"AND ONE OTHER!"
The Grey River was in flood. It came down the valley a torrent of yellow
water, rushing madly between the rocks where the channel was narrow,
spreading out far and wide over the low-lying meads, bearing with it the
trunks of trees and other debris snatched up along its course. It had
overflowed the lower bridge, and rendered it impassable to traffic; the
upper bridge was threatened by the turbulent river.
There had been storms far up among the mountains, where the Grey takes
its origin, and rains all down the valley. From every small stream and
gully a volume of clay-coloured water flowed into the main stream. But
the day was bright and sunny after the rain. The sunshine glittered on
the yellow surface of the stream, and on the green fields sloping
upwards from it. Viewed from the distant hills, the Grey valley was a
shining, sparkling amber, encased in an emerald setting.
Kathleen O'Connor had viewed the flood with concern. On the further bank
of the river was Mrs. Sheridan's small cottage, where a poor widow
struggled to keep a large family by milking on the share system.
Kathleen knew that one of the children was seriously ill, and that the
mother, always living from hand to mouth, but always carrying a brave
face, would be seriously encumbered by Michael's sickness. She feared,
too, that the flood waters might even reach to the little cottage, with
disastrous results.
"Shall I ride over and see how Mrs. Sheridan is?" she asked, when the
heavy rain had ceased, and sunshine was raising a warm vapour from the
sodden earth.
"Why not?" replied Mrs. Quirk. "It will do you good--and Sylvia, too."
Sylvia Jackson still remained at "Layton." She had come prepared to
spend a monotonous fortnight at Grey Town, because she was tired of the
city. But she had remained at "Layton" day after day, accommodating
herself to the inhabitants and to the routine of the house. No one
resented her presence, nor did anyone desire her departure, for she had
made herself pleasant to all. In Mrs. Quirk's eyes she stood second only
to Kathleen. Samuel Quirk regarded her as chief critic and adviser on
the estate, and to Kathleen she was a cheerful, madcap companion, who
reminded her that she was yet young. Denis Quirk's sentiments in regard
to the girl he carefully concealed from the outside world, even from
Sylvia herself. He was polite and deferential, yet humorous, with her;
but she would have liked him to demonstrate clearly that he had enrolled
himself among her bodyguard. She had given him abundant opportunities so
to do, walking almost daily into the town with him, paying flying visits
to "The Mercury" office, and playing dreamy music while he smoked his
evening pipe. But Denis Quirk made no sign.
When Kathleen O'Connor proposed to ride round and see the Sheridans,
Sylvia was painting. She was an adept at every variety of artistic work.
Of any of the arts she might have made a success had she been content to
devote her talent solely to that one; but she was too versatile to be
completely successful, and while everything was good, nothing was
perfect.
"I would love to go with you," she cried.
"And I will meet you at the lower bridge and ride home with you," said
Denis Quirk.
In accordance with this arrangement, the two girls rode towards Mrs.
Sheridan's after breakfast. Kathleen O'Connor was a perfect horsewoman.
Sylvia Jackson, on the other hand, was unused to horses, and very
nervous; but she was too proud to confess the fact. Kathleen, while
recognising Sylvia's lack of capacity was too charitable to comment upon
it. She had protested once, when her friend asked to be allowed to ride
a rather high-spirited horse, but when Sylvia retorted hotly, Kathleen
offered no further opposition. Thus it came about that Sylvia rode in
constant dread, and made a nervous, fidgety horse a thousand times more
irritable.
The road towards the upper bridge that crosses the Grey at Swynford is
bordered by stretches of green grass. Along this the two girls rode at
an easy canter, saving when Dr. Marsh's car rushed past, the doctor
driving furiously, as was his way. This incident upset Sylvia's horse
for a considerable time, but he quietened down into an easy canter in
the deserted bye-road that leads from Swynford, along the farther bank
of the Grey, to Mrs. Sheridan's.
At a rise in the road they paused to look down on the cottage. It stood
surrounded by pine trees, with a small garden around it. It was a
demonstration of Mrs. Sheridan's perpetual industry that she found time
to keep the garden in order, despite her numberless other duties. A
bright little patch of gay colours she had made of it, and behind it she
had cultivated a neat kitchen garden.
"The river has not done any harm to Mrs. Sheridan's cottage," cried
Kathleen, with great relief, as she viewed the flood waters, still
several feet below the level of the garden.
"Can you understand anyone living in such a poky, ramshackle little
hovel?" asked Sylvia. "I would rather be dead and buried than live
there."
"Mrs. Sheridan cannot choose; she must live there or die. She is a great
woman," said Kathleen.
Mrs. Sheridan met them at the gate, clean, tidy, and talkative. She was
noted throughout the district for her loquacity, but, if she spoke at
great length, she always spoke kindly.
"Is it you, Miss O'Connor?" she cried. "Sure, it was like yourself to be
thinking of me and Michael. Michael and me, we was thinking of you. Only
last Sunday I said to the boy, 'Miss Kathleen will be going to Mass,'
the which I couldn't do myself, and more is the pity; but when Dan was
down with the chickenpox, Father Healy himself, no less, the Lord bless
the good man! told me it was my duty to be with Dan. 'The Lord will
excuse you from the chapel,' he said to me, 'and you can read the Mass
to Dan.' The which I did to Michael here, and him listening to me as if
he understood it all, every word. But won't you come inside, you and the
young lady? You will be excusing the house, miss; and if you would be
taking a cup of tea or a glass of milk, there's no spirits in the house
to be offering you, for I think it is putting temptation in the way of
some that's too fond of it."
"Yes, we will come inside and see Michael," cried Kathleen. "And if we
might have a cup of tea----."
"Not for me," Sylvia whispered; "I couldn't drink tea in a place like
this."
"To be sure," cried Mrs. Sheridan, not hearing Sylvia's comment.
"Michael will be pleased to see you. Doesn't he call you 'Pretty Miss
Kathie'? But you will excuse the liberty in a boy. He is recovering, the
doctor says, which himself was here to-day, and the car stuck out there
in the mud, and the doctor swearing! Michael could hear him in his bed,
which it wasn't good for the boy to hear. But the doctor is too kind,
for sure, to mean any harm, even to the car, and Michael and me
pretended not to hear him, nor to know that he was angry. The Lord will
overlook the words he used to the car and the council that should be
taking care of the roads."
Kathleen hitched her own and Sylvia's horse to the fence, and entered a
small, but wonderfully clean, room, that served as a kitchen and general
sitting-room for the family. Here they found Michael, a boy of four,
the baby of a family of nine. The other children had gone, as a troop,
to the State school at Swynford. There they would remain all day, to
return and assist at the milking, such of them as were capable.
Kathleen sat down beside the boy, and began to entertain him. In a few
minutes the two were laughing together, as became old friends. Kathleen
had brought sundry gifts with her, among them a sovereign, which she
slipped under his pillow, to be discovered after she had gone.
Sylvia sat rigidly on her chair, absorbing the scene with her apparently
sleepy eyes; while Mrs. Sheridan bustled about, talking unceasingly, as
she spread a clean table cloth and prepared the tea for her guests.
"Did you ever hear such a rain? And the wind! The Lord preserve us; it
was praying Michael and me was, the others fast asleep, that the cottage
might not be blown away, and us in it. It was like the night himself
died. I was sitting here beside him, watching to see him flicker out. He
died as peaceful as a child--just one smile for me, and he was gone. An'
me alone in the house with him. Mrs. Smith that would have been beside
me--she's dead herself now, God rest her soul, for she was a good
neighbour--the rain and wind prevented her and many another. And there I
sat beside him, as I sat beside Michael, listening to the rain beating
on the window and roof, and the trees groaning as if in mortal anguish,
and the house creaking, and outside the river and sea roaring. It was
praying I was for the morning, for the night makes the storm more
fearsome. Now, sit down, Miss O'Connor, and you, miss; the tea is made.
It's only bread and butter I can offer yous, but it is all I have, and
welcome you are to it."
Kathleen sat down, but Sylvia Jackson, to Mrs. Sheridan's intense
concern, refused to eat or drink.
"Thank you, I am not hungry," she said.
Kathleen was hurt by what she regarded as a want of courtesy. Everything
was scrupulously clean, if poor, and the widow willingly gave all that
she possessed. To make amends for her friend's refusal, Kathleen drank
more tea and consumed a larger amount of bread and butter than she had
ever done before. Then, after a chat on the affairs of Grey Town, which
Mrs. Sheridan made a kind of prolonged solo, Kathleen and Sylvia rose to
go.
Mrs. Sheridan followed them to the gate, talking vigorously. As they
rode away her voice might still be heard as she chanted Kathleen's
praises to Michael.
"What a dreadful woman!" said Sylvia.
Kathleen was already deeply hurt by her friend's conduct, and she fired
up into intense indignation at this remark.
"Dreadful!" she cried. "Mrs. Sheridan is a good, honest woman. She has
given her life for her children, and she is the soul of good nature."
Sylvia laughed good-humouredly at this championship.
"A very excellent person, no doubt," she said, "but an ungovernable
tongue. She never ceased talking while we were there. No wonder himself
died peacefully. How he must have longed for death--and peace!"
"You don't understand----," Kathleen began.
"I don't profess to understand. I belong to another school to you. My
set detests the prosaic and commonplace; we must have the clever and
original. Platitudes are detestable to us, unless they come clothed in a
brilliant metaphor. Homely virtues I neither pretend to understand or
admire. I much prefer eccentricity, even clever vice."
Kathleen laughed tolerantly, recognising that further argument or
expostulation was vain.
"Shall we try the lower bridge?" she asked.
"Of course we must. Denis Quirk is to meet us, and I wouldn't disappoint
him for anything. Now, there is a man after my own heart, strikingly
ugly, so ugly as to be beautiful, and wonderfully clever, sometimes so
rude as to be quite original, full of a sardonic humour--an absolutely
unique type. Denis Quirk is the sort of man I might condescend to love,
and if ever I do love it will be like that river in flood down there."
The road ran high above a rocky gorge, through which the Grey was
rushing in a turbulent torrent of water. It roared as it went, and
leaped up angrily at the rocks on either side, foaming and bubbling,
swirling into small whirlpools, as if in an impotent passion at the
constraint.
Kathleen looked at the flood, and then at Sylvia's sleepy face and
dreamy eyes.
"I wonder if you could love?" she asked.
"I wonder, too. Sometimes I scoff at the very thought of such a thing,
and sometimes I believe that I could be as wild and turbulent as the
river is to-day."
Beyond the gorge the river widens out into a broad estuary before it
enters the sea. It is across this estuary that the lower bridge has been
built. Just below it is the bar, where river and sea were battling in a
wild confusion.
When Kathleen saw that the bridge was half submerged, and that the
current was still strong, though not to be compared in violence with the
maelstrom that poured through the gorge, she reined her horse in.
"We must turn round and ride home the way we came," she said.
"Turn around? Why should we? I intend to cross. I can see Denis Quirk on
the farther bank."
"And he is warning us to turn back," said Kathleen.
"The more reason to go on. Follow me if you dare."
Seeing that Sylvia was determined to cross, Kathleen urged her own horse
alongside of Sylvia's, and seized her friend's rein.
"You shall not go on!" she cried.
"Let go of my reins!" said Sylvia.
Kathleen recognised the note of anger in the voice, and saw that the
customarily sleepy eyes were flashing, and that there was a line of
determination on the usually smooth forehead. But this did not influence
her.
"No. I will not let go," she replied.
Sylvia Jackson raised her whip. Once it fell smartly on Kathleen's
hand, leaving a red wheal; still Kathleen held on. But when the blow was
repeated more viciously than before, with a cry of pain she released the
rein.
"Do you imagine you can stop me, with Denis Quirk on the other side?"
Sylvia asked, and urged her horse on to the flooded bridge. I have
already said that Sylvia was not an expert rider; her horse realised the
fact, and faced the water with a snort of terror. The handrail of the
bridge alone appeared above the muddy stream; even this was submerged
occasionally as a wave rolled up from the turbulent bar, barely one
hundred yards below the bridge.
The horse began to rear in terror, threatening every moment to plunge
over the rail of the bridge into the stream. Kathleen, behind, could do
nothing but follow, while from the further bank a small collection of
men and women watched in a panic that prevented action. But Denis Quirk
was quick of thought and prompt to do; he sprang from his horse and
dashed along the flooded bridge towards Sylvia.
"Sit still!" he cried. "Keep your rein loose, and get your feet free
from the stirrups."
Scarcely realising what she was doing, Sylvia obeyed him. He attempted
to seize the horses' rein, but the animal was maddened with terror, and
kept turning away from him. At last, however, Denis managed to throw his
arm around Sylvia and drag her from the saddle. Immediately after,
whether still further frightened by his action or bewildered by the
water, the horse reared over the handrail into the flooded river. He was
washed almost to the bar, but managed to reach the further shore, and
gallop home to his stable at "Layton."
Denis Quirk carried Sylvia across the bridge, followed by Kathleen,
whose horse went quietly through the flood secure in his rider's
composure. On reaching the farther side, Denis realised that Sylvia had
fainted. There was, however, a small hotel close at hand, and here Denis
left the girl, safe in a kindly landlady's care.
He found Kathleen dismounting from her horse, her face very pale from
the anxiety that Sylvia's danger had caused her.
"Why did you allow her to do such a foolish thing?" he asked, abruptly.
Kathleen held her hand, with the marks of the whip still on it, out of
his sight. It was not for her to tell him how her attempts to restrain
Sylvia had been received.
"It was against my wish that she crossed the bridge," she answered.
"Even for you it was a madcap thing to do," he said. "You can never
trust a horse in such a flood as this. I have telephoned for the motor;
you and she had better go home in it, while I take charge of your horse.
You have caused me a terrible anxiety."
He turned away, leaving Kathleen scarcely able to control her
mortification and annoyance. Denis Quirk had, she told herself,
disregarded her danger, and spoken to her like a disobedient child. By
what right did he lecture her or hold her responsible for Sylvia's
wilfulness? When the landlady came to ask if she would come to her
friend, it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse but she restrained
herself by a great effort, and went into the room.
Sylvia was sitting on a couch, very pale, but smiling placidly. As
Kathleen entered, tears came into her eyes, and she asked in a penitent
voice:
"Can you ever forgive me? I can't forgive myself for striking you. But
no one has ever attempted to prevent me from having my own way, and I
was resolved to go on. I have been sufficiently punished."
"Never mind about it now," said Kathleen. "You did not realise the
risk."
"I shall never forget it! Let me look at your hand. Did I do that? Oh,
how cruel of me to strike you! You won't tell Denis Quirk that I did
it?"
Kathleen, who had begun to feel her anger slowly evaporating, became
suddenly as indignant towards Sylvia as she had been prior to the
latter's apology. It was evident to her that it was not because of the
injury Sylvia had done her, but lest she should complain to Denis Quirk,
that Sylvia was asking forgiveness.
"I have no intention of telling Denis Quirk," she answered, coldly.
"Now, don't be angry, Kathleen--please. I am a spoiled girl, I know.
Everybody has conspired to spoil me. I am impulsive and passionate, but
no one has checked me. Let that be my excuse."
She put her arm around Kathleen and drew her down on the couch beside
her.
"Kiss me," she said, "and say you forgive me. There, that's a dear! Now
tell me exactly what happened. It is a blank to me."
Kathleen told her exactly what had taken place, Sylvia listening with
intense interest.
"Isn't he brave?" she asked. "And he took me in his arms, and never
thought of you! What if your horse had gone over the bridge after mine?"
"Denis Quirk knows that I can ride 'Douglas' anywhere," Kathleen
answered.
"I suppose so," said Sylvia; "but he might have made sure of the fact. I
think he is splendid. All those other men stood gaping on the bank, and
he was the only one to act. It is a moment like that that proves a man.
Scores of admirers have told me what they would do for me, but only one
man has done--only one," she added, dreamily.
That evening Kathleen was restless; the day's adventure had disturbed
her more than she was aware of. After tea, having made Mrs. Quirk
comfortable, she slipped on a thin lace shawl and went quietly into the
garden. Walking about in the evening stillness, her accustomed composure
returned to her. Presently she slipped into a summer-house, and sat down
to think placidly.
As she sat there, she heard voices, and, to her surprise, Denis Quirk
and Sylvia paused directly in front of the summer-house. The very
thought of eavesdropping was repugnant to her, but they were speaking so
quickly and earnestly that she had heard part of their conversation
before she could interrupt it. Remembering Sylvia Jackson's passion,
possibly fearing an outburst of malice, Kathleen kept very quiet,
resolved never to give a sign of what she knew.
"You saved my life," Sylvia said, "and I could refuse you nothing. Ask
anything of me in return."
"Nonsense!" Denis answered, laughingly. "You exaggerate what I have
done."
"You say that because you are brave. Brave men laugh at their own
courage, as you do. But I know, and I worship you!"
The last words were spoken almost in a whisper, and in the tender voice
that Sylvia Jackson was mistress of. But for once the words rang true.
Kathleen held her breath, wondering what any man could do when so spoken
to by such a woman as Sylvia.
Denis answered curtly, almost rudely:
"My dear young lady, please don't weave any absurd romances about me. I
am an ordinary and very commonplace man, not accustomed to soft words
from pretty women. Take my advice and go home to your parents; forget
about me as quickly as you can. I have no intention of ever marrying,
and I don't pretend to be a lady's man. Now, go inside, like a good
girl, and forget to-day."
"Forget!" Kathleen noted a change in Sylvia's voice. "I shall never
forget to-night."
Their voices and steps grew fainter, until they were finally lost to
Kathleen's ears. After a few minutes she also went towards the house.
Denis Quirk stood higher in her estimation than ever he had done before.
He had been severely tempted, and had put the temptation behind him.
Sylvia Jackson was what is termed a man's woman, but Kathleen could
realise the fascination she was mistress of. She had been courted by
many men; to-night she had thrown herself at Denis Quirk's feet, and he
had resisted where other men might have succumbed. With these thoughts
in her mind, Kathleen greeted Denis Quirk kindly when he met her near
the house.
"I am afraid I was rude to you to-day," he said, without preamble. "I
spoke without thinking. I want you to excuse me."
"I do," she answered, simply.
"Naturally, you were hurt," he said. "Believe me when I say that I would
rather offend anyone than you. I place very few women among the
heroines, but you are one of them. For any other I would have been
afraid in the flood; I knew that you were safe. That was the reason why
I offered you no help. My fears were for your friend. I am fully
forgiven?"
"Fully," she answered.
"Thank you! That is all I want. Good-night!"
He turned on his heel, and went down the avenue on his way to "The
Mercury" office.