Читать книгу The Young O'Briens: Being an Account of Their Sojourn in London - Margaret Westrup - Страница 5

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"Four and threepence," said Denis, with his head up the chimney.

"Sure?" said Nell, doubtfully. "I've added it up three times, and it hasn't come to that once."

"Then there's no doubt about it; four and threepence 'tis, my dear!"

A pause. A scream.

"Oh, Denis, rescue them!"

A horrible smell of burning ensued. Denis eyed the smoking stockings with equanimity.

"O dear," sighed Nell, "and there was only one tiny hole in them. It's all your fault, Denis. You shouldn't be rude to me, when your head's such a beautiful target."

But Denis had emerged from the chimney, and was quietly smoking his cigarette in the open room.

"Jolly good idea, old girl. Twig? Every time I want to do a smoke, we'll burn a pair of stockings—they'd out-smell Patsy O'Driscoll's cigars!"

"Denis," Nell spoke with a puckered brow, "how much is five cakes when they're four for threepence halfpenny?"

"Nell, your grammar! It makes me feel faint!"

"'Are,' then. You're only trying to gain time. Oh, Atom, don't move! Kate Kearney's splendid like that. I must get her."

Denis looked over her shoulder as she dashed in a rapid pencil sketch. He glanced across at Molly and winked. It was a family joke that everything Nell began—accounts, sewing, tidying-up—ended, on the slightest possible pretext, in a sketch.

"Oh, Denis," Molly besought nervously, "I know Aunt Kezia will smell your cigarette!"

He struck an attitude.

"I defy her! Shall an O'Brien be cowed by a Scotch woman, and in his stronghold, too? Shall a young man who is also a bank clerk be frightened of a mere ignoramusess—oh, Lor', Molly, hide me—hide me—here she comes!"

Molly flung down the stocking she was darning.

"Oh, Denis!" she gasped, jumping up and knocking over her chair. "Oh—"

But Denis had subsided on to the old lounge, with his head buried in the cushion, and Molly realised she had been "had." She made a wild rush at him, K.K. joined in the fray, and Nell's model was gone.

"Pommel me as much as you like," cried he, weakly. "That's the third time to-day you've swallowed Aunt Kezia!"

"I should think she would be rather indigestible," opined Nell, putting in a few finishing touches. "Denis, what do you think of the way these chrysanthemums have faded? Only two days, and they cost half a crown!"

"I'll get you some more."

Nell looked thoughtful; she stubbed her paper viciously.

"I begin to fancy paupers oughtn't to indulge in flowers."

"Oh, Irish paupers ought," he declared airily.

The Atom arose, shook out her skirts, and proceeded to the door.

"Where are you going, Sheila Pat?"

"Downstairs," was the staid reply.

Once outside, she stopped to smooth her hair; then she stood considering, with a thoughtful brow. She went into her bedroom, dragged a chair to the toilet table, scrambled on to it, and anxiously examined the pair of slim legs displayed in the glass. What she saw displeased her; she stamped angrily, and toppled off the chair with a crash.

"What's up?" came a musical shout from the direction of the "Stronghold."

"Nothin' at all!" responded the Atom, with unabated dignity, though she was obliged for the moment to stand on one leg. She waited a minute, then lifting her loose frock, wiggled round and round in her efforts to unfasten her petticoat. She managed it at last, shook it down to her ankles, and mounted the chair again to view the effect. Her anxious face fell; she sighed heavily, and slowly climbed to the floor. She fumbled at the fastening of her petticoat, pulling it well up, then left the room. She went down the stairs till she reached the last flight that faced the front door. She sat down on the top stair and waited. The dusk deepened; the clock ticked on and on down in the hall, but the little pale face glimmered patiently at the top of the stairs. Presently a key grated in the lock of the door; Sheila Pat rose. The door opened, and a big broad man in a huge ulster came heavily in. Sheila Pat took a dignified step forward, missed, in the dusk, the stair, and rolled down and down to the big man's feet.

"Ach!" exclaimed the big man, and then he made noises that interested Sheila Pat, because they made her think of the hens in Biddy O'Regan's cottage. She rose; her cheeks were scarlet with shame.

"Are you hurrt?" exclaimed the big man.

"Not at all. Please," said the Atom, with a dignity a good deal bigger than herself, "please don't mention it. 'Tis a visit I've come to pay you," she added.

"Ach!" said the big man again.

Over a large and very fierce mustache, all grey bristles, his eyes were twinkling down at her.

"Pray come in," he said, and opened the door of the room opposite the dining room. The Atom's face kindled triumphantly as she looked round. Miss Kezia's grim voice seemed to hover alluringly round the solid mahogany chairs and table.

"You are not to enter this room. Remember, I have forbidden you."

Sheila Pat climbed on to one of the big chairs and sat down with a complacent smile.

Herr Schmidt eyed her anxiously.

"You are quite sure you are not hurt, meine liebe? It was a bad fall, a very bad fall."

Sheila Pat looked surprised. As a matter of fact her left elbow was smarting badly, and her left ankle bone, too, but in the O'Brien phraseology, this did not signify a "hurt." Moreover she objected to his alluding again to her undignified entrance into the hall. She gave her skirts a pull, and turned the conversation.

"How-d'you-do?" she said.

He came forward and gravely shook hands.

"It is ze fine day, hein?" he observed, with a curious elephantine anxiety to be properly polite to his very polite visitor.

The Atom's eyes turned to the window and studied the brilliant pink sky beyond it.

"The fine day, is it? It's not so bad for London," she observed in a disparaging voice.

"You come from Ireland?"

"Yes."

He peered into the rigid little face and understood.

"I come from Shermany," he said gently. "Little one, you will return some day."

The Atom said nothing.

"You haf ze nice little dog." Herr Schmidt changed the conversation cheerfully. "What do you call him?"

"She isn't a him at all," the Atom said scornfully; "'tis herself's a lady! An' her name's Kate Kearney."

"Ach!" said Herr Schmidt.

Sheila Pat looked at him gravely.

"I am very small for my age," she began in an anxious voice. "I'm not very young really. I'm more than six. I'm quite nine weeks more."

"Quite very old," he agreed heartily. "And now you will eat and drink with me, hein?" He was opening a cupboard. "It is a very goot cake. I am what you call an old sweet-teeth. And the drink will not harm you; it is sweet and hot—it is made by my old mother." He poured out two glasses and handed her one.

"We will drink and be friends, eh?"

She hesitated.

"'Tis wondhring I am just what a lodger is," she explained. "I've never met one before, you see. Nell turned up her nose at you and said she'd never be dhramin' Aunt Kezia was so bad as to have a lodger."

"Your aunt is a very kind laty; she allows me to live here, while I am far from Shermany," he said gravely.

The Atom looked interested; after a pause of wonder she dismissed the question of her aunt's being a kind lady, and observed:—

"Is that all? We'll drink then and be friends. I hope you won't mind if I don't love you very much, because you're not Irish, you see."

He declared he would be satisfied with what degree of affection she thought fit to bestow on him. She lifted her glass.

"'Tis Sheila Patricia Kathleen O'Brien I'm called, but you must be callin' me Miss O'Brien."

"Ach, so, of course. And I," he bowed deeply, "am Herr Schmidt, Miss O'Brien."

The Atom's heart rejoiced exceedingly. She put down her glass and slipped off her chair. Gravely she bowed her head, and the pig-tail stuck out with a rakish air of enjoyment. Reseating herself, she politely urged him to have some cake.

"Now we are friends, I will interdruce you to my Snowy-Breasted Pearl, Mr. Hair Smitt. He is very beautiful. I couldn't bring him with me, because, he preferred to stay in his cage." She eyed a red tooth-mark on her forefinger. "He is very high-spirited, you see. He is gold and brown and he has a white breast like pearls and snow, and he is white behind, too—just up over his extremes and both hind legs. Nell has painted him lots of times. You see, in the song, 'the snowy-breasted Pearl' is a lady, but my dear guinea-pig was so 'zact, I crissened him that."

"I wish you would be so goot as to sing the song to me, Miss O'Brien."

"Is it me sing? Oh, yes. But it's rather long. Do you think you'd get tired of it at all?"

He denied such a possibility with horror.

"My mouth is rather full of cake, Mr. Hair Smitt. Do you mind waitin' a little?"

The cake disposed of, she lifted up a sweet little voice, and sang:—

"'There's a colleen fair as May,

For a year and for a day

I have sought by ev'ry way

Her heart to gain.

"'There's no art of tongue or eye

Fond youths with maidens try,

But I've tried with ceaseless sigh,

Yet tried in vain.'"

(Pause.) "I'm afraid I forget some," the Atom confessed, ashamed. "But I know all the parts about my guinea-pig," she added anxiously.

"Will you sing those parts?" he asked courteously.

She began again:—

"'Oh, thou bloomin' milk-white dove

To whom I've given my love,

Do not ever thus reprove

My consancy.

"'For if not mine, dear boy,

Oh, snowy-breasted pearl,

May I never from the fair

With life return.'

"It ought to be 'girl' to rhyme with 'pearl,' but, you see, he isn't a girl, so I made up 'boy' myself. Doesn't the song fit him beautifully?"

The door had been left ajar; a small black nose inserted itself in the crack with a pathetic snort.

"It is your little dog!" Herr Schmidt exclaimed. "Come in! Come in!" He gave a great fat laugh. "Come in!"

Sheila Pat slipped to the floor.

"She's shy," she explained, and went and opened the door wide.

Kate Kearney trotted in, sleek and black, giving little scriggles of love as she came. She rubbed herself against the Atom's legs, she licked her hand, she lifted superlatively great innocent eyes.

"Kate Kearney, what is it you've been doin'?" the Atom said.

K.K. went into an ecstasy of adoration; she jumped and licked the Atom's cheek, she wriggled, she ran to and fro, she gave short little whimpers, and she turned a reproachful, widely innocent gaze upon the Atom's suspicious countenance.

Sheila Pat laughed proudly.

"She always looks burstin' with goodness when she's been doin' somethin' bad," she said.

"She is a beautiful little dog."

"She got first prize at the dog show, in the cocker spaniel puppy class, an' a 'Highly Commended' in the open class."

"Ach!" said Herr Schmidt.

"Aunt Kezia doesn't like her. Molly says she would if she was a cat, because old maids always like cats, but Sarah says she won't let her give scraps to the poor starvin' creatures at all. Kate Kearney mostly stays in the Stronghold with us. Denis 'gested the name. Isn't it a good one? It's our very own room, you see, and Aunt Kezia's the enemy we keep—" There was a jerk, a pause.

Herr Schmidt, peering across at her, saw an agonised wave of red mount to her very brow.

"I—I think I'd better be goin' now," but she did not move.

He took a step towards her.

"Oh, oh, please would you mind stayin' there?" she cried out in a shrill little agitated voice.

He stopped abruptly.

"What is it, meine liebe?"

"You have been very kind, indeed, Mr. Hair Smitt." The Atom's exceedingly grown-up manner precluded any more questions. "Thank you very much. Would you mind turnin' your back a minute?"

He moved away and looked out of the window.

Sheila Pat with trembling hands turned up her skirt and grasped the dangling petticoat beneath, but as she did it, a wicked black head emerged from beneath the table, and wicked white teeth closed on the flannel and pulled—pulled.

"K.K.! I'll whip you! Drop it! Oh, drop it, K.K.!"

But whether it was that the Atom dared not raise her voice above a whisper, or whether K.K. just felt specially naughty—anyway, she did not leave go.

And Sheila Pat's proud soul was filled with very real agony. With a despairing "Please don't turn round—I'm goin'!" she fled out into the hall, stumbling along, with K.K. and her petticoat dragging her sideways. She sank on to the lowest stair and let her petticoat go; she watched K.K. drag it down her legs, across the hall. He had treated her so beautifully! He had behaved as if she were a grown-up. All had gone so well—and what would he think of her now? A vision of Biddy O'Regan's numerous babies trotting about with various garments dangling about their legs rose up before her eyes. Only babies let their things come down, the Atom thought, and she shuddered.

K.K. brought the petticoat to her with a conciliatory wag, and laid it gently in her lap. The Atom took no notice. She was sure he had forgotten how she had tumbled down the stairs, and now—K.K. pushed a moist nose into her hand. "Oh, K.K., is it lovin' me you are after that?" She pointed to the petticoat with a short but tragic finger. K.K. laid a sweet head on her knee, with upturned eyes adoring.