Читать книгу The Small Dark Man (Maurice Walsh) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - Maurice Walsh - Страница 16

Grew there no rose,

No flower fine,

No thistle spike,

No dandelion.

Yet was a seedling planted there

By moon of feet and sun of hair.

I

Frances Mary Grant, that girl with the darling name, sitting alone with her thoughts in the basket-chair, one long shank see-sawing, heard the crunch of feet in the gravel outside the window and turned her head to the door expectantly. Alas! the figure that appeared was not a tall figure to fill the eye—if not the heart—but, well, Hugh Forbes, his own, normal, small self. He stood very still in the doorway, and the glow of the peat flames seemed to wash over him as water washes over stone. His stillness and some emanation of force from him disturbed her for a moment. Had he escaped—run away? He did not look like a man who would run from anything. Where—Her thoughts found words. “Where is—Mr Stark?”

“Gone down the glen,” said Hugh Forbes, who was to be very silent as well as circumspect. “ ‘Ah! down the glen—rode Sarsfield’s men—and they wore their jackets green.’ We talked things over a piece down the path, and—he saw things from several aspects not usual to him. Sensible we were, the two of us. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘and forgive me for my strenuous invitation. As you have pointed out, to insist on your leashed company on this narrow and precipitous path would be inconsiderate—and uncomfortable. With your favour, and things being as you say, I will forthwith hie me for Innismore; and you—you can go to—’ And there’s the truth for you.”

Frances Mary considered that. She did not quite understand how things had happened or what had happened. She realised that the two men had come to terms—not as this man related certainly, but in some workable way. And yet she was not pleased. It was distinctly unpleasant not to have her wishes considered. She had requested this man to leave word at Innismore, and yet Vivian had gone. That pricked her, and she did not hesitate to show her displeasure. Already somewhere deep down she realised that she could be devastatingly frank with this stranger. “What are you doing here?” Every tone in that query implied that his presence was needless, unpleasant, and impertinent.

“Me!” cried Hugh Forbes; “I only came back for my new hat.” He looked along the floor. “Bloody wars! someone has stood on it.” In two long strides he was at the fireside and sitting on his heels over the velour hat that had been distressingly flattened under some male heel. “My fine new hat!” he grieved comically, “and maybe ’twas myself tramped on it.” He punched out the dents, patted it smooth, and twirled it on a finger. “Forty-five shillings—and I’m telling no lie—and a heel on the crown of it! Wo! Wo!”

Frances Mary looked down at him, her mind active on a new line. This was no ordinary tramp. This was no tramp at all. From the very beginning she knew that he was never a tramp. An Irishman! Ah! An Irishman! And, added to her intuition, some thought lifted at the back of her mind and grew. Her mood changed. She found herself smiling, and decided there and then to play a game until she had made sure. “You know,” she told him coldly, “velour is quite out of date. It is never worn now.”

He held up his hat and looked at it. “I wouldn’t doubt you, Liam.” He spoke as if to a man present in the room. “I might have known. ‘Twenty-five shillings to a friend, and there’s not a better hat in Grafton Street.’ Yes, so!” His tone changed. “Still and all, ’tis a nice enough hat.” He threw it on his head, and it fell naturally over one ear. “And there’s my ash-plant.” He went forward on one knee, propped the ash-plant in his oxter, and arranged the last of the peats round the fire. “Where’s the peat rick?” he inquired.

“There’s a stock in the back place—in there.” She had been watching with curious intentness, noting every turn of his great voice, wondering what he would do and say next. She was not one morsel afraid; but then she was seldom or never afraid. Only here she knew that there would be no calls on her courage.

“I’ll get you some,” he said, turning to her. He saw that she had again drawn her shoeless foot under the arch of the chair. “Tell me, now,” he inquired, his voice rolling gently, “was it a sair bad blister?”

“It was.”

“And did it break?”

“I fear so.”

“And you bathed it in warm water?”

“No.”

He was on his feet on the instant. “Well, now!” he exploded. “Aren’t you the damn’d little fool?”

“Thank you,” said Frances Mary Grant politely.

“For nothing. . . . Any household utensils kept in this place?” he questioned brusquely.

“I believe there are a few—in there with the peats, on a shelf.”

There would be. There would be. A flick of finger, and back he had to come. Not a leaf shall fall . . . not a leaf shall fall. And why? What had he to do with another man’s woman? Not quite that, perhaps! And still, flaxen hair and all, she was Tearlath Grant’s sister, and the right thing had to be done by her; and done would the right thing be.

He went round behind her to the back place and scraped a match on the jamb. Vivian Stark had done that too, and Frances Mary remembered it. Then she heard him kick amongst the clump of peats, and the rich roll of his voice came through to her. “A kettle and a pan—no! A griddle and a pan it used to be, in that old story. From a woman from a man, from a griddle from a pan, from two barn thrashers, from four well-washers—and-from-you-if-I-can. W-u-u-ff! And the fox had it. And here’s a gridiron. Would you lend me the loan of your gridiron? . . .”

He came out with an old tin kettle in one hand and an enamelled basin in the other. “You’ll bathe that heel, young lady,” he said briefly, and went out into the night.