Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 18

The senator continued to speak of his desire to visit the dismantled tower which had been the home of the Tostigans but somehow they never did get around to doing it. Every evening after dinner, with a long black cigar in his lips and a look of utter content on his face, he would say something to this effect: “Shouldn’t we go over and see the Tostigan ghost, Paddy? A fine night for it.” His host would rouse himself from the slight torpor into which he had fallen after the removal of the coffee cups and mutter: “What—what did you say, Cousin Rick? Oh yes, the ghost. Yes, we ought to do it tonight. No time like the present, eh? But, hell and Biddy Malone, I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. This very instant I’m thinking with longing of the comfort of my bed and how fine it will be to get my head down on a soft pillow.”

There would be a pause. “I might as well confess, Paddy, that I feel exactly the same way. I don’t think I can stay awake long enough tonight to catch that ghost at his tricks. Well, let’s leave it that we’ll go tomorrow night without fail.”

But tomorrow never came, as far as the quest of the Tostigan ghost was concerned. Each evening, after the two elderly men had gone upstairs to their beds, a change would come over the princess (they had fallen into the habit of calling her that, all except John, who did not dare) and her eyes would begin to dance with excitement. She would say to John: “Let’s go for a ride! The moon’s out and it will be gorgeous to cross the ford and ride up into the Calverstock.”

John never failed to spring up with alacrity. “A grand idea! Let’s go!”

For he had his hunter. It had been inspected and purchased on the second day of the visit, for a good round price, a handsome bay with a long reach and strong quarters. The princess had taken one look at him and had said to herself bitterly: “My poor little Bridie will be hard put to keep up with this fellow. And think of the dozen or more decent Irish boys, without a shilling in any of their pockets, who would sell their immortal souls to own him.”

She had been willing enough, however, to coach the fortunate outsider in the finer points of riding. She had been very severe about his posture and his hand on the reins. “Sit up but give him his head!” she would cry. “He knows more about fences, this fine bay honey, than any dozen of you could name.” Or, “Easy, you idiot, easy! Do you want to saw the poor fellow’s mouth in two?”

Under such exacting tutelage, John had improved rapidly. So rapidly, in fact, that one day she gave him a searching look and said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t any Irish blood in you. No mere Yankee could pick things up as quickly as this.”

“There’s not a drop of Irish blood in my veins,” answered John cheerfully. “I’m New England for ten full generations. And proud of it.”

“If I believed that,” she declared grimly, “I wouldn’t be devoting all this time to you, John of the Fine Hats.”

The reference to hats stemmed back to an early stage of the visit when John thought to establish himself higher in her esteem by mentioning that his great-grandfather had been the maker of the best headgear in America. The Congdon hats, he had explained.

“Congdon hats?” The princess, it seemed, had never heard of them; which was not strange. “Do you mean riding hats?”

“No. Hats for everyday use. Fedoras, mostly. And bowlers and straws.”

“But,” she had demurred in a puzzled tone, “the best hats in America would be riding hats. That stands to reason.”

“Not one person in twenty thousand has ever been on a horse in America. So riding hats are of small importance.”

“It must be a dreadful country. Everything you tell me makes it seem worse, John of the Fine Hats.”

Her own life seemed bound up with riding. Sometimes she would be out before breakfast and she would come in just in time for the meal, looking flushed and beautiful. She would put her crop on the table in front of her and look scornfully about her. “Sluggards!” she would say. “Wasting the mornings in soul-clogging sleep. Coffee, I beseech you!” John generally shared her afternoon rides and always went out with her when she decided to serenade the moon with a fast gallop. Unfortunately this did nothing to advance his suit. The princess rode like the wind and conversation was out of the question.

Her changes in mood were rapid and unpredictable. They might part on the worst of terms because of some disagreement over nothing and then she would come down to dinner in a green frock which made her look wonderful; and she would take a chair beside his with a gay “Hello, Sir John.” She would smile at him between voluptuous sips of her cocktail. Her hair would be piled up high on her head and the light from the lamps would cause it to glow softly. Her eyes would be bright while her cheeks had a rosy tint; and her haughty mood would be dissolved completely in tenderness. John would think of Eleanor of Aquitaine (because she had been the mother of the Plantagenets and was said to have been beautiful and fascinating) and Helen of Troy and Cleopatra, and he would decide they were all old hat. She would chatter throughout the meal and John’s fork would remain unused and his fingers would toy aimlessly with the stem of his glass. Even when he unintentionally lifted something to his mouth it would be done with no realization that the mutton was supreme or that the raisin pudding, sloshed with custard and thick cream, was a heavenly dish for lovers as well as dolts and gluttons.