is true, that having taken the best medical advice, you may possibly hold on for a year or two, but you confess that your days are numbered. Now a year here or there does not much matter to me. I shall be a widow before long. Now I have my own girls to provide for—my Daisy and my Henrietta. I can do well for them, and your insurance money and your private means are settled on Kitty and the two boys by marriage settlement. There is nothing, therefore, for Maureen. When you adopted her, Patrick, you should have provided for her. I tell you, frankly and plainly, that after your death I will do nothing for the child. Maureen will be a beggar. She has never been properly educated, and I see nothing for her but to go into service. If she were a little taller she might make a parlourmaid. It is a pity she is so short and so plain. Well, I am outspoken. I tell you the exact truth. Maureen will not get one shilling from me, and your children's money cannot be touched; so now you know."

"Constance, you can speak like that to a dying man. May God forgive your cold heart. Once, Constance, I thought you both beautiful and good; I was even fool enough to think there was something of the angel about you. Alas, I quickly learnt my mistake. Now, Constance, I will tell you plainly that my children and Maureen share and share alike."

"Ah," said Mrs. O'Brien, with a sort of groan, "how very stupid and silly you are, Patrick; but when you talk with Mr. Murphy he will tell you a very different story."

"Listen to me, Constance," continued the Rector, "I know well that I have not long to live, but I may hold out for a few years. My boys, my girl, and I will provide for Maureen. I never told you how she came into the family."

"You did not; but I cannot wait to hear your romantic story now. I may miss Mr. Murphy."

"Constance, you must wait. It will not take up five minutes of your time. My little brown-eyed Maureen came to me in this fashion. I had a twin-brother. I loved him better than myself. The thought of meeting him again is one of the joys I look forward to; he died of wounds received in the field of battle. His young wife had died before him, and he left his little child, Maureen, to me. I brought her up as my own. The boys look upon her as their sister. Kitty does the same. Little Maureen came to the Rectory, and since then her sweetness and innocence have helped me to bear the greatest sorrow of my life—the loss of that brother who was dearer to me than myself. Now you can go, Constance, but Maureen shall be provided for."

"You are about the most silly, out-of-the-world person I ever came across," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Well, let me tell you that your story about yourself and your twin-brother does not affect me in the least. When you die, Maureen has to earn her living—or go to the workhouse. Well, you know the truth. As to upsetting your marriage settlement, it cannot be done. Ta-ta. I may not be back until very late. I was always outspoken, and shall be to my dying day."

The overdressed woman turned swiftly and left the room.

Softly, very softly, Dominic hid himself behind a shabby old screen in the narrow passage which led to the Rector's study. Mrs. O'Brien was soon returning to Kingsala, and Mr. O'Brien, feeling himself alone, weak and suffering, laid his head on his hands and groaned aloud.

"My little Maureen!" he murmured. "God, my Heavenly Father, help me. Can it be possible that what the woman says is true—that terrible woman, whom once I loved and—and married? Oh, my God, to have to face Maurice, my dearest brother, and tell him about little Maureen."

Just then a light touch rested on the stricken man's shoulder. He raised his face and saw with astonishment his young son Dominic beside him.

"Dad," said Dominic, "Maureen and I were talking together about you. You can't imagine, dad, how lovely the air is outside. We were a bit anxious about you—Maureen and I—and (as 'herself' was away) we thought—Maureen and I did—that you might come out and lie on the thick rug with a pile of pillows under your head. You know the spot I mean. It is where the periwinkles grow and the tall trees shelter us from the hottest rays of the sun. Well, it was a little plan we made between us, Maureen and I; but when I came to fetch you—I'm not ashamed to own it, dearest old dad,—but the door was a bit open, and I heard voices and I listened. 'Herself' had come back and I heard her say that she would do nothing at all for Maureen; then I heard you say, you blessed man, that you would, when the time came, divide all your own money between Kitty and Maureen and Denis and myself. You will do it, won't you, dear dad?"

"Yes, my son, if it is possible."

"But how can it not be possible when we all wish it?" asked the boy.

"Listen, Dominic. Perhaps you had no right to overhear, but on the other hand perhaps God meant it. Anyhow you are on my side now."

"Dad, tell me the very truth. You are not really ill?"

"Yes, my son, really."

"But I mean"—the boy's voice choked—"badly?"

"Yes, lad, very badly."

"Still, you may live for years."

"That's true. Now, avick, listen to me. Your step-mother will return from visiting Murphy to-night. I greatly fear she will do what mischief she can. I have a great dread over me, Dom; I can't quite explain it; but to-morrow you and I will go together and see the solicitor. Oh yes, I am quite well enough for that. I'll get the truth out of him, cost me what it may. I won't listen to a word of what she has got to say. We'll go early in the warm part of the day and find out for ourselves what can be done for Maureen."

"Dad, there never was your like before. We'll go, and we'll put things as right as possible; and now, would it at all comfort you to come out and lie on the periwinkles where Maureen is waiting, for she has heard a few words, nothing of any consequence, but they have troubled her, and her dear, brave little heart is almost breaking. She loves you so passionately."

"Yes, we'll go," said the Rector.

He rose very slowly, and, leaning on his son's arm, presently approached the spot where Maureen, wondering at the long delay, was sitting up and waiting. She had her hands clasped round her knees, and the tears which filled her eyes a short time ago had ceased to flow, for Maureen was not what she called a "cry-baby"; but the soft brown eyes were all the same full of wild fear. When she saw her uncle and cousin, however, she gave a glad exclamation, sprang to her feet, and ran forward to meet Uncle Pat.

"Oh, but this is heavenly," cried the child; "oh, but you have come to me your own self, you blessed darling." Then she and Dominic between them arranged the thick rug and the soft but shabby pillows, and the Rector lay down while Dominic with a bright nod to his little mate ran quickly away.

He crept into a disused old barn at the back of the house, and there he cried as few boys of his age do cry, silently, with a passion of sorrow, with an anguish of grief. He made no noise as the tears slowly rolled down over his cheeks, but the pain at his manly young heart was almost unbearable. Maureen! to treat her as the 'Step' would certainly treat her, and his most beloved father sooner or later to die. This was the first real touch of trouble that had come to the boy, and he felt that he could scarcely endure it.

"But whatever happens, father and I will settle about Maureen," he said to his troubled heart. "Darling Maureen!"

Meanwhile Maureen herself was in her element. She might cry afterwards, but she was certainly not going to cry now. She was a very young little girl, but she had in many ways far more self-control than her older cousin, and her only object now was to comfort and cheer Uncle Pat.

"You mustn't sit out long, you know, Uncle Pat," she began, "but I'm sure we can have half an hour. Suppose we talk of the very pleasantest things. You begin, Uncle Pat. Tell me some of the very beautiful things you preach about when you talk to us about the City of Gold; and may I lay my head, very lightly—just there—on your dear shoulder. I won't tire you; I really won't. Are the gates really of pearl in your City and the streets of gold?"

"The Bible says so, my little girl."

"And the souls go up and up," continued Maureen, "and enter in and go out no more. And the Lord Jesus Christ has made mansions for them to live in, and there is the River of Life and the Tree of Life which is for the healing of the nations; and my Father is there. It must be very, very nice to be there; don't you think so, Uncle Pat?"

"Yes, Maureen."

"But we are down here, at present," said Maureen, "so we must do with this little bit of the earth, and I'm just awfully happy when I'm with you and Dom. Now I want to tell you all the funny stories I can think of. I want to make you laugh. Do you know that I'm studying French very hard, and I came across such a strange bit the other day. It was about the funniest story I ever read. May I try and tell it to you—only I won't be able to do it any sort of justice?"

"Yes, tell it to me, Maureen, my blessing."

"Well, I'll do my best. There was James the Sixth of Scotland, who of course, you know, became James the First of England, but this queer story happened when he was only James the Sixth of Scotland. Well, of course, he was a great king and lived in great state, and one day who should visit him but an Ambassador from the great Court of Spain. The Ambassador wore magnificent clothes, and the King was greatly taken with him and talked very big to him, and tried to make out that Scotland was a much better country than Spain; but the Ambassador did not believe him, so he said, 'I see, your Majesty, that you are surrounded by courtiers and professors of all sorts, but I don't see anywhere a Professor of Signs.' Well, of course, King James was dreadfully puzzled, but he was not going to give in, not for a minute; so he said at once, 'Our great University is at Aberdeen, and of course we have a Professor of Signs there.' 'That is most interesting,' said the Ambassador, 'and I should much like to see him.' 'You shall,' said the King. 'You shall go to Aberdeen to-morrow and see the Professor of Signs.' Then the King called his learned men around him and sent one of the most learned to Aberdeen to arrange that at the University there should be a Professor of Signs dressed in academic robes ready to meet the Ambassador from Spain. He came back early in the morning and told the King it was all right. He said they had found a one-eyed butcher who was something of a wag, and that they had induced him to come to the University and meet the Ambassador from Spain. So the one-eyed butcher went and sat in his chair of state in his beautiful robes, and by-and-by the Ambassador from Spain arrived, and the other professors came out to welcome him, and they said to him how proud they were to meet so great and distinguished a man. 'But,' said the Ambassador, 'I particularly want to see your Professor of Signs.' 'Oh, that's all right,' said the professors; 'he is waiting for you in the next room.' They took him in and left him alone with the Professor of Signs. The Professor glowered at him, but didn't utter a word. The Ambassador, however, went boldly up and raised one finger and pointed to the Professor of Signs. Instantly the Professor of Signs took two fingers and shook them in the face of the Ambassador, whereupon the Ambassador took three fingers and held them very close to the Professor of Signs. Then the Professor of Signs got very red, and he clenched his great brawny fist and shook it violently at the Ambassador. The Ambassador immediately went up to him and offered him a large orange. The Professor of Signs pushed the orange away, thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a lump of oat-cake. After that the Ambassador went into the next room. 'Well,' said the professors, who were waiting in great anxiety, 'how did you get on?' 'Wonderful!' said the Ambassador, 'too wonderful, I could not have believed it if I had not seen it. When I went in I held up one finger to show him there was one God, whereupon he instantly held up two to me, in order to remind me that there was the Father and the Son. I then held up three to him to show that I recognised the Trinity, whereupon he clenched his mighty fist and showed me that he agreed with me. I then offered him a beautiful orange to show him how the good God gives us of the fruits of the earth, but he—he did better than that—he rejected the orange and offered me oat-cake, the sustenance of man, his life. Oh, it was marvellous!' So the Ambassador went back highly pleased to the Court of King James I, but when he was well on his homeward journey, the professors rushed into the room where the butcher was seated, and they said to him, 'What do you think of the Ambassador; how did you get on with him?' 'What did I think of him,' said the one-eyed butcher. 'I tell you he was a mocking scoundrel, and I was all but taking his life. He came in to me and pointed a finger at me to show that I had but one eye, but I shook two fingers at him to show that my one eye was as good as his two. Then he pointed three fingers at me, as much as to say that he was the better man; but I doubled my fist in his face, and then he brought me a bit of fruit from his country—an orange—a common orange; and I showed him what we men of Scotland live on—oat-cake, the staff of life.'"

The Rector was intensely amused at Maureen's story, inquired what French book she had got it out of, and really, for the time, in this bright little girl's presence, he forgot himself and his anxieties. They went on chatting and laughing. The air blew soft as a zephyr, and Uncle Pat thought less of his troubles; the colour came into his cheeks and the light into his eyes. Maureen from her earliest days had been a born story-teller, and her uncle was wondering if her undoubted talent might not be turned to account for her benefit later on. They told many other stories, each to the other, but suddenly Maureen uttered an exclamation.

"Look, do look, Uncle Pat," she cried.

There was Dominic coming towards them. He had got over his fit of intolerable crying, and managed, by washing his face, to get rid of the tears which had disfigured it so badly. When he saw Uncle Pat and Maureen chatting and laughing together, he felt in a dream; but it was a happy dream, and his spirits revived.

"Daddy," he said, "the 'Step' is at Kingsala."

"Yes, my boy."

"Well, I have brought this tray out. Here is a cup of chocolate for you which Pegeen made. I went to her myself to the kitchen and I saw her make it, with the purest milk and not one drop of water. Then she cut a lot of bread and butter and made some toast for you, and she clapped her hands when she heard 'Step' was away; and here are beautiful strawberries for yourself and Maureen and for me. We are going to have a jolly picnic tea all together seated on the periwinkles."

"I have had a very jolly time with Maureen. She is a very clever little girl," said the Rector.

"Oh, don't let's talk about me," said Maureen. "Now, sip your chocolate, dearest darling, and let's be as merry as merry can be. Oh, I say, aren't these strawberries gorgeous. You planted them, you know, Uncle Pat; they are the latest variety, and you said they would be first-rate."

"And they are," said the Rector. "I declare I feel quite hungry."

He sipped his chocolate and ate a little of the ripe fruit, and the children watched him and ate bread and butter and drank tea and took what strawberries were left. By-and-by it became a trifle chill, whereupon Maureen instantly took the part of a small mother and wrapped her uncle up and took him back to the house.

There was a turf fire blazing even on this hot June day in the Rector's study, and Maureen managed to step behind and whisper to Dominic, "I know. I didn't worry him by asking him. I told him stories instead. We've just got to be brave, Dom, boy, and keep his spirits up. We need not question about what we know. When I looked in his face, I felt that I could not utter a word, for his dear face told me. It was so very near the angels, so I had one good story which I told him, and I invented some more, and I vote that now we call Denis and Kitty and have some games and fun—not too noisy, you know—and I'll see the darling, darling Uncle to bed myself. He says I'm a born story-teller, but I think I'm a born nurse. He shall be in bed before old 'Step' comes back. I'll manage that."

About nine o'clock Mrs. O'Brien returned. Her cold sort of beauty, for she was still comparatively young, had a triumphant gleam in it on this occasion. She ate a large supper heartily, and did not once inquire about her husband's state of health. Some years ago, when her husband's cough troubled her, she arranged a large luxurious room on the first floor for herself, but he continued to sleep, when he could sleep at all, in the bare apartment where he had lived with such happiness with his first dear wife. In this room Dominic and Denis and Kitty were born. In this room the first Mrs. O'Brien had passed on into the Holy City.

On this special night something induced Constance O'Brien to go up to her husband's bedroom. He was dropping asleep as she bounced in.

"Well, old man," she said, "you may as well know the truth. Your own money, all your insurances, in fact, every penny you possess, will go to your children and to no one else at your death, be it to-day or be it to-morrow. This is owing to your marriage settlement. It is well I have money of my own. Murphy astonished me by telling me that there would be altogether about ten thousand pounds, including, of course, your private means, to divide among your three children. It is as well I have my own drop, which is a trifle more than that. Let me tell you, Patrick—take it as a night-cap—that you have behaved in the most disgraceful way to me; but, anyhow, I have the pleasure of informing you that you cannot touch one penny for Maureen. Yes, I have that pleasure, little spiteful interloper. I never could abide her."

"Good-night, Constance," said Patrick O'Brien, "and try, my wife, to keep your heart from hard thoughts. For, believe me, when you come to stand where I now stand—on the edge of the world—you will be glad, very glad, that you have done so."

Mrs. O'Brien, for reply, whisked away.

"The doctor certainly said he might last for years," she whispered under her breath. "If it only could be a little shorter! Anyhow, Maureen has nothing. Had I known that those children will be so well off and that he would not be able to leave me a penny, I would have taken precious good care never to marry him. But there! for his ten thousand pounds; I have at least fifty thousand, and I am young still, not quite forty. I shall do my best for my own girls, and even exaggerate a little with regard to their fortunes. Henrietta ought to turn out quite pretty, and Daisy has the most lovely hair I ever saw. Yes, they will both marry well; I'll see to that; and in all probability I shall myself marry again. I know I'm good-looking. Mrs. Rankin told me so this very day. It is a hard trial to be tied to a broken-down husband. I told her how ill he was. I think it well to spread these reports. He certainly doesn't look as though he'd live for years. Poor, stupid, old Pat. He thought to affect me with that story of his brother, but I am not that sort of woman, thank goodness."

Meanwhile another glorious summer day dawned on the world. Mr. O'Brien ordered the phaeton to be brought round at ten o'clock, and, accompanied by his young son Dominic, went to see Murphy, the well-known solicitor at Kingsala. Murphy received him with the affectionate, warm-hearted greeting which characterises good-tempered Irishmen. O'Brien put the whole case before him. Murphy listened attentively, tapping his heel now and then, and now and then giving a low, significant whistle under his breath. When the story had come to an end there was a complete silence between the two men for the space of a minute. Dominic, who was in the background and was not noticed at all, felt strangely uncomfortable, for he did not like the expression in Murphy's small shrewd eyes.

At last the solicitor spoke.

"I saw your good lady yesterday, Mr. O'Brien."

"Yes; she meant to call on you."

"I am sorry to perceive that you yourself look but poorly."

"That does not matter, Murphy. I have come here to make provision for Maureen."

"But," said Murphy, "marriage settlement, you know. It's impossible to twist a marriage settlement made prior to marriage. In that you have left everything to your own children."

"I cannot leave Maureen with no money," said the Rector. His voice was agitated, his face deadly pale, and there were drops of dew on his forehead. "Is there no possible way, Mr. Murphy," he continued, "in which my dear little niece can be provided for?"

"Well, Mr. O'Brien, right is right, and law is law, and if your children when they all come of age agree, with the sanction of the trustees, Mr. Walters of Walterscourt and Mr. O'More of Moresland, to share their money with the little girl, it can of course be done. By the way, how old is that lad there?"

"Fifteen," interrupted Dominic; "and I wish it done. I don't want to wait for any coming-of-age."

"Tut-tut, lad, you don't know the law.—Forgive me, O'Brien, but I am not very well acquainted with your family."

"There is my other son, Denis, aged eleven, and my baby, Kitty, aged six."

"Dear, dear, dear!" said Murphy. "You'd best see the trustees. I can do nothing, and I doubt if they can until your youngest child is of age; then of course the matter can be easily arranged and your little property divided into four instead of three shares."

"Thank you," said Mr. O'Brien.

He rose feebly. "I wrote to my trustees last night," he went on, "asking for an appointment. My time is short, and something must be done. I will go and see them immediately."

The tall, distinguished-looking clergyman left the room with his hand resting on Dominic's square young shoulder.

"I should like to spite that woman," thought Murphy, when the clergyman had left. "How bitter—how savage she was when she spoke to me yesterday; but God knows I can't see my way, and I am quite sure that O'More and Walters will agree with me. Sometimes marriage settlements can be very troublesome, although, on the other hand, they are the salvation of many a home. Poor, dear O'Brien, how well I remember when he signed that settlement, and the pretty, sweet girl who was with him, looking like the angel she was. Ah, they were happy, those two. There's a nice little sum accruing for those three children, for I see to all O'Brien's investments; and the five thousand pounds which he has paid for in the London Assurance has increased mightily in value. There will really be much more than ten thousand pounds to give to those three, but as to the little niece—well, there's a clause providing for the education of O'Brien's own children, but not a penny, not a penny for her. Poor little lamb, I shouldn't like to be left in my fine lady's tender care. I wonder what will happen? Upon my word, I'm downright interested, and the poor fellow looks deadly bad. If his mind was at rest he might hold out for a year or two, otherwise—dear, dear, there's a lot of trouble in this world."