“THE TURF, THE CHASE, AND THE ROAD.”
“_Ford._ Old woman! What old woman’s that?
* * * * *
A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean!
Have I not forbid her my house?”
It occurred to me several times during the next few days, how strangely
little I saw of my uncle. Except at luncheon and dinner, he seldom or
never appeared, even in the evenings preferring to sit alone over his
wine in the gloomy dining-room, while Willy and I were in the
drawing-room. At ten o’clock regularly the door would open, and his tall
austere figure would appear, holding my candle ready lighted; and with
the same little speech about the advantages of early hours for young
people, he would wish me good night, politely standing at the foot of
the stairs as I went up. As a rule, I did not see him again until
luncheon next day, and I wondered more and more how he spent his time.
Willy seemed to know little more about his father’s occupations than I
did.
“Oh, _I_ don’t know what he’s up to,” he had said, when I asked him. “He
prowls about the place from goodness knows what awful hour in the
morning till breakfast, and he sits in that den of his all day, more or
less. I’ve plenty to do besides watching him.”
Whether or not this was Willy’s real reason for avoiding his father, it
was a sufficiently plausible one. All outdoor affairs at Durrus were
under his control, and at any time during the morning he might be seen
tramping in and out of the stable, or standing about the yard, giving
orders and talking to the numerous workmen in a brogue in no way
inferior to their own.
I may mention here that Willy, in common with most Irish gentlemen when
speaking to the lower orders, paid them the delicate, if unintentional,
compliment of temporarily adopting their accent and phraseology. I had
plenty of opportunities of noticing this, as Willy evidently considered
that the simplest method of providing for my amusement was to take me
about with him as much as possible. I had at first rather dreaded the
prospect of these constant _tête-à-têtes_, but I soon found that my
cousin had always plenty to talk about, and was one of the only men I
have ever met who was a good listener.
He contrived to include me in most of his comings and goings about the
place. He took me down to the cove to see the seaweed carried up the
rocks on donkeys’ backs to be spread on the land; or I watched with deep
interest while the great turf-house was slowly packed for the winter
with the rough chocolate-coloured sods; or, standing at a little
distance, I listened with respect to his arbitration of a dispute
between two of the tenants, who generally accepted his verdict as if it
had been a pronouncement of the Delphic oracle. He was very popular with
the country people, as much perhaps from his invincible shrewdness as
from his ready good-nature, and subsequent observation has shown me that
nothing so much compels the respect and admiration of the Irish peasant
as the rare astuteness that can outwit him.
Thursday was fair day at Moycullen, and Willy, who regarded the
attending of fairs as both a duty and privilege, proceeded thither with
the first light of day. To say at cock-crow would scarcely be an
exaggeration, for, knowing well the absurdity of expecting any servant
within the walls of Durrus to call him, he had--so he informed
me--resorted to the extraordinary device of putting over-night a
vigorous barn-door cock on the top of his wardrobe. This bird’s
relentless cries at dawn were, as may be imagined, of a sufficiently
rousing character, and in consequence Willy’s arrival at even the most
distant fairs was as a rule timely.
The result of his absence was a solitary morning for me, and lunch alone
with Uncle Dominick. Although faintly alarmed at the latter prospect, I
was at the same time glad of the chance which it offered of getting to
know him a little better.
But in this I was disappointed. My uncle did not abate an atom of his
usual impenetrable civility, and conversed with me on entirely
uninteresting topics, with a fluency that was as admirable as it was
provoking. I was absolutely at a loss to understand him; and, being a
person sensitive to the opinions of others, I puzzled myself a great
deal as to what he thought about me. The compliments which he never lost
an opportunity of making, and his evident desire that Willy should do
all in his power to make my visit agreeable to me, were not, I felt
sure, any real indications of his feelings. That he took an interest in
me, I was certain. Often I surprised in his cold eyes a still scrutiny,
a watchful appraising glance that suggested mistrust, if not dislike;
and although his manner was distant and self-engrossed, I had a
conviction that little that I said or did escaped him.
It was a depressing day. A quiet rain trickled steadily down, and
through the blurred windows the trees looked naked and disconsolate
against the threatening sky. I made up my mind that it was not a day to
go out, and, with a pitying thought of Willy at the fair, I heaped turf
and logs upon the library fire, and determined to write a really long
letter to one of my friends in America.
After a period of virtuous endeavour with this intent, I discovered that
I was becoming bored to stupefaction, and gave up the struggle. There
was something in the air of Durrus antagonistic to letter-writing; or
perhaps it was the impossibility of writing about a place which was so
different from anything that I or my correspondents had been accustomed
to, and was at the same time so devoid of interest for them. I bethought
me of a certain old book of field-sports which Willy had commended to
my notice, and I wandered round the dusty shelves, looking for it among
the exceptionally uninteresting collection of books which formed my
uncle’s library. Not being able to find it, I took the bold step of
going to his room to ask him if he could tell me where it was.
As I went down the long dark passage that led to his room, I was keenly
alive to the temerity of the proceeding, and knocked at the door with
some trepidation.
“What is it?” came an unencouraging voice from within.
“Oh! I only wanted to ask you about a book, Uncle Dominick,” I began.
The door was opened almost immediately.
“Come in, my dear Theo,” said my uncle, with what was intended for a
smile of welcome. “What book is it you want?”
I explained, adding that Willy had recommended the book to me.
“Oh, Willy told you of it, did he?” said my uncle, with interest; “and
you cannot find it in the library?”--turning towards a large cupboard
that filled a recess on one side of the chimney-piece. “Perhaps I have
it in here.”
I heard a faint jingle of glass as he opened it; but the doors of fluted
green silk, latticed with brass wire, prevented, from where I was
standing, my seeing inside. My uncle ran his finger along one of the
shelves in search of the book I wanted. Meantime I looked curiously
about me.
It was a small, dingy room, disproportionately high for its size, with
county and estate maps hanging on its damp-stained walls. A handsome old
escritoire stood in the corner to the right of the lofty window that
faced the door by which I had entered. On one or two tables, dusty
pamphlets and papers lay about in a comfortless way. Right in front of
the fire was a battered leather-covered armchair, in which my uncle had
been sitting, though there was no book or newspaper to indicate that he
had been occupied in any way.
“It is an unusual thing to hear of Willy recommending a book. I suppose
this is due to your civilizing influence?” said my uncle, emerging from
the recesses of the cupboard with the book in question in his hand.
“Oh, well,” I replied, laughing, “this is not a very high class of
literature.”
“It is, nevertheless, a classic in its way,” he said, opening the book;
“and the prints are very good indeed.”
I came and stood beside him, looking at the illustrations with him.
“The Regulator on Hertford Bridge Flat,” “The Race, Epsom,” “The
Whissendine Brook”--we studied them together, Uncle Dominick becoming
unexpectedly interesting and friendly in his reminiscences of his own
sporting days when he was a young man at Oxford.
As he paused in looking at the pictures to enlarge upon an experience of
his own, the pages slipped from his stiff bony fingers, and, turning
over of their own accord, remained open at the title-page. There I saw,
in faded ink, the words, “Owen Sarsfield, the gift of his affectionate
Brother, D. S.”
My uncle looked at the inscription for half an instant, and, drawing a
quick breath, closed the book.
“Uncle Dominick,” I said, with a sudden impulse, “won’t you tell me
something about my father? My mother could never bear to speak of him,
and I know so little about him.”
He turned his back to me, and replaced the book in the cupboard, feeling
for its place in the shelves in a dull, mechanical way.
“I hate to give you pain,” I went on; “but if you knew how much I have
thought about him since I have been here! I have always so connected him
and Durrus together in my mind.”
He walked back to the fireplace, and placed one hand on the narrow
marble shelf before answering.
“There are many circumstances connected with your father which make it
painful for me to speak of him,” he began, in a very quiet, measured
voice. “I loved him very dearly; we were always together until his
lamentable quarrel with my father.”
He walked to the window, and stood looking out through the streaming
panes, with his hands behind his back. After a few moments of waiting
for him to speak again, I could bear the silence no longer.
“But what was the quarrel about? Was it my father’s fault?”
“It is a hard thing to say to you,” replied my uncle, turning round and
looking past me into the fire, “but, under the circumstances, I feel
that it is my duty to let you know the truth. Your father unfortunately
got into money difficulties while at Oxford, which he was afraid to
mention to his father. He went to London to study for the Bar with these
debts still hanging over him, while I came home and undertook the
management of the property.” He paused, and passed a large silk
handkerchief over his face. “Owen always had a passion for the stage; he
got entangled with a theatrical set in London, and finally he took the
fatal step of making himself responsible for the expenses of an--in
fact, of a travelling company of actors, with, I need hardly tell you,
what result. Instead of the enterprise paying his debts, as he had
hoped, he found himself liable for large sums of money.”
Uncle Dominick came back to the fireplace, where I was standing
nervously grasping the shabby back of the leather armchair. I suppose my
face told of the anxious conjectures that filled my mind, for, looking
at me not unkindly, my uncle went on.
“I did all I could for him with my father, but he was a man of very
violent temper, and was absolutely infuriated with Owen. He paid the
debts, but he refused to see Owen again, and insisted on his leaving the
country. I contrived to see him before he left England, and from that
day until I got his letter saying he was ill in Cork, I neither heard of
nor from him.”
“But,” I broke in, “why did he never write to you?”
My uncle hesitated, and drew his hand heavily over his moustache. I saw
that it trembled. He sat down in the chair by which I stood, and did not
answer. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Surely he had not quarrelled with you, Uncle Dominick? Or was it that
you--that you thought he had behaved too----” I could not finish the
sentence.
“No, no, my dear,” he said quickly; “I had no such feelings. I would
have done anything in the world for him at that time.” He cleared his
throat and continued huskily, “It was Owen who misjudged me, who
misconstrued all my efforts on his behalf, who ignored my offers of
assistance. I cannot bear to think of what I went through,” he ended
hastily, leaving his chair and again walking to the window. It was a
French window, and a few stone steps led from it to the grass outside.
He opened one door and looked down the drive.
It was getting darker, and the rain came driving in from the sea in
ghost-like white clouds, as he stood there motionless, and apparently
oblivious of the drops that fell from the roof on his head and
shoulders.
“Are you looking out for Willy?” I said at length.
“Oh, Willy! Yes; is he not home yet?” he answered absently, closing the
window.
“Is there any portrait of my father in the house?” I asked as he turned
towards me, ignoring his remark about Willy in my anxiety to put a
question that since my arrival at Durrus I had often wished to ask, and
feeling that it might not be easy to find another opportunity of
reopening the subject.
“There is one, taken when he was a child; it hangs in the corridor
outside your bedroom door.”
“But I think there are two portraits of boys there,” I persisted. “I am
afraid I should not know which was his.”
My uncle rose wearily from his seat. “If you wish, I will show it to you
now,” he said. “If you will go upstairs, I will follow you in an
instant.”
I went slowly up the passage, and before I had reached the foot of the
stairs he overtook me, and we went up together. He had his crimson silk
handkerchief in his hand, and I remember wondering why he kept pressing
it to his mouth as we walked along the corridor side by side.
A faint light shone through the open door of the room over the hall
door, the one that opened into mine, and against the grey light I saw in
the window a crouching figure indistinctly silhouetted.
My uncle saw it too. With a muttered exclamation of anger, he walked
quickly past me to the open doorway.
“What are you doing here?” he said sternly. “You know I desired you not
to come upstairs, and this is the second time this week I have found you
here.”
He stepped back to one side, and a tall woman with a shawl covering her
bent shoulders shuffled out of the room. I had already guessed that it
was Moll Hourihane, and I shrank back into the doorway of my own room;
but she stopped, and, stretching out her neck towards me, she fixed her
eyes upon my face with an expression of hungry eagerness.
“Did you hear what I ordered you? Go down at once,” repeated my uncle,
placing himself between her and me. “Let me never find you here again.”
She immediately turned and slunk away round the far side of the
corridor, and, looking back once more at me, disappeared through the
door that led to the servants’ quarters.
I gave a sigh of relief. “That woman terrifies me,” I said. “I wish she
would not look at me in that dreadful way.”
“You need not be alarmed”--he spoke breathlessly and with unusual
excitement--“she is perfectly harmless; but I do not choose to have her
roaming about the house. These are the pictures of which we were
speaking,” he continued. “The one to the right was done of me, and
this--this is the other”--pointing to an old-fashioned looking portrait
of a pretty dark-haired boy holding a spaniel in his arms.
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