It was November, and it had been raining for a week.
The sun had vanished, the hills had vanished, the land had all but vanished—nothing remained but the wind and the rain, the rain and the wind.
Effie's short lessons only consumed a couple of hours of each rain-soaked, wind-blown day. No one ever came to Drumgool except, maybe, a farmer now and then to see Mr. French; and the long-drawn "hoo-hoo" of the wind through the Devil's Keyhole, the rattling of windows fighting with the wind, and the tune of wastepipes emptying into over-full waterbutts were beginning to prey upon Miss Grimshaw's nerves.
Even Mr. Giveen would have been a distraction these times; but Mr. Giveen was now at open enmity with his kinsman, and spoiling with all the bitterness of his petty nature to do him an injury.
And Giveen was not French's only enemy just now. The United Irish League was against him. He had let farms on the eleven months' system, and he had let farms for grazing, two high offences in the eyes of the league.
"The time has come to put an end to the big grazing ranches and to plant the people on the soil," says the league, as though the people were seed potatoes. "You mustn't take a farm on an eleven-month agreement," goes on this Areopagus of plunderers andshort-sighted patriots. "For," continues the league, "if you do, we'll drive the cattle off your land with hazel sticks, and on you we will commit every dirty outrage that the black heart of a low-down Irishman can invint, Begob!" And they do.
The law of the league is the law of the west of Ireland. King Edward does not reign there in the least.
"Come down here," cried Mr. French one morning, standing in the hall and calling up the stairs, where he had caught the flutter of Miss Grimshaw's skirt. "Come down here till I show you something you've never seen before. Come in here."
He led the way into a small room, where he received farmers and tenants, and there, sitting on a chair, was an old man with a face furrowed like a ploughed field. His battered old hat was on the floor, and he held in his hand two cows' tails, and there he sat, purblind, and twisting the tails in his hands, a living picture of age and poverty and affliction.
"Don't get up, Ryan. Sit you down where you are," said French, "and tell the young lady what you have in your hands."
"Sure, they're me cows' tails," piped the old fellow, like a child saying a lesson. "Me beautiful cows' tails, that the blackguards chopped off wid a knife—divil mend them!—and I lyin' in bed in the grey of the marnin'. 'Listen,' I says to me wife. 'What ails the crathurs and they boohooin' like that?' 'Get up an' see,' she says. And up I gets, and slips on me breeches and coat, and out I goes, and finds thim hangin' over the rail, dhrippin' wid blood, and theycut off wid a knife. Oh, the blackguards, to chop their knives into the poor innocent crathurs, and lave me widout a cow, and the rint comin' due, and me wife sick in her bed, and all. Sure, what way is that to be thratin' a man just bekase I niver answered their divil's notice to quit?"
"Cut off his cows' tails?" cried the girl in horror. "Were they alive?"
"Yes," said French. "It's little those ruffians care for an animal—or a man either."
"Oh, but what a cruel, sneaking thing to do! Why did they do it?"
"Because he would not give up his bit of a farm. And they call themselves Irishmen; and the worst of the business is, they are. Well, Ryan, keep your seat, and I'll send you in a drop of whisky. And don't bother about the rent—I expect the next thing will be they'll visit me. Faith, and they'll get a warm reception if they do!"
Mr. French left the room, followed by the girl. "That's the sort of thing that's been the ruin of Ireland," said he, as he pulled the sitting-room bell for Norah. "Talk of landlords! Good heavens! when was there ever a landlord would cut a cow's tail off? When was there ever a landlord would mutilate horses? Did ye ever hear of a landlord firing a gun through the window of a house where a lonely old woman was and nearly blow the roof off her skull, all because her son refused to 'strip his farm,' as they call it? And that was done ten miles from here a month before you came. Norah, get the whisky and give old Ryan a glassfuland a bite to eat. He's sitting in there in the little study, with his two cow's tails, those blackguards have cut off, in his hand. Take him into the kitchen and dry him, and let him sit by the fire; and tell Mrs. Driscoll to give him something for his old wife, for she's sick in bed.
"Yes, that's what Ireland has come to. A lot of poor, ignorant people like Ryan, ruled by a syndicate of ruffians, that make their own laws and don't care a button for the law of God or the law of the land. It's unbelievable, but there it is. And now they'll be going for me. I've had several anonymous letters in the last month, threatening boycotting or worse, if I don't amend my ways. Much I care for them! Look, the rain's cleared off. I'm going to the meet of the hounds at Drumboyne. Would you care to drive with me? If you had a riding habit, we might have ridden."
"But I have a riding habit. It's pretty old, but——"
"Up with you and put it on, then," said Mr. French; "and I'll tell Moriarty to saddle the grey mare for you. She'll be round at the door in ten minutes."
Twenty minutes later, Miss Grimshaw, in a riding habit and covert coat, relic of her money-making days with Hardmuth, was accompanying Mr. French down the drive, she on the grey mare, he on a raw-boned hunter with a head which had suggestions about it of a fiddle and the devil.
She was a good horsewoman. In London, her only extravagance had been an early morning canter in thePark on a hired hack. It was for this she had bought the habit.
They struck the road. It was twenty minutes past nine, and as the meet was at half-past ten, they had plenty of time.
The clouds had ceased raining, had risen to an immense height, and there, under the influence of some wind of the upper atmosphere, had become mackerelled—a grey, peaceful sky, showing here and there through a rift the faintest tinge of blue.
The air smelt of the rain and the rain-wet earth, and the hills lay distinct, grey, peaceful, wonderfully clear.
Nowhere else in the world but in Ireland do you get such weather as this.
Hennessy, the master of the hounds, lived at a place called Barrington Court, seven miles south of Drumboyne. He was a young man, a bachelor, and a pretty fast liver; he owned a good bit of land, and, like every other landowner in the county, was pretty much under the thumb of the league. But he was, unlike French, a diplomat.
"That's Hennessy," said Mr. French, when the turning of the road suddenly showed them the long, straggling street of Drumboyne, the market cross, the hounds, the master and the whips, and about two dozen horsemen, mounted on all sorts and conditions of nags, all congregated about the cross. "We're just in time. The first meet of the season, too, and a grand day for the scent."
Violet Grimshaw, who had never until this seen ameet of the hounds except in the illustrated papers, looked before her with interest not unmixed with amusement at the crowd surrounding the cross.
All sorts of rabble had gathered from north, south, east, and west. Gossoons without a shoe to their feet; chaps from "over beyant the big bog," in knee-breeches and armed with shillelaghs; dirty little girls dragging younger sisters by the hand to have a look at the "houn's"; Father Roche, from Cloyne, who had stopped to say a cheery word to Hennessy; Long Doolan, the rat catcher, in an old red waistcoat; Billy Sheelan, of the Station Inn, the same who had directed Mr. Dashwood on his fishing expedition, and who, by popular report, was ruining his mother and "drinking the inn dry"—all these and a lot more were chattering and laughing, shouting one to the other, and giving advice to the whips, when French and his companion, rounding the turn of the road, made their appearance.
The effect was magical. The talking and the laughing ceased. Men fell away from one another, and as French rode up to the master, three farmers who had been talking to him turned their horses so that their backs were presented to the newcomers.
By the inn door, which was directly opposite the cross, French perceived Mr. Giveen. Mr. Giveen vanished into the inn, but a moment later his face appeared at the barroom window, and remained there during all that followed.
"Well, Hennessy," said the master of Drumgool, appearing to take no notice of the coldness of hisreception, "you've a fine day for the first meet. Allow me to introduce you to a young lady who is staying with me. Mr. Hennessy—Miss Grimshaw. And where are you going to draw?"
"Barrington Scrub, I believe," replied Hennessy, saluting the girl. "Yes, it's not a bad day. Do you intend to follow?"
"No. We'll go to see you draw the scrub, that's all. Why, there's Father Roche! And how are you to-day? Faith, it's younger you're looking every time I meet you. And why haven't I seen you at Drumgool these months?" As he turned to talk to the priest several of the hunt drew close to Hennessy and spoke to him in a low tone, but so vehemently that Violet, observing everything, overheard several of their remarks.
"Not a fut does he follow the houn's. What do I care about him? Sure, Giveen said he swore he'd fling the whole of the Castle French property into grazing land to spite the league. Listen now, and it's the last time I'll say it. If he goes, we stay."
"French!" said the master, detaching himself from the group.
"Hullo!" replied Mr. French.
"Just a word with you."
He drew him aside.
"There's a lot of bad blood here. It's not my fault, but you know these chaps, and they have a down on you, every one of them, and they say if you follow to the scrub, they'll all stay behind. Now, don't get waxy. You know it's not my fault, but there it is."
French's eyes blazed.
"Follow you to the scrub!" said he in a loud, ringing voice. "Thank you for the hint, Dick Hennessy. Follow you with that pack of half-mounted rat-catchers! I was going to ride to the scrub to see if there was ever a fox white-livered enough to turn its tail on them, and, sure, if he did, he couldn't run for laughing. And, talking of tails," said Mr. French, turning from the master and addressing the market-place, "if the gentleman who cut off the tails of old Ryan's cows will only step forward, I'll accommodate him with my opinion of him here and now. And it's not the whip-end of my hunting-crop I'll do it with, either."
No gentleman present was at all desirous of being accommodated, for French turned the scale at fourteen stone, all muscle, and he was a match for any two men present.
He waited a moment. Then he took off his hat to Miss Grimshaw.
"I must apologise to you," he said, "for losing my temper. Let us on to Cloyne, for this is no place for a lady to be, at all."
He touched the fiddle-headed devil he was riding with the spur, making him plunge and scatter the ragamuffins who were hanging on the scene with open mouths, and, cannoning against and nearly unseating one of the "half-mounted rat-catchers," he took the road to Cloyne, followed by the girl.
It was the first time he had come in clash with his countrymen; the storm had been brewing a long time, but it had burst at last. To think that he, MichaelFrench, in his own county, had been ordered not to follow the hounds by a herd of dirty-fisted petty farmers was a thought to make his blood boil. Petty spite, needle-sharp—that was the weapon the league were using against Michael French by day. In their own disgusting language, he was a "first offender." Even yet, if he chose to give in and eat humble pie out of the grimy hands of the men who would be his masters, he might find forgiveness. If not, boycotting would follow, and who knows what else?
He knew this, and he knew that he had no hope of help from the law. The police might arrest his tormenters if they were caught trying to do him an injury; but the jury, if they were tried, would be pretty sure to let the offenders slip. And it was a hundred to one they would never be caught, for these people are trained sneaks; no area sneak is more soft-footed or cunning than the gentleman with the black cloth mask and the knife, who comes like a thief in the night to work brutal mutilation on cattle.
Garryowen was the only thing he was afraid of; but in Moriarty he had a rock of strength to depend upon.
"Did you see Dick Giveen?" said he, as the girl ranged alongside of him. "He's had a finger in this pie. Did you see him at the inn window with his nose to the pane? He knew I'd come to the meet, and he came to see those chaps get the better of me."
"They didn't get that," said Violet. "They looked like whipped puppies when you were talking to them. Yes, I'm sure that man has been doing you injury. Iheard one of the farmers say to Mr. Hennessy that Giveen had said you would do your best to spite the league. I wish I hadn't gone with him in the boat that day. If I hadn't, this would not have occurred."
"I don't care for those chaps so much as for Dick Giveen," said he. "He's a bad man to vex. These fools always are. He'll be on my tracks now like a stoat trying to do me some dirty trick. He'll watch and wait. I know him. But if he comes within five miles of Drumgool, I'll put a bullet in him, or my name's not Michael French."
They rode on through the grey, still day. Now and again a whiff of turf smoke from a cabin by the way made the air delicious. Over the black bog pitches and wild, broken land a soft wind had risen, blowing from the south, and bringing with it the scent of the earth, and far ahead of them a trace of smoke from the chimneys of Cloyne went up against the background of hills.
Mr. French and Miss Grimshaw stopped at the Station Inn at Cloyne, and put the horses up. French ordered some bread and cheese. "And now," said he, "while they're getting it ready, would you like to see a real old Irish cabin? I'll take you to see old Mrs. Moriarty down the road, and you can amuse yourself talking to her for a minute, while I run in and see Janes, my agent. Mrs. Moriarty is a witch, so they say, but she's true to the Frenches. She was a kitchen-maid at Drumgool in my grandfather's time. She believes in fairies and leprechauns, and all that nonsense. Here we are."
He stopped at the door of a cabin a hundred yards away from the inn and knocked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he lifted the latch and opened the door.
"Are you there, Kate?" cried he into the dark interior of the place.
"Sure, and where else would I be?" replied a wheezy voice. "Who are you, lettin' the draught in on me? Oh! glory be to Heaven! it's Mr. Michael himself."
"Come in," said French, and the girl followed him into the one room where Mrs. Moriarty kept herself and her hens—two of them were roosting on the rafters—and where she was sitting now over a bit of fire, with her bonnet on to keep the "cowld" from her head, and a short black pipe between her teeth. It was an appalling place considered as a human dwelling. The floor was of clay, the window had only one practicable pane, the rest were broken and stuffed with rags. A heap of rags in the corner did duty for a bed. By the fire and beside the old lady, who was sitting on a stool, a bantam hen brooding in the warmth cocked one bloodshot eye up at the visitors.
"I've brought a young lady to see you, Kate," said Mr. French. "Talk to her and tell her of the fairies, for I'm going down the road to see Mr. Janes, and I won't be a minute, and I'll send you a drop of whisky from the inn to warm your gizzard when I get back."
"Sure, it's welcome she is," said the old woman. "But it isn't a seat I have to ask her to sit on, and Istuck to this ould stool wid the rheumatiz in me legs. Get out wid you, Norah," making a dive with a bit of stick at the bantam, which, taking the hint, fluttered into a corner, "and make way for the young lady. You'll excuse her, miss; she's the only one of siven I brought up wid me own hand. Sure, it's not from anywhere in these parts you've come from?"
She was peering up from under her bonnet at the girl's face, and Violet, fascinated by that terrible purblind gaze, thought that she had never seen tragedy written on a human countenance so plainly as on the stone-like mask which the red glimmer of the turf fire showed up to her beneath the bonnet of the old woman.
"No," said she; "I come from America."
"Ochone!" cried Mrs. Moriarty. "Sure, it's there me boy Mike went forty years ago—forty years ago!—and niver a word or a letther from him for twenty long years. Maybe you never chanced to hear of him, miss? He was in the bricklayin'. Six-fut-six he stood widout his brogues, and the lovely red hair on the head of him was curly as a rethraver's back. And, sure, what am I talkin' about? It's grey he'd be now. Ochone! afther all thim years!"
"No," said the girl, "I never heard of him; but America is a big place. Cheer up. You may hear of him yet, and here's something that may bring you luck!"
She took a shilling from the pocket of her covert coat and put it in the hand of the old woman, who took it and blessed her, and wrapped it in a scrap of paper.
"The blessin's of God on you, and may the divil bile his pot wid the man that desaves you! Oh! sure, it's the face of a shillin' I haven't seen for more than a twel'month, and I afeared to say a word, for the guardians do be strugglin' to get me into the House. Half-a-crown a week and a bandage for me poor leg is all I've had out of the blackgyards, and they sittin' on the poor wid one hand and fillin' their bellies wid the other. Atin' and dhrinkin' and havin' the hoight of fine times they do be wid the money of the parish. May it stick in their livers till the divil chokes their black mouths with burnin' turves an' bastes them wid the bilin' tears of the poor they do be defraudin'! And they're all up against Mr. Michael. Whisht! now, and I'll tell you somethin'. Shusey Gallagher, she's servant beyant over there at Blood, the farrier's; she tould me to kape it saycret they was going to play their tricks on Mr. Michael's horses if he went on lettin' his land to the graziers. She said they was going to——"
At this moment the cabin door was flung open and a ragged urchin popped his head in, shouted, "Boo!" and clapped the door to again. It was a favourite pastime with the Cloyne children to shout through old Mrs. Moriarty's door, and then watch her raging through the window.
"Away wid yiz!" yelled Mrs. Moriarty, forgetting Violet, Mr. French's enemies, and everything else in her excitement, turning to the window, where she knew her tormenter would be, and shaking her fist at the grinning face peeping in at her. "Away wid yiz,or I'll cut your lights out, comin' shoutin' through me dure, you divil's baboon, wid your ugly gob stuck at me window there! Gr-r-r! Out wid you, you baste, you, or I'll lay you flat so your mother won't know you wid a sod of turf! Off wid you and ax your father what he meant gettin' such a monkey-faced parrit and lettin' it loose on the parish widout a chain to it, you cross-eyed son of a blackgyard, you!"
All of which was better than pearls to the one at the window.
Horrified at the language, and fearing a stroke for Mrs. Moriarty, the girl ran to the door and opened it, only to see a small gossoon, bare-legged and bare-footed, vanishing round the corner.
Then she came back, anxious to get out of Mrs. Moriarty more information concerning the plans against French, but the source had dried up. The old lady declared herself to be moidhered, and her wits to be all astray.
"Well, listen to me," said Violet. "If you hear any more of those men going to harm Mr. French or his horses let me know, and I'll give you a silver five-shilling piece for yourself."
Mrs. Moriarty understood that.
At this moment the door opened, and Mr. French appeared, and, leaving the old lady to her pipe and the prospect of a glass of whisky, they went back to the inn for luncheon.
The hideous, old-fashioned Irish custom of dinner at four o'clock had been put aside on account of Miss Grimshaw. Seven o'clock was the dinner hour atDrumgool now, and after dinner that night, Effie having departed for bed in charge of Norah, Violet, with a ball of red wool and two long knitting-needles, took her seat at a corner of the fireplace in the sitting-room. The idea of a red knitted petticoat for old Mrs. Moriarty had occurred to her on the way home, and she was putting it now into practice.
French had been rather gloomy on the way home, and at dinner. It was evident that the incident at the meet had hit him hard. Money worries could not depress the light-hearted, easy-going gentleman, who had a soul above money and the small affairs of life. It was the feeling of enmity against himself that cast him out of spirits for the first time in years. For the first time in life he felt the presence, and the influence against him, of the thing we call Fate.
His whole soul, heart, and mind were centred on Garryowen. In Garryowen he felt he had the instrument which would bring him name and fame and fortune. It was no fanciful belief. He knew horses profoundly; here was the thing he had been waiting for all his life, and everything was conspiring to prevent him using it.
First, there was Lewis and his debt—that was bad enough. Second, was the fact that he would have to complete the training of the horse in a hostile country, and that country the Ireland of to-day, a place where law is not and where petty ruffianism has been cultivated as a fine art. With Giveen for a spy on his movements, with a hundred scoundrels ready to do him an injury, and with Lewis only waiting to putout his hand and seize the horse, he was, it must be admitted, in a pretty bad way to the attainment of his desires.
But he had a friend, and as long as a man has a friend, however humble, he is not altogether in the hands of Fate. The girl sitting by the fire, knitting a red petticoat for old Mrs. Moriarty, had been exercising her busy mind for the past few days on the seeming hopelessness of the problem presented to her in French and his affairs. She had inherited a good deal of her father's business sharpness. She was not the niece of Simon Gretry for nothing, and a way out of the difficulty had presented itself before her; at least, she fancied it was a way.
At nine o'clock, after a look round the stables, Mr. French came in, and, sitting down in the arm-chair opposite the girl, opened theIrish Timesand began to read it, listlessly skimming the columns without finding anything of interest, moving restlessly in his chair, lighting his pipe and letting it go out again. Miss Grimshaw, without pausing in her rapid knitting or dropping a stitch, watched him.
Then she said, "Do you know I've been thinking?"
"What have you been thinking?"
"That I've found a way out of your difficulty about Garryowen."
"And what's that?" asked French, who, since the affair of Effie, had conceived a deep respect for Miss Grimshaw's cleverness and perspicuity.
"Well, it's this way," said she. "That man Lewis is your stumbling-block."
"Call him my halter," said the owner of Garryowen, "for if ever a man had a blind horse in a halter, it's me and him."
"No, I will not call him any such thing. He's only a moneylender. You owe him the money. Garryowen will belong to him after the third of April. Well, let him have Garryowen."
"Faith, there's no letting about it."
"Let him have Garryowen, I say, but not until after the race."
"Why—what do you mean?"
"I mean this. Would it not be possible to take Garryowen away from here secretly? He does not belong to Mr. Lewis yet. Take him away to some lonely place, train him there, and run him for the race. If he wins, you will make money, won't you? And if he loses, why, he will belong to Mr. Lewis."
French rose up and paced the floor.
"That's not a bad idea," said he. "By George! it's good, if we could do it. Only, could we keep it hid?"
"Does Mr. Lewis know you are running him for the race?"
"No. He doesn't know I've got him, and the debt's not due till a fortnight before the event. And, by Jove! if he does see my name in the racing lists, he'll put it down as my cousin, Michael French's—the one Mr. Dashwood met—for Michael runs horses in England every day in the week, and his name's as well known as the Monument. Faith! and it's a bright idea, for I'd get rid of all this crew here at one sweep."
Mr. French went to the door, opened it, and called:
"Norah!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Bring the whisky!"
"But," continued Mr. French, "the only question is where could I take the horse? Faith! and I have it. Todd Mead—he's a man you've never heard of—has an old shanty down in Sligo. He uses it for breeding polo ponies, and there's a hundred square mile of heath that you could train a dromedary on and not a soul to see. He lives in Dublin, and keeps a manager there, and he'd give me stabling there, maybe, for nothing, for he has more room than he wants. It's a big streeling barn of a place."
"You say the debt to Mr. Lewis only comes due a few weeks before the race?" asked Miss Grimshaw.
"Yes."
"Will he seize your things immediately the debt is due, or might he give you a few weeks' grace?"
"Not an hour's. I borrowed the money, giving him the house and live-stock as security, and the bit of land that's unmortgaged, and he'll clap a man in ten minutes after the clock strikes on the day the money is due."
"But if you have borrowed the money on the live stock, surely, since Garryowen is part of the live stock, it would be unlawful to remove him?"
"Listen to me," said Mr. French. "I borrowed the money before I owned Garryowen. Sure, the main reason I borrowed it was to buy him. He's not part of the security."
"Well, then, Mr. Lewis can't touch him."
"Yes, maybe, by law. But how long does it take to prove a thing by law? Suppose he puts a man in. Well, the man will seize the colt with everything else; then the lawyers will go to work to prove the colt's not part of the security and they'll prove it, maybe, about next June twelvemonth, and by that time two City and Suburbans will have been run, and Garryowen will be good for nothing but to make glue of. Besides, these blackguards here may do him an injury. No, the plan is to slip out by the back door. Major Lawson, an old friend of mine, has a stable at Epsom. We can bring the colt there two days before the race. I'm beginning to see clear before me and, faith, it's through your eyes I'm seeing."
"You are sure Mr. Lewis can't come down on you before April?"
"No. I paid him his half-year's interest last month. I paid him close on two hundred pounds."
"Well, if you paid him his interest next April, wouldn't he be satisfied?"
"Of course he'd be satisfied, but how am I to pay it? I tell you, it will take me every penny I have for the expenses. There's no margin for paying moneylenders.
"I've made my calculations. By scraping and screwing, with some money I've hid away, I can just manage to run the colt, pay expenses, and back him for a thousand—and that's all."
"But, see here. Why not back him for only eight hundred, and pay Mr. Lewis his two hundred?"
"Now, there you are," said French. "And that shows you haven't grasped the big thing I'm after. Suppose I pay Lewis his two hundred, and only back the colt for eight hundred, do you know what that would make me lose if he starts at, say, a hundred to one, and wins? I'd lose twenty thousand pounds. It's on the cards that for every hundred pounds I lay on Garryowen I'll win ten thousand."
"So that, if he wins, and you have the full thousand on him?"
"I'll win a hundred thousand."
"And if he loses?"
"Faith, I'll be stripped as naked as Bryan O'Lynn."
There was a fine sporting flavour in this deal with fortune that pleased Miss Grimshaw somehow.
"There is one more thing," said she. "Please excuse me for asking you the question, but if you lose the thousand, it will be all right, I suppose? I mean, you will be able to meet your liabilities?"
"Sure, you do not take me for a blackleg? Of course, I'll be able to pay. Isn't it a debt of honour?"
"Good. Then go in and win. Isn't that what the boys say when they are fighting? I'll help as far as my power will allow me. Will you write to Mr. Todd—what's his name?"
"No," said Mr. French. "I'll go to Dublin to-morrow and see him."
"Vilits, vilits, vilits, your arner!"
"Oh, bother violets!" said Mr. French. He had just come down the steps of the Kildare Street Club, he had lost five pounds at cards, the afternoon was drizzling, and he was being pestered to buy violets.
The violet vendor, a fantastical, filthy old woman in a poke bonnet, heedless of the rebuke, pursued her avocation and Mr. French, trotting like a dog behind him, chanting her wares, her misfortunes, his good looks.
"Sure, they're only a penny the bunch; sure, they're only a penny the bunch. Oh, bless your han'some face! Sure, you wouldn't be walkin' the shtreets widout a flower in yer coat. Let your hand drap into your pocket and find a penny, and it's the blessin's of Heaven will be pourin' on you before the night's out. Sure, it's a bunch I'll be givin' you for nothin' at all, but just the pleasure of fixin' it in your coat, an' they as big as cabbiges and on'y a penny the bunch."
It was a kind of song, a recitative, and invocation.
"I tell you I have no change," flashed the flowerless one. "I tell you I have no change."
The priestess of Flora halted and sniffed.
"Change!" said she. "No, nor nothin' to change."
Mr. French laughed as he opened his umbrella andhailed a passing outside car. "Faith," said he, as he mounted on the side of the car, "she's about hit the bull's-eye."
"Did you spake, sir?" said the jarvey.
"No, I was only thinking. Drive me to 32 Leeson Street. And where on earth did you pick up this old rattletrap of a horse from?"
"Pick him up!" said the jarvey with a grin. "Faith, the last time I picked him up was when he tumbled down in Dame Street yesterday afternoon, wid a carload of luggudge dhrivin' to Westland Row."
"You seem to have a talent for picking up rubbish, then?" said Mr. French.
"It's the fault of the p'leece," replied the other with an extension of the grin that nature, whisky, and the profession of car-driving had fixed upon his face. "It's the fault of the p'leece, bad 'cess to them!"
"And how's that?" asked Mr. French incautiously.
"Sure, they forbids me to refuse a fare. Jay up, y' divil! What are yiz shyin' at? Did y' never see a barra of greens before? Now thin, now thin, what are you takin' yourself to be, or what ails you, at all, at all?"
The car stopped at 32 Leeson Street. Mr. French descended, gave the jarvey a shilling for his fare and sixpence for a drink, and knocked at the hall door.
Mr. Mead was in, and the old butler, who opened the door, showed the visitor straight into the library—a comfortable, old-fashioned room, where, before a bright fire, Mr. Mead, a small, bright-eyed, apple-cheeked, youthful-looking person of eighty or so, wasseated in an armchair reading Jorrocks' "Jaunts and Jollities."
"Why, there you are!" cried Mead, jumping up.
"And there you are!" said Mr. French, clasping the old fellow's hand. "Why, it's younger you're growing every time I see you! Did you get my wire? Oh! you did, did you? Two o'clock! The scoundrels! I sent it off from the Shelbourne at twelve. No matter. And how's the family?"
"All right," replied Mead, putting Jorrocks on the mantelshelf and ringing the bell. "Billy married last winter. You remember I wrote to you? And Kate's engaged—James, a bottle of the blue-seal port!—and what's the news?"
"News!" said French with a short laugh. "What news do you expect from the West of Ireland except news of men being plundered and cattle maimed? News! I'm leaving the place; and that's why I wanted to see you. See here, Mead."
Mead, who was opening a bottle of the blue-seal port—an operation which he always conducted with his own hands—listened while French poured into his attentive ears the tale of his woes.
"The blackguards!" said the old man when French had finished. "And do you mean to say you've gone off and left the horse behind you for these chaps to maim? Maybe——"
"Oh! Moriarty is there," replied French. "He's sleeping in the stable, and Andy is sleeping in the loft. But it's on my mind that some dirty trick will be played before we get the colt to England, and that'swhy I've called to see you. Look here; you've got that place for your polo ponies down in Sligo. Will you let me take Garryowen over there and finish his training?"
"You mean my place at Ballyhinton?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I've sold it. Didn't you know?"
"Sold it!"
"Eight months ago."
"Good heavens!" said French. "That does me. And I've come all the way to Dublin to see you about it. Was there ever such luck!"
"You see," said Mead, "I'm not as young as I was. Bryan—the chap I had there—was swindling me right and left, so I sold off, lock, stock, and barrel. I'm sorry."
"Faith, and so am I," said French.
The big man, for the first time in his life, felt knocked out. Never for a moment did he dream of giving in, but he was winded. Besides all the worries we know of, a number of small things had declared against him, culminating in his loss at cards. He felt that he was in a vein of bad luck, under a cloud, and that until the cloud lifted and the luck changed it was hopeless for him to make plans or do anything.
He took leave of Mead and returned to the Shelbourne on foot. The rain had ceased, and as he drew near the hotel the sun broke through the clouds.
As he entered the hotel he ran almost into the arms of a young man dressed in a fawn-coloured overcoat, who, with his hat on the back of his head, wasstanding in the hall, a cigarette between his lips and a matchbox in his hand.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. French; then, starting back, "Why, sure to goodness, if it isn't Mr. Dashwood!"
"Come into the smoking-room," said Mr. Dashwood when they had shaken hands. "This is luck! I only came over by the morning boat. I'm coming down west. Oh, I'll tell you all about it in a minute. Come on into the smoking-room and have a drink."
Mr. Dashwood seemed in the highest of good spirits. He led the way into the smoking-room, rang the bell, ordered two whiskies and an Apollinaris and cigars, chaffed the Hibernian waiter, who was a "character," and then, comfortably seated, began his conversation with French.
"Here's luck!" said Mr. Dashwood.
"Luck!" responded French, taking a sip of his drink.
"This is the first drink I've had to-day," said Mr. Dashwood. "I've felt as seedy as an owl. It was an awfully rough crossing, but I didn't touch anything. I tell you what, French, since I saw you last I've been going it hard, but I've pulled up. You see," said Mr. Dashwood, "I'm not a drinking man, and when a fellow of that sort goes on the jag, he makes a worse jag of it than one of your old seasoned topers."
"That's so," said French. "And if you start to try to match one of those chaps, it's like matching yourself against a rum barrel. What drove you to it?"
"A woman," said Mr. Dashwood.
Mr. French laughed.
"Two women, I should say. I got tangled up with a woman."
"And you tried to cut the knot with a whisky bottle. Well, you're not the first. Fire away, and tell us about it."
"It's this way," said Mr. Dashwood. "A year ago I met a Miss Hitchin. She was one of those red-haired girls who wear green gowns, don't you know? and go in for things—Herbert Spencer and all that sort of stuff, don't you know? I met her at a show a Johnny took me to for fun, a kind of literary club business. Then, next day I met her again by accident in the Park, and we walked round the Serpentine. You see, I'd never met a woman like that before. She lived in rooms by herself, like a man, and she had a latchkey.
"I wasn't in love with her," continued the ingenuous Mr. Dashwood, "but, somehow or another, before I'd known her ten days I was engaged to her. Awfully funny business. You see, she had a lot of mind of her own, and I admire intellect in a woman, and she was a right good sort. I told her all about my life, and she wanted me to lead a higher one. Said she never could marry me unless I did. The strange thing about her was she always made me feel as if I was in a Sunday school, though she wasn't pious in the least. As a matter of fact, she didn't believe in religion; that is to say, church, and all that; but she was a Socialist.
"Awfully strong on dividing up every one's money so that every one would have five pounds a week. I used to fight her over that, for she had three hundred a year of her own, and stuck to it; besides, I didn't see the force of making all the rotters in the world happy, and drunk, with five quid a week out of my pocket; but she never would give in; always had some card up her sleeve to trump me with.
"You see, I'm not a political Johnny, and hadn't studied up the question. But we never fought really over that. Men and women don't ever really fight over that sort of thing; and I'd always give in for a quiet life, and we'd go off and have tea at the British Museum and look at the mummies and the marbles and things, and after six months or so I got quite fond of her in a way, and I began to look forward to marrying her.
"I used to mug up Herbert Spencer and a chap called Marx, and I never looked at another woman, and scarcely ever made a bet: and it might have gone on to us getting two latchkeys only——"
Mr. Dashwood stopped.
"Only I met another girl," he went on. "That put me in a beastly position, and the long and short of it is I went on the razzle-dazzle from the botheration of it all. Miss H. found out, and she cut the knot herself. I'm glad to be free," finished Mr. Dashwood, "but I wish it had happened some other way. In fact, I wish I'd never met Miss H. at all."
"And who is the other girl?" asked Mr. French.
"Oh, you know her."
"I?"
"Yes; she's down at your place now."
"Not Miss Grimshaw?"
"Yes, Miss Grimshaw. And that's the reason I'm going down west. I want to see her and tell her all."
French whistled; then he laughed.
"You seem in mighty good spirits over her," said he. "How do you know she'll have anything to do with you? Have you asked her?"
"Asked her! No. How could I, when I was tied up like that? That's what drove me off my balance. But I'm going to ask her, and that's why I've come over to Ireland."
"Look here," said Mr. French.
"Yes?"
"You said when I met you in the hall you were going to put up at Mrs. Sheelan's. You're not. Come and stay at Drumgool, on one condition."
"What's that?"
"That you don't ask her. First of all, you haven't known her long enough; and she hasn't known you long enough to find out whether you are properly matched. Second, I'm not so sure that I'm not going to ask her myself."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Dashwood.
"Oh, you needn't beg my pardon. I'm just telling you what's in my mind. I'm so moithered with one thing and another, I've no heart for anything at present, but just this horse I told you about, youremember—Garryowen. And I'm not a man to stand between two young people if their minds are set on each other. But the question is, Are they? You care for her, but does she care for you? So, take an open field and no favour. Don't go sticking at Mrs. Sheelan's, seeing her maybe only once in a week, but come right to Drumgool. No proposing, mind you, or any of that rubbish. I'm giving you your chance fair and square, and I'm telling you fair and square it's in my mind that I may ask her myself. So, there you are. Take the offer or leave it."
Mr. Dashwood paused for a moment before this astonishing proposition, which upset all his preconceived ideas of love affairs; then the straightness and strangeness and sense of it went to his heart. Surely never had a man a more generous rival than this, and the sporting nature and the humour of it completed the business, and he held out his hand.
"Right," said he. "Another man would have acted differently. Yes, I'll come. And I'll play the game; get to know her better, and then, why, if she cares for me, it's the fortune of war."
"That's it," said French, "and now I want to tell you about the horse."
He gave the full history of his predicament, of the league, and the money worries, and the enemies who seemed bent on destroying his chance of success. "If I could only get the horse out of the country," said French. "But I can't."
"Can't you?" said Bobby, who had followed the tale with sparkling eyes and rising colour. "Whosays you can't? I say you can, and I'll show you how."
He rose up and paced the floor.
"Don't speak to me. This is simply frabjous! Why, my dear chap, I've got just what you want."
"What's that?"
"A place where you can train half a dozen horses if you want to."
"Where?"
"Where? Why, down at Crowsnest, in Sussex. It's not my place; it belongs, 's'matter of fact, to Emmanuel Ibbetson. He's chucked horses, and he's going to pull the place down and rebuild when he comes back from Africa. I can get a loan of it for three or four months."
"What would the rent be?" asked Mr. French.
"Nothing. He'll lend me it. He's just now constructing a big-game expedition, and they start in a few days. I saw him only the day before yesterday at White's. Lucky, ain't it, that I thought of it? I'll wire to him now asking for the permit. The place is furnished all right; there's a caretaker in it. It's a bungalow with no end of fine stables. The Martens is the name of it."
"Begad," said Mr. French, "this is like Providence!"
"Isn't it? You hold on here, and I'll send the wire. I'll send it to his chambers in the Albany, and we'll have the reply back to-night or to-morrow morning."
When the wire was despatched, Mr. Frenchproposed an adjournment to the Kildare-street Club, whither, accordingly, the two gentlemen took their way.
"If," said he, "we can pull this business off, I'll never forget it to you. You don't know what this means to me. It's not the money so much—though that's a good deal—but it's the outwitting and getting the better of those scoundrels, Dick Giveen and the rest of them. Even if your friend agrees to lend us this place, all our troubles aren't ended. I want to get the horse away without any one knowing where I'm taking him to. I'll have to take Moriarty and Andy and I can't leave Effie behind, for if I did I'd have to write to her, and they open the letters at the post-office in Cloyne, and even if they didn't open them they'd see the post-marks. I mustn't leave a clue behind me to tell where I'm gone to, and with that beast of a Giveen nosing about like a rat it'll be difficult rather; but we'll do it!"
"Yes," said Mr. Dashwood, "we'll do it."
The excitement of the business filled him with pleasurable anticipations; and he had not reckoned on Emmanuel Ibbetson in vain, for when they got back to the Shelbourne in the evening they found a wire from that gentleman. It only contained three words:
"Yes, with pleasure."
With this telegram there was another. It was from Miss Grimshaw, and it ran:
"Come back at once."
The day Mr. French left Drumgool on his visit to Dublin it rained.
Croagh Mahon had been winding himself with scarves of mist all the day before, and he had come up so close to Drumgool that you might have hit him with a biscuit, to use Moriarty's expression.
The weather kept the great mountain for ever in fantastic movement, now retreating, now advancing. He grew and shrank in a wizard way with the changes of the atmosphere. To-day he would be immense, slate-coloured, strewn with dim ravines standing beneath the subdued beauty of the quiet winter daylight, a sure sign that on the morrow he would be blotted out. Fine weather would cast him far away, and he would stand, heather purple in the blue distance, but still calling you to come to him.
When Mr. French departed for the station the weather was clear, and Miss Grimshaw, having watched him drive away, strolled down the garden, then through a little wicket she passed into the kitchen garden, and from there along the uphill path to the cliffs.
There was little wind on the cliffs, and the sea was coming in unruffled, yet hugely stirring in league-long lapses of swell.
Boom!
The whole coast answered with a deep organ note to the leisurely breaking of the billows.
Boom!
You could hear the voice of the Devil's Kitchen, the voices of the Seven Sisters, the voices of the long Black Strand, the voices of the headlands, as billow after billow struck the coast—great waves from the very heart of the ocean; and the snarl of the pebbles to the undertow on the strand beneath could be heard shrill like the voice of each dying wave, "I have come from afar—afar—afar!"
No other sound.
Not a whisper from the land stretching away to the distant hills under the dull grey sky; not a whisper from the heaving sea stretching away to the fleckless grey horizon.
Boom!
"I have come from afar—afar—afar!" Nothing more except the cry of a gull. The girl stood on the cliff edge, looking and listening. The air was sweet with the recent rain, invigorating as wine, clear as crystal, filled with ozone from the seaweed-strewn shore and the perfume of earth from the rain-soaked land.
She could see the Seven Sisters seated in their rings of foam. Miles of coast lay on either hand, cliff, and headland, and bay singing together and being sung to by the waves, tremendous, majestic, desolate, just as they sang and were sung to a million years ago, just as they will sing and be sung to a million years hence.
The recollection of Mr. Giveen, called up in her mind by the sea, brought French and his troubles before her,the league and its pettiness, and old Ryan and his cows' tails. Before the tremendous seascape all these things shrank to their true proportions, and the booming of the billows seemed like a voice commenting on it all, yet indifferent to the doings, the hopes, and aims of man as Death.
A spot of rain touched her cheek, and she turned from the cliff and began the descent towards the house. At the gate leading into the kitchen garden a dirty and draggle-tailed girl without boots or shoes, a girl of about fourteen, with a dirty face, was endeavouring to unravel the mystery of the latch—it was a patent latch with a trick bar in the staple—and failing.
Miss Grimshaw came to her assistance, opened the gate, and held it open for the other to pass through, but the damsel did not enter.
She stood with eyes downcast. Then she looked up, then she looked down, then——
"If you plaze, miss," said she, "are you the young lady ould Mrs. Moriarty tould me to ax for?"
"I'm sure I don't know," laughed Violet, then, remembering the name, "Do you mean old Mrs. Moriarty at Cloyne?"
"Yes, miss."
"Well, why did she send you?"
"If you plaze, miss, I'm Shusey Gallagher."
"Yes?"
"I'm the servant at the blacksmith's, miss, and ould Mrs. Moriarty sez to me to keep me ears open to hear if the bhoys was afther playin' any tricks on Mr. Frinch, an' she'd give me a sixpence, miss; so I lays widme ears open, pretendin' to be aslape, and I heard him say to his wife: 'It's fixed for Thursday night,' says he. 'What's fixed?' says she. 'Frinch's job,' says he."
"Yes, yes," cut in Miss Grimshaw. "But who were these people speaking?"
"Mr. Blood, the blacksmith, miss, and his wife, and I lyin' wid me ears open and they thinkin' me aslape. 'What are they goin' to do?' says she. 'Hamstring the coult,' says he. 'Garryowen?' says she. 'The same,' says he. 'And how many of them on the job?' says she. 'Only one,' says he. 'That'll larn ould Frinch,' says she. 'And who's goin' to do it?' 'Black Larry,' he says, 'and now shut your head, for it's tired I am and wants to go to slape.'"
"Good heavens!" said Miss Grimshaw.
"Yes, miss," replied the taleteller, evidently pleased with the effect of her information. "And ould Mrs. Moriarty, when I tould her, 'Run, Shusey,' says she, 'hot-fut to Dhrumgool, and ax for the young lady and give her me rispicts, an' tell her what you've tould me, and maybe she won't forget you for your thrubble.'"
"That she won't," said Miss Grimshaw, taking her purse from her pocket and half a crown from her purse. She also took a sixpence, and, giving the child the sixpence, she showed her the half-crown.
"I will give you that," said she, "next Friday if what you have told me is true, and if you say nothing about this to any one else. Tell old Mrs. Moriarty I will call and see her and thank her very much forsending you. Now, mind, if you say a word of this to any one else you won't get the half-crown."
Susie Gallagher, whose mouth had flown open wide at the sight of the half-crown, closed it again.
"Plaze, miss, is the whole half-crown for me?"
"Yes, if you don't say a word."
"Not a word, miss; sure, I'd bite me tongue off before I'd let it be tellin' a word."
"And go on keeping your ears open," said Miss Grimshaw, "and let me know if you hear anything more."
"Yes, miss."
"That'll do," said Miss Grimshaw, and Susie Gallagher departed running, taking a hop, skip, and a jump now and then, presumably as an outlet for her emotions.
When this desirable and faithful servitor had vanished round the corner, Miss Grimshaw passed through the kitchen-garden towards the stables. She wanted to find Moriarty. The news had shocked her, but as yet she could scarcely believe in its truth. Susie Gallagher was not a person to bear conviction, however easily she might bear tales, but Moriarty would be able to decide.
Moriarty was in the stableyard with Doolan. They were overhauling the fishing-tackle of the past season, deep-sea lines and conger hooks, and what not, while Mrs. Driscoll stood at the back entrance to the kitchen premises, her apron over her arms, assisting them. She popped in when Miss Grimshaw made her appearance, and Moriarty touched his cap.
Ever since the bailiff incident he had a great respectfor the governess, the respect a sportsman has for a sportsman.
"Moriarty," said Miss Grimshaw, "I want to speak to you."
"Yes, miss," said Moriarty, stepping up to her.
"I have just had some very serious news about the horses. I had better speak to you about it in the library. Come in there."
She led the way into the house.
When they were in the library she shut the door and told him all.
"Divil mend them!" said Moriarty, who seemed much perturbed.
"Do you think there is any truth in it?"
"I do, miss, and what's botherin' me is the master bein' away."
"He's coming back on Thursday."
"Yes, miss. If they'll only hould their hands till Thursday. Not that I mind tacklin' them alone, but if there's any shootin' to be done, I'd sooner the master was on the primises."
"Oh, but—you won't shoot them!"
"Shoot them, miss! Faith, if I catch them at their games, I'll shoot them first and bile them afther. Today's Monday—are you sure it was Thursday she said, miss?"
"Yes."
Moriarty ruminated.
"Black Larry, you said it was, miss, that was comin'?"
"Yes."
"Then he's sure to come single-handed. He always does his jobs alone, and he's never been cotched yet."
"Is he a dangerous man?"
"He's not a man, miss, he's a divil—six fut two and as black as a flue-brush. He was gamekeeper to the masther, and the masther turned him off for bad conduc', and he's swore to be even with him."
"Of course," said Miss Grimshaw, "I might telegraph to Mr. French, and bring him back, but he has gone on important business, and it would be a pity."
"It would, miss."
"I'm not afraid," said the girl, "and if you think you can manage till Thursday by yourself it would be better to do nothing. I will send him a telegram on Wednesday to make sure of him returning on Thursday."
"Yes, miss," said Moriarty. "That'll be the best way—and, if Black Larry comes before the masther is back, Heaven help him!"
Moriarty took his departure, and the girl turned to the window. The rain was falling now, "the long rain of these old, old lands, eternal, fateful, slow!" Verhaeren's verse crossed her mind as she looked out at the lowering sky and at the distant mountains, now half-veiled in clouds. As she looked the naked tree branches all bent one way, as if pressed down by an invisible hand, a sheet of rain obliterated everything beyond the middle distance of the landscape, and every window on the west side of the house shook and rattled to the wind that had suddenly risen.
She went upstairs to the schoolroom, where Effie, kneeling on the window-seat, was engaged in the monotonous occupation of tracing the raindrops on the pane with her finger.
It rained steadily from Monday afternoon till Thursday morning, and then, as if at the stroke of a great broom, the clouds broke up and were driven in piles over the hills, leaving the sky winter-blue and free; cloud shadow and sunshine chased one another over the land, and from the cliffs the sea lay foam-capped and in great meadows of different colour. It had blown half a gale on Tuesday night, and the sea was fretting from it still. Acres of tourmaline-coloured water showed where the "deeps" lay close in shore, and each glass-green roller came running in, capped with foam and shot through with sunlight till——
Boom!
A league-long burst of spray told of its death, and from far and near came the sound, the breathing of the coast, like the breathing of a leviathan in its sleep.
It was dark when the train from Dublin drew in at the station of Cloyne, and Mr. French and his companion found the outside car waiting for them in charge of Buck Slane.
Buck was a helper in the stable, a weedy-looking individual in leggings, with a high, piping voice, red-rimmed eyes, and an apologetic manner. When Buck spoke to you on any subject, he seemed to be apologising for it, as though it were something that had to be mentioned or spoken about against his will.
"Where's Moriarty, and why didn't he come with the car?" asked Mr. French.
"Plaze, sorr," said Buck, "Moriarty's stuck in the stable."
"Stuck in the where?"
"In the stable, sorr—wid the horses. He hasn't left them a minit since Monday afternoon, and he tould me to harness the mare and stick her in the car and come to the station."
"All right," said French. "Hop up, Dashwood. Here, get the luggage on board, Buck, and I'll hold the mare."
A couple of minutes later they were on the road to Drumgool under the light of a winter moon. It was the road along which Mr. Dashwood had driven that morning with Miss Grimshaw, when, after breakfast at the Station Inn, he had accompanied her to Drumgool House. Everything on the road recalled her in that poignant language used by inanimate things when they remind us of the people we love.
He had spoken no word about her to French since that conversation in the smoking-room of the Shelbourne Hotel, and French had spoken no word to him. French, having declared his half-formed intention to "ask" her himself, had apparently dismissed her from his mind. I doubt if ever a lover found himself in a more peculiar and difficult position than that which was beginning to surround Mr. Dashwood. French brought into this affair a mixture of card-room and commercial honesty that was very embarrassing to an ordinary rival.
He had said in substance: "Here's a girl. You're in love with her. I'm not going to do a mean thing. I'm going to take you to my house and put you together, so that you may know more of each other. If she likes you better than me, you can have her. If she likes me better than you, you can't. I give you just the same chance as I have myself, and I expect you to play the game."
There was a splendid self-confidence in the proposition which made it not altogether a complimentary one, but there was also a fine open-heartedness, an absence of that essential malice of love, which made it less a proposition than a law of conduct with all sorts of clauses.
Generous in a love affair! Men may be generous in sharing money, in sharing fame, in sharing the chance of death, but in sharing the chance of love—ah! that's a very different thing. The most extreme Socialist has never dared to propound such a community of interests, and yet here was a simple Irish gentleman not propounding the idea, but putting it in practice, and as fine deeds are the fathers of fine thoughts, here was an ingenuous lover, in the form of Mr. Dashwood, determining to play the game and take no advantage of French.
To complete the matter, here was Miss Grimshaw, who had been apprised of the coming of Mr. Dashwood as a guest, by wire, completing the preparations for the reception of the two gentlemen, and with, in her heart, an equally kindly feeling for each.
Doolan had caught a large lobster the day before,"blown up on the strand," and this, coral-red and curled on a dish, flanked a round of cold spiced beef on the supper-table. A bright fire was burning in the grate; the light of the lamps shone, reflected by the ruby of port and claret in the decanters on the sideboard; the potatoes, boiled in their jackets, were being kept hot in the oven; and everything was in readiness for the expected travellers, who were late.
As Miss Grimshaw sat by the fire she could hear the faint boom of the sea. To know desolation and the blessing of a visit, you must live in the extreme west of Ireland, which, I take it, is the extreme outside edge of European civilisation; and after three days of rain, three days of reading the day-before-yesterday'sFreeman's Journal, and "Mrs. Brown's 'Oliday Outings," Miss Grimshaw was in the frame of mind to receive a visitor, more especially when that visitor took the form of Bobby Dashwood.
Bobby and his irresponsibilities had found a place in her heart—not the place that women keep for lovers, but the place they keep for cats, stray dogs, and other people's children; a place, all the same, that opens into the real place, an ante-room where, if a man can obtain a footing, he has a chance of being shown into the boudoir. Unfortunately for Bobby, French had a place there, too; so had Norah, the cat, and Effie—quite an extraordinary collection of people and animals, but only two men—French and Mr. Dashwood.
"Here they are, miss," cried Norah, popping her head in at the door, "the car's comin' up the dhrive!"
Miss Grimshaw rose from the fire, and came out into the hall.
She saw the car through the open door, and the lamps blazing, and next moment she was shaking hands with Bobby Dashwood.
"Where's Mr. French?" asked the girl.
"He jumped down at the stable entrance," said Mr. Dashwood, wriggling out of his greatcoat, "and went to see the horses. He asked me to come in and tell you."
She led the way into the dining-room.
"You've got the same bedroom that you had before," said she—"the one with the glimpse of the sea. Mrs. Driscoll has put a fire there, and they've been airing sheets and things all day, so you need not be afraid of catching cold. Hasn't the weather been awful?"
"Awful!" said Mr. Dashwood.
"You met Mr. French in Dublin, I suppose?" said the girl.
"Yes, I met him in Dublin. Funny, wasn't it? We were staying at the same hotel, and I was coming down here, and he invited me to stay with him."
He stood with his back to the fire, warming himself and glancing about the comfortable room, and there was something in his manner that Miss Grimshaw could not quite make out—an almost imperceptible stiffness, a want of "spring." It was as though he were on his guard.
"Was it raining in Dublin?"
"Yes, most of the time. And I suppose you've been having it pretty bad here?"
"Awful."
She was dying to ask him why he had come over from England at this season of the year; why he had come down here. Who can tell, but in her heart she knew the reason perfectly, and, knowing it, felt perplexed with his strange manner and stiffness?
They talked on indifferent matters—Effie and so forth—till French came in. He had interviewed Moriarty, and he was full of the business of the horses; and, strange to say, with the entrance of French Mr. Dashwood's manner completely changed. His stiffness vanished, and he became his old, irresponsible, joyous self again.
"Think of it! The blackguards!" said Mr. French as he carved the round of beef. "Coming to try their tricks on the horses! Moriarty hasn't left his eye off Garryowen since I left, begad! I'll pension him for life if I win the City and Sub. But think of the black-heartedness of it!"
He went into the details we know, Susie Gallagher's "information," and the fact that it was almost certain Black Larry would try the business that night.
Mr. Dashwood's eyes sparkled as he listened.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Catch him if I can," said French. "There mustn't be any shooting. I don't want any police business, for then I'd be held as a witness at the assizes. But if I catch him, I'll give him something to remember to-night by, and let him go."