Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 15

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Senator O’Rawn had done himself well at breakfast. Peterkin had grumbled but had finally agreed to the consumption of a crisp rasher of gammon and he had not objected to a long glass of Irish coffee. Now Peterkin should have known that Irish coffee is of a very special kind. It consists of three parts: first, two fingers of Irish whiskey in the bottom of the glass, sweetened with two small spoonfuls of sugar, then the coffee, black, black, black, as black even as the sin of Dermod MacMurrough, and then the thickest of cream floated over the top. As a result of this unusual indulgence, the elderly visitor from America was in the best of spirits when he emerged through the wide-open doors of the hotel at Kilkenny and looked out on the world.

It was a wonderful world, he found, a world of bright sunshine and grass as green as shamrocks, where even the yellow of mountain fern could be seen on the streets of the town. He took a deep breath.

“This is Ireland at last, John,” he said. “Just listen to their voices. None of your stage brogue here, John, my boy. Just the naturally sweet tones of a race blessed with gentle nature and the best of speaking cords in their throats.”

John was watching the people who passed. No hurry, no noise, no whistling for taxis (and no taxis to whistle for), no extravagance in dress, no hats straight from Fifth Avenue, no high heels.

“Very pretty girls, sir,” he said.

“There’s no prettier in the world,” exclaimed the senator. “Except, of course, the girls of the United States, most of whom have Irish blood anyway. And will you look over there at that shop which has a sign saying, ‘Turf Accountant’? Would you know what a turf accountant is?”

“It wouldn’t mean a bookmaker, would it?”

“It would indeed. Isn’t that just like the Irish? To dignify properly a calling as necessary as undertaking or paperhanging but which is spoken of in disrepute in all other countries of the world?”

There was a small car standing at the curb. A small man got out from behind the wheel and started up the steps toward them.

“Might you be the sinator from Ameriky?”

“Yes. And I expect you’re the Jamesey Boy Callaghan the landlord told us about.”

The little man wore a long and dilapidated coat bound in at the waist by a frayed rope. “It’s no secret in any part of County Kilkenny, sor, that I’m James Callaghan, no matter what other names they have for me, the dirty backbiters and faultfinders.”

“I was informed you had a car, Mr. Callaghan.”

The little man waved a hand grandly in the direction of the contraption at the curb. “And what might that be, sor?”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Callaghan, that automobiles are not like old wine. They don’t improve with age. Just how old is that car, so called?”

The Irishman’s pride went immediately to the defense of the antiquity of his property. “No man, dead or alive, knows the true lineage of this car, sor. It goes far back into histhry. It’s said that Brian Boru himself rode in it.”

“It’s most clearly a museum piece. When did you buy it, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

“I didn’t buy it, sor. It were re-link-wished to me by a dump heap, and my brother-in-law Daniel Oge worked miracles on it.”

“Do you guarantee it will get us to Castle O’Rawn?”

The Irishman gave his head a satisfied nod. “Then the information I had, sor, is true. You are the great man from Ameriky who has come all the way across the seas to visit Patrick O’Rawn. And a fine gentleman he is, even if he is a wee bit hasty at times. It’s a matter of regret that I must report him, sor, to be one that will hold a grudge. I have been told not to set so much as a foot on his property and so I can do no more than take you to his gate and depart at once. You’ll have the thirty shillings ready for me, so I can get away without any delay, sor?”

“I’ll have the ten shillings ready for you and not a penny more.”

“It’s hard of hearing I am, sor. Did I hear you say twenty shillings and the price of a thrippence mug of heavy for all in the bar up to, say, six?”

“You hear me say fifteen shillings. And it’s the last word you’re going to hear on the subject.”

“Fifteen it was all the time. But it’s not blaming me you’ll be for trying.”

“I’ll not blame you if you get us to Castle O’Rawn. I have my doubts whether this car will hold out that far.”

The jehu waved his hand airily. “Git right in, sors. It’s a broth of a car and in any case it’s downhill most of the way.”

They rode in uneasy state across the square and looked up with awe at the great frowning castle which Strongbow had built above it and which William the Marshal had enlarged and strengthened. It looked enormous and grim, a very Moloch of a castle. They climbed a grade which led out of town, with much puffing and snorting and bucking, and just managed to make the crest with a final convulsive shudder. They rolled on then through country as sweet to the eye as the hills of Samaria to desert travelers, where they could look down over the greenest of fields to the winding course of the river Nore. As they progressed, Jamesey Boy Callaghan told them a great deal about the owner of Castle O’Rawn. It seemed that he was a man of much pride and a blistering tongue, the rough edge of which had been employed often in pointing out weaknesses in the character of James Callaghan. He was a man who knew horses and might have made a fortune out of them if he had even been able to afford more than a pair of “plugs” for the use of the family. He was a writer, a writer “of sorts,” amended the driver with the air of one who deems it necessary to draw a distinction.

“What sort of things does he write?” asked the senator, who sat in the front seat with him, while John and Peterkin sat in the rear and held onto the sides for dear life.

“Oh, all sorts. The theayter, and books, and wine, and the histhry of Kilkenny. Anything that’s uninteresting like and don’t matter at all. It’s not much that gets published, sor. But it’s rolling in wealth he’ll soon be, because his niece is the most beautiful girl in all Ireland, including the black country of the north, and she’ll be marrying a wealthy American one of these days.” At this point he turned to look at the back seat. “Is the young fella a wealthy American, sor?”

Richard O’Rawn kept a straight face. “He is that, Jamesey Boy Callaghan. He has just made a great fortune on the market.”

“Has he, now! It’s always been the way I wanted to make me living, to drop a shilling in a slot and see the great beautiful gold pieces tumbling out at the other end.” Then he gave his head a doubtful shake. “But it’s not winning the lovely little Eleanor he’ll be doing unless he can talk the birds out of the trees.”

The old man turned to look back at John. “Can you?” he asked.

“I’ve never tried, sir. I don’t believe I would have much success at it.”

“Unless a young spark can talk the birds out of the trees, how can he expect to talk the little lady off the high perch she’s climbed herself up to? But,” with another shake, “would it be of any use if he did? It’s a title she wants. Are titles to be had in Ameriky, sor?”

“No, I’m happy to say. We don’t believe in that kind of folly.”

“But she believes in them. It’s a Lady This or a Duchess That she’s got to be. But all this is idle talk, sor, and a waste of time. She says she’s never going to marry and all the brisk lads hereabouts are beginning to believe she means it.”

Castle O’Rawn, as they perceived when it was pointed out to them from the summit of a steep hill, was not large or impressive and only part of it was old enough to justify any claim to the term of castle. But it had a great deal of charm, standing in the bend of a small stream with a clump of gentle old trees on one side of it and the greenest fields in the whole of Ireland around it.

“It’s just as I thought it would be,” said the old man in a musing tone. “I’ve been corresponding with Patrick O’Rawn for a great many years and he’s made the home of my ancestors very real to me.”

“Will you be jumping out when we reach the gate so I can throw you the bags and get along about my business without any attempt to stop whatever? These brakes are like an old ’ooman’s stays which has lost the whalebone.”

The owner of the castle had seen them as they came over the hill and he was standing at the gate when the ancient car gave one jerk and almost came to a stop. Peterkin was down first with outstretched arms to help his employer. The senator proved so heavy, however, that the pair of them came close to tumbling on the sod and only John’s hand on the old man’s arm prevented a catastrophe.

“So you fell into the clutches of that scoundrel!” said the owner of the castle, scowling at the back of the rapidly departing jehu. “I hope you’ve come to no injury. If you have, I will personally attend to the horsewhipping of Jamesey Boy Callaghan all the way to Dublin and back.”

“I’m quite all right,” gasped the senator. “How useless the muscles are when you reach my age! Have we all the bags, Peterkin?”

“They’re here, sir.”

Patrick O’Rawn was very tall and bone-thin, with an undisciplined thatch of thinning red hair. There was an unmistakable air of distinction about him.

“I’m most happy,” he said, “to welcome the greatest of the O’Rawns to the home of his forefathers. It is an honor as well as a pleasure. Will you be running for President next term?”

“This is John Foraday, Patrick O’Rawn. And this is Peterkin. I will not be running for President. I’ve dropped out of politics entirely. A matter of old age combined with bad health; and a pressure of time on me for the doing of other things.”

They were crossing the lawn and saw ahead of them a beautiful old door with copper hinges sunk into the walls of the ancient part of the house.

“I have no wireless,” the owner was saying. “But I’ve seen you sometimes here and there on what you call newsreels, I believe. You are a most impressive speaker, Richard.” He paused at the stone steps. “I hoped my niece Eleanor would be out to do the honors with me. No doubt she has planned some more impressive way of letting you see her first. Sometimes I think that girl should be with the Abbey Players and sometimes it seems to me that she belongs on a tapestry of Norman times and nowhere else.”

They were standing in a circular hall of quite considerable height and with open steps winding upward around the wall. The stone or the wall and the darkness caused by the narrowness of the slits which passed for windows spoke convincingly of a great age.

“Your first visit home, Richard,” said the host, giving his head a regretful shake. “And right away I see speculation in your eyes. Are you thinking that you stand for the first time in all that’s left of the ancestral home?”

The visitor from America nodded. “My mind was filled with it, Patrick. I was indeed speculating on the age of these walls. They are old. But not as old perhaps as you think. And you are equally to blame for this lifelong delay in getting together. You were stubborn also, Patrick. You wouldn’t come to America and I couldn’t go to Ireland.”

“The New World called to me but there was never a time when I could afford the passage. But you were saying something that I propose to dispute most emphatically. About the age of these walls.”

“In my humble opinion, sir, this entrance tower was built at least two centuries later than the arrival of the first O’Rawn in Ireland.”

The owner’s face showed a slight tendency to redness. “Come, Richard, a snap verdict. I’ll show you all the evidence there is on the subject. Scanty enough but to me quite convincing. Our brave young ancestor was the architect of these walls, Cousin, although I am free to concede that the rest of the house is comparatively modern. One wing is even Elizabethan.” He was now scowling at his guest. “Hell and Biddy Malone, why do you think different?”

“Patrick, the Normans always considered protection against attack the purpose to be achieved in building a castle. Why would Richard of Rawen, who seems to have been a wise young cockerel, select this site? Archers posted on the top of that hill could have riddled you here. I’ll take you to the exact spot where the first Rawen Castle stood, Patrick, on the brow of that hill. If we can get a few strong-backed fellows with spades, we’ll get down to the original foundations in no time at all. Don’t look at me so bitterly. Isn’t the truth in such a matter more important than personal pride in a long-accepted theory?”

“The truth is more important than what you call my personal pride, Cousin. But come outside again and point out this site to me.” He added over his shoulder: “The stubbornness of the Norman still persists in the O’Rawns, doesn’t it? We both have our full share.”

John did not follow his elders out for the continuation of the discussion. He had heard a sound from the interior of the house which interested him much more. Someone was playing a harp. What he heard was not the sonorous throbbing of a full-sized instrument but the poignant note of a small Irish harp. The air was an old and strange one, as old perhaps as the tower in which he stood, and the voice which sang the words was a pure and sweet treble. It was like a minor Patti singing a lullaby in a nursery.

“It’s the niece,” he said to himself. “Should I stand here while they argue outside or should I go in and introduce myself?”

He compromised by going as far as the entrance to a small drawing room, an apartment in which elegance had slowly turned to shabbiness. There were fine portraits on the walls and a long Georgian couch which seemed priceless at a casual glance, but the rugs were worn and not too skillfully patched. A girl sat at the far end, dressed in flowing green and gold, and she was picking at the strings of the harp. Her head, a mass of pure gold, was bent over it.

Peterkin was breathing hard at his shoulder. “Will you look at that!” he whispered. “She must be an angel. And d’ye see, she’s playing a harp!”

John, who had caught his breath in sheer wonder, had no comment to make. He was thinking in a panic: “How can I face this divine creature? How will I be able to talk to her? Peterkin is right. She is an angel.”

Then the girl turned and it was apparent to John at once that Peterkin was only partly right. She was angelic in her beauty but at the same time she seemed as imperious as any princess out of history. Her golden hair had been wound around her head with the most artful carelessness; her eyes were of a blue which defied any definition; her features were flawlessly classic but with the delicacy of a cameo. Searching in his mind for similes, John said to himself, “She’s like a Plantagenet princess”; and stopped there, for he knew he had found the perfect one.

The girl had risen and stretched out a hand in greeting. The green and gold sleeve had fallen back to reveal a slender white arm.

“You must be Mr. Foraday,” said the divinity. Did her voice have a slight hint of royal condescension about it?

“Yes,” he answered, his throat so dry that speech was difficult.

“We live a most secluded life here and you are the first American I have seen. You puzzle me rather. You don’t look like an American. At least not what I expected.”

“Don’t I? How should I look?” He was beginning to get hold of himself.

“I suppose I expected you to speak in a high voice and to be wearing one of those felt hats with a very broad brim. All Americans wear them, don’t they?”

“Well, no,” said John. “Only when they’re in the movies or when they live in the hot parts of the country where they need protection from the sun. The first time I saw a cowboy hat worn in real life was a few weeks ago when I went to Mr. O’Rawn’s ranch.”

“It’s strange that such wrong ideas can get about, isn’t it?”

“It’s the same all over the world, I guess. The people of one country laugh at all others. Why, at one time in America the favorite comedian in a play was generally an Irishman.”

He realized at once that this was not the right thing to say. She had drawn herself up and was regarding him with an air that was positively chilly.

“Really! What could you possibly find to laugh about in us?”

John hesitated. “Oh, nothing much. You know, the old things. ‘Begorra!’ and ‘Bejabers!’ and red noses and plug hats and shillelaghs.”

Her manner had become glacial. “How amazing!” she said. “I didn’t believe it possible that even in America there could be such ideas. And as for what I said about you, I was told positively by Dr. O’Markey that he was more impressed by the number of cowboy hats in America than by the skyscrapers.”

“Perhaps your Dr. O’Markey isn’t a reliable observer,” suggested John, who was beginning to get his back up in spite of the spell she had cast over him.

“That is possible,” said the girl. “He did say that the Western university where he lectured had several times over the number of students as our Trinity. And that, of course, is absurd.”

And then, with a suddenness which left him speechless, she changed completely. Her whole face lighted up and she smiled at him. “Oh, Mr. Foraday, how very rude I have been! Getting you into an argument as soon as you step inside the door. I’ve been trying to tell you that we Irish are the one perfect race and at the same time proving how very tactless we can be. Will you forgive me? And now I think you might like a cup of tea.”

To John’s amazement she did not reach out to pull the bell cord on the wall behind her but left the room and returned in a very few minutes with a small tray and a pot of tea. The china was almost transparent and obviously very old and valuable and the act of handing him his cup brought her so close to him that he could feel his hand trembling. He hardly dared accept it.

They were sitting together, however, and talking in a friendly way when the two elders returned, still pursuing their argument. They had the room to themselves, moreover, for Peterkin had been taken in hand by the household servant, a gloomy and untidy Irishman named Lacey, and they had vanished together. Patrick O’Rawn came to a stop when he saw his niece.

“So! It was the role of the beautiful harpist at a Court of Love you selected. I hope the young man was properly impressed. Richard, this is my niece Eleanor. She was my youngest brother’s youngest child. Now, God be kind to all of them, there are none left but the three of us, Richard, the last of the O’Rawns. I must warn you about this niece of mine. She has gentle and beguiling ways when she likes, she rides like an angel on a white horse in the clouds, she has a mind and a tongue of her own. I love her dearly. I would do anything in the world for her. But there are times when I wish she were still a little girl so I could take her across my knee!”

“Uncle Paddy!” cried the girl in indignant tones. “What an outrageous thing to say!”

“I am putting our guests on their guard.”

Richard O’Rawn had nothing to say. He was looking at the girl in a silence which suggested he had experienced both a surprise and a shock. He was thinking: “This passes belief! How strange, and yet how right! How the proofs are piling up!”