Читать книгу Petticoat Loose - Rita - Страница 7

Table of Contents

The warm September sun had swept the river clear of mist. The stir and bustle of waking life was everywhere apparent throughout that strange caravanserai encamped beyond the racecourse. The discordant brays and noisy barks of donkeys and dogs serenaded Sally Dunne's waking moments, and aroused her to the fact that she was the sole occupant of the bed. She smoothed some wisps of hair out of her eyes, and stared about her. The state of her mind on retiring the previous night had left its traces. Her garments were scattered over the floor of the caravan—one boot lay on the shelf among the cups and saucers, the other was on her own left foot. Her bonnet hung dejectedly from a nail, and her jacket embraced the space between cooking-stove and cupboard.

"Where's Brianna?" muttered Sally, as reflection threatened to become unpleasant. "She ain't gone out, for the door's locked. What's come to her?"

Forsaking the passive for the active mood she slipped out of bed and commenced the business of the toilet.

"Not home all night! Gallivantin' again! Guess this sort of thing won't suit my business. Wonder why my head aches so. I'd give something for a cup o' tea. I bet that girl's been up to some mischief. Ah! now I remember. I locked the door because she hadn't come. Here, you, Mickey, what the 'tarnation are you idling there for? I want a pail of water. And where's Brianna? In the tent? Guess I'd never ha' thought o' that. Tell her to slick up and get breakfast."

She had her head out of the door, and the fresh morning air was grateful to her aching brow. Mickey Croom had been standing at the foot of the steps. He now handed her up a bucket of water, and then strolled over to Brianna's resting-place.

"Old woman's up," he remarked, concisely. "Says she wants breakfast. Hurry up. I wouldn't rile her, if I were you."

"I'll be out in a minute," the girl answered, and she was as good as her word.

Owing to limited space, toilet preparations in the caravan had to await the disappearance of the bed. With a brief good morning Brianna set to work, folded up the clothes, packed away the bedstead, and then lit the fire, while her aunt was splashing cold water over her head and shoulders.

Sally's conscience was not quite at ease as to her own condition the previous evening. In the intervals of vigorous towelling she watched her niece with the corner of her eye, pondering if it would be safe to carry war into the enemy's quarters without fear of retaliation.

"Why didn't you come home in proper time?" she at last demanded. "What are you up to, I'd like to know."

"Nothing," said the girl, doggedly. "Only I went for a walk."

"A walk! What do you want to go walking for? You oughter have come to Widow Rooney's with me. She asked where you were. He'd been brought home. She would have him. He's going to have a grand funeral, and 'twon't cost her a penny. The place was crammed; and she was mighty full of herself, and whiskey warn't at no discount, I can tell you."

"So I suppose," said the girl, with a curl of her lips. "That's why you locked me out, wasn't it?"

"I locked the door at the usual time, on principle," answered Sally, sternly. "I am always overruled by principle. I wanted to teach you a lesson. By the way, where did you sleep last night?"

"In the tent, of course. Mickey gave up his bed to me."

"Jis' so. I knew he would. Well, I'll clear out and take a look round while you fix up this place. I'm of a forgiving disposition, so I won't make no complaints. But my head is peremptory, and a cup o' tea is the only thing that'll do me good. Hot and strong, and quick as you can get it. So long."

With which bit of Americanism she dropped down the steps and made her way to the tent for her usual morning skirmish with Mickey Croom.

Left alone, Brianna unloosed her bodice and sluiced her face and neck and arms with cold water, and coiled up her rich abundant hair. Then she tidied the caravan, and set the table, and opened the door and window to the fresh morning air. Just as her preparations were complete her aunt returned. She made for the teapot at once and poured herself out some tea, and drank it thirstily.

"No! I don't want any bread and butter," she said, as the girl cut a slice off the loaf, "Take it y'self. You look very glum. What's up?"

"Nothing."

"All comes of gallervantin'! Now, this is the last of it. I won't have it. I've said so before, and Providence has stept in and circumscribed you. I suppose you're fretting after that good-for-nothing jockey. What a choice of a lover! Why, a jockey has as many sweethearts as there are races. More, if the truth was known. All the brains is galloped out of his head, and every new gal that makes up to him is better than the last. I guess I know something about men. I've laid in a store of experience, and I can oversee the benefits of it. Try to do you every way, that's all men are good for; and gals is fools mostly. Wal, now, I've slung enough tea into myself so I'll get out I guess, and see if there's any customers goin'. Give Mickey that teapot. That's good enough for him. He's that vexatious, this morning. Nothing ready in the studio. Doesn't care a cent about my inconvenience when he's took like this. Is my hat straight, Brianna?"

Her niece glanced at the article in question. It was of strange shape and trimmed with faded ribbon that had once been green. Sally Dunne always wore it during working hours.

"Yes, you're all right," said the girl. "Shall you want me?"

"Of course I shall. There'll be heaps of men loafing round before the races. You've got to bring 'em in as fast as you can; and don't you go slippin' off round the course, as you did yesterday. I won't have it—so mind."

Brianna listened with an indifference born of custom. She had no intention of going near the course to-day. It was too fraught with memories. Years seemed to have passed since that race that had cost her lover's life. She wondered that she felt so dull and cold. That grief seemed to have stilled instead of agonised her. Mechanically she performed her tasks, but there was no life in her movements, or any recognition of what she did in her eyes. Even when she had finished and followed her aunt to the so-called studio she was scarcely conscious of her actions.

Yet she soon saw that business was brisk. Chance comers attracted by the flag and the bold advertisement were examining the case of "Photographic Specimens," or asking terms, or bringing bashful sweethearts up to be "taken." The "Instantaneous Female Photographer" was in great form. Her garrulous tongue, her queer expressions, her audacious vivacity, had a certain compelling charm of their own.

The hunchback was kept busy framing the pictures, and she herself chaffed, joked and encouraged the sitters in a way that left no choice but to form groups, or be victimised singly, just as she chose to direct.

When Brianna appeared she ordered her off to invite fresh customers, bidding her take a "specimen" in her hand. It was a thing the girl hated. The coarse jokes and jeers, the familiarities and license of the men who thronged the racecourse were odious to her. To-day they seemed specially so. It was not yet time for the chief business of the day, but crowds of idlers were flocking on the scene, brought by early trains for a "day's divarsion" from all parts of the country, and ready to spend money on any pleasure that came in their way.

The fisher lads and farmers' sons from Youghal and Queenstown and Bandon and Kinsale and other outlying districts were not slow to recognise the beauty of this strange girl who moved to and fro, uttering her invitations so mechanically, yet enforcing their acceptance by a mere flash of her eyes, or movement of her hand. They were drawn by her as by a magnet to the photographic tent, and the coins dropped in, and Sally was in high good humour.

Towards noon the girl began to grow very weary, and even Sally Dunne acknowledged that she was feeling "dead beat," and that she meant shutting up business, for that day at all events. She emphasised her words by "switching off" her apparatus, to use her own phrase, ordering Mickey off for a pint of porter, and giving Brianna leave to prepare the midday meal of bread and cheese and cold bacon, for which she had discovered an appetite.

When that was over she dressed herself in gala attire and set out to find kindred souls, and enjoy the races in their company.

Brianna was left to her own devices. With a sigh of relief she saw her aunt depart. Then she seated herself on the top step of the caravan, and with her elbows resting on her knees watched the scene before her. It was some time before she became conscious that Mickey Croom was standing by her side. He had spoken to her, but she had not heard.

"Brianna," he repeated; "are you asleep? What's the matter?"

She dropped her arms wearily.

"Oh, is that you, Mickey? I thought you were watching the races."

"No; I wanted to speak to you about something. I came across some of my old company this morning; they're touring. It appears there a hitch in the cast. Two of the girls have bolted. One's a small part of a dozen lines or so. The other's 'Jessica.' It's The Merchant of Venice. They're only here to-night and to-morrow. As we were talking it occurred to me you might have a try at it. You've got Portia and Jessica by heart. I could teach you the acting part in a couple of hours. Would you try it?"

"Try it!" The girl's whole face blazed with excitement. "Oh, Mickey, is it true? Could I go on? Act—really act? Seems as if I'd die with joy at such a chance."

"I've always said you were born for the boards," said Mickey; "but as for chance, bedad, this isn't so much to boast of. Only, I'd like to see you do it. A first appearance is like the first time you try to swim. A flounder in the water and strike out for land. Here," and he tossed her a ragged book. "You're on third scene, second act. They'll cut out a lot I expect. Get your lines perfect while I go round and get the acting part, with cues. The manager knows your appearance; he saw you yesterday. They'll give you the dress. Now, mind you're letter perfect when I come back, and I'll run through the scenes with you."

The girl had seized the book. Her hands trembled with excitement, as she turned over the leaves to find the part indicated. She had seen the play with Mickey more than once. As she glanced over the printed lines the whole, scene rose before her eyes. She saw the stage, she heard the voices, recognised the cues, thrilled with the triumphs and sorrowed with the sorrows represented. To learn Jessica's part was easy enough. She shut the book and paced the floor of the caravan, living for the time being in the play she remembered so well, and acting out the part with an individuality that stamped even its slight importance with character. The girl was in reality a genius, and the hunchback had long ago recognised that fact. She could not read or recite the smallest part without investing it with life, passion, meaning. It came to her as naturally as to speak. Her declamation was excellent, and Mickey had been a careful tutor.

The tones of her voice had that irresistible sweetness and thrill that is positive magnetism, and without which the greatest art is a failure. She was unconscious yet of her powers. She could only "let herself go" and revel in that self-forgetfulness. Much might have to be excused before she won her way to success. Patience and study, and untiring devotion to her art would be necessary to perfect what Nature had, as yet, only indicated. But she had strength and force. She would shrink from nothing. Her whole soul seemed afire now, her whole life changed. She saw herself in that great gallery of heroines to whom Mickey Croom had introduced her first. Might it not be possible in some glorious future that she might play some or all of those brilliant and beautiful sovereigns who reigned over men's souls and senses, and for whom Fame's undying laurels ever bloomed.

Meanwhile Mickey Croom threaded his way through crowded streets and unceasing traffic to the stage door of the Cork Theatre. A rehearsal was just over. Painted, tawdry figures of women, unshaven, dirty men, supers, scene-shifters, propertymen, were pouring out into the warm sunshine with blinking eyes, and tired, care-worn faces. A sudden pang stirred the hunchback's heart. "If she should grow like them? Saints in glory keep her! I'd rather see her dead. But she won't. She can't. I've not studied stage art for twenty years for nothing. Ah, my pretty you'll show them your power yet—the power of genius. For that's what you've got in that clever head of yours; and it's not Mickey Croom is going to stand by and see you put upon by caravan owners or anybody else. No, my girl, Mickey stood your friend from the first, and he'll stand it to the last, even though your feet are treading his heart into the dust."

Then he was summoned to the manager's room, and left it a quarter of an hour later more elated by a triumph he had won for another than by anything he might have claimed for himself. Yet, midway between the city and the road that led back to the caravan he paused suddenly.

"I've done it, and if a first step counts, then the second depends on herself. And every step upwards takes her further from me—takes her glory and her beauty, and her great warm, strong heart, and puts me aside into the cold and shadow. Why did I do it? She is poor and friendless now, and I am in her life. When she is great and famous I shall be out of it. You're a fool, Mickey Croom. You're hurting yourself that you may help another. Is there gratitude in woman's heart? What'll you gain?—the bite of the serpent's tooth—the sting of the adder. Holy Mother, pity me! 'Tis I am the fool—the poor witless fool. She will escape. Her wings are folded now, but 'tis my hand opens the cage, and then she'll fly far, far away. She'll never come back to me. I know it—never come back to me."