ONLY JONES.
“Some griefs are med’cinable.”
--CYMBELINE.
George Holroyd had fain to be content with the Ballingoole Harriers,
instead of the Ward-Union and Meath hounds; his poverty but not his
will consented to this pitiable change. However, even Harriers must be
followed on horseback, and up to the present, although the Major had
been making constant enquiries among his own immediate connections,
and many sporting friends, no suitable steed was secured. A large
number of the blind, the maimed, the halt, had been forthcoming, had
been submitted for inspection, each and all a dead bargain, each
sold as a personal favour to George, and for _no_ fault, so the Major
expressively stated upon what he was pleased to call “his sacred word
of honour.” George, who rode well, and recognised a decent horse when
he saw it, at last grew tired of this farce, and said:
“I always thought that Ireland was the country for good horses. Where
are they? I never saw such a set of old screws--that one,” pointing to
a discarded charger, “is like an old hair trunk, and has not a tooth in
his head. My bump of veneration would forbid my getting on his back.”
“If you will go to a couple of hundred guineas,” said the Major (who
loved not his step-son), “I’ll engage to get you a flyer--a chaser.”
“Thanks--but sixty is my limit, and as I am a light-weight I ought
to be able to pick up something that will carry me for a couple of
months.”
“There was that bay horse of Cooney’s--he is cheap enough! You tried
him one day with the Harriers.”
“Yes, but I don’t care about an animal that expects you to carry his
head home, after a very mild day’s sport.”
“Well, I believe I know of one, but he is a good way off, that won’t
ask you to carry _his_ head, but that takes it and mostly keeps it.
Maybe, he will please you,” said the Major huffily; “he belongs to a
tenant of me cousin’s, Mick Malone.”
While this independent animal was being looked up, George passed his
time in shooting snipe, sunning himself in Miss Redmond’s smiles, and
thinning her mother’s rabbits. One day, as he was tramping through the
wet woods, accompanied by “lodge” Pat, laden with dead bunnies, he
noticed through a glade, what looked like a black figure--the figure of
a woman. As any figure was an unusual sight in the upper plantations,
he halted, stared, and finally advanced towards her--a girl in an
old waterproof and black felt hat, with masses of loose brown hair,
kneeling on the damp moss, and occasionally laying her head on the
ground! “An escaped lunatic!” Also two very anxious fox terriers
sniffing and yelping and running circles round her.
“It’s Miss Betty,” ejaculated Pat, and the sound of his voice made her
spring to her feet, and confront them.
It was Miss Betty, the bath-chair girl; and how plain she was! Her hair
was tumbling over her shoulders; her face was deadly white; her eyes
dim and watery with crying; her nose the colour of a ripe tomato; an
unbecoming old hat; a raw November day--of a truth, Betty Redmond had
never looked worse!
“Can I be of any assistance? Is anything the matter?” enquired George
politely, as he doffed his deerstalker.
“Yes, of course there is!” she gasped out hysterically. “It’s _Jones_!
He has been in a rabbit-hole since yesterday.”
Mr. Holroyd had never been formally introduced to the dogs; they were
always out with Betty, and he was more than ever confirmed in his first
impression.
“And Aunt Emma does not care, nor feel it one bit,” she continued
passionately. “She says he will come out of himself; perhaps she will
be sorry when he is dead, and she loses his legacy.”
Strange, he thought, that even Maria Finny had never mentioned that
Miss Elizabeth Redmond was out of her mind.
“Do not excite yourself,” he said, soothingly. “It will be all right,
I am sure; just leave it in my hands, and I will see after him--if you
will only allow me to take you home first.”
Could a professional mad doctor say more? he thought, with warm
self-approval.
“Go home,” she echoed, stamping her foot. “And leave him here to
die--he that is so fond of me--that is my very shadow--that loves me
better than anything in the world. What do you think I am made of?--a
block of stone? No, never. I will stay here till he is brought out,
either dead or alive--if I stay for a week. Well, what are you waiting
for? If you want to be of some use, you might dig.”
“Sure it’s only a dog, sir,” explained Pat, as he looked up into his
employer’s sorely perplexed countenance. “It’s only Jones, and ’tis
himself is a born devil for hunting rabbits, and going to ground like
any ferret.”
“Oh, Mr. Holroyd, you offered to help; help me to dig him out,” said
the girl, seizing a spade. “I will do anything for you if you will only
save him. Pat, I will give you five shillings! he is choking in there,”
she went on distractedly. “Listen to his bark, how faint it is, fainter
than it was an hour ago. He is dying, I am sure of it.” And she burst
into fresh tears.
George Holroyd leant his gun against a tree, and promptly took hold of
a spade, and commenced operations with a will. Beauty in distress must
ever appeal to the heart of a young man; only this was not Beauty--far
from it--but Beauty’s cousin--besides, George loved dogs, and he
worked with all his zeal and strength for the sake of the sporting
little terrier, whilst Pat laboured and grubbed, and carried out earth
with hard horny hands. After twenty minutes’ incessant toil, through
moss and roots, and frost-bound earth, there was a scream of delight
from Betty, and a very dirty, frightened terrier struggled forth, and
was clasped instantly in her arms.
“Oh, you bad, bad dog,” she murmured ecstatically, as she kissed the
top of his head: “how dare you give me such a fright? What should we
have done if you had been lost, and spoiled the set? You shall be kept
in the stable for a week, on bread and water, for this.”
And she set him down to receive the boisterous congratulations of
“Brown” and “Robinson.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, now turning to Mr.
Holroyd--“nor Pat.--Pat, come up to the house this evening for your
five shillings.”
“And my reward,” enquired George. “I worked twice as hard as Pat!”
Thinking that despite her fiery nose and eyes, she had pretty white
teeth and a singularly sweet smile. “You know you said I might have
anything I asked for.”
“Oh! that was in the agonies of the moment!”
“Then you would repudiate your offer. Miss Betty, I am surprised at
you!”
“No, no, I never, as the people here say, ‘go back from my word;’ only
I have so little worth offering,” now following happy Pat, who slouched
along, laden with the gun and rabbits. “I have no possessions of the
smallest value, nothing but an old watch that goes for about three
hours, and a battered locket, that Jones has chewed.”
“Well, I will not enforce my claim now. I shall bide my time, and
remind you of your promise some day. Perhaps I had better have it down
in writing?”
“Perhaps you had,” she answered with a laugh.
“You appear to be very fond of dogs,” he remarked, as he walked beside
her.
“I am indeed. I look upon them almost as if they were my relations. I
have----” and she paused.
“You were going to say something,” he suggested politely.
“I have so few relations.”
“Mrs. and Miss Redmond.”
“Very distant connections by marriage. I have one uncle in India, whom
I have never seen; he is my only near kith or kin.”
“Perhaps what you lack in relatives, you make up in friends; some
people think _they_ are the best of the two.”
“Yes, I am very well off for friends--friends among my school-fellows,
and friends over here--there are the Moores of Roskeen, and the Mahon
girls, and Miss Dopping, and your sister, Cuckoo.”
“Miss Dopping and Cuckoo! What a contrast; rather a scratch pair, as
the Major would say.”
“May be so, but they suit me exactly. Miss Dopping is my house friend,
and Cuckoo is my companion out of doors.”
“And have you summer and winter friends, and fine weather and wet
weather friends?”
“No, I have _no_ fine weather friend; you don’t understand. Miss
Dopping is old and does not go out much. She and I like the same people
in books, and we read and talk over things, and she tells me about old
times, and teaches me various matters, and lectures me now and then.”
“Yes, and Cuckoo? Does she lecture you and talk about old times?”
“No, indeed, _I_ lecture her; we run after the Harriers together, and
botanise, and go nutting, and black-berrying.”
George began to think that a walk with this original girl was an
agreeable novelty, and was rather sorry to see the garden walls of
Noone looming through the trees. In a narrow path leading from the
garden gate, they nearly fell over Lodge Juggy, with her apron very
full of something, and if she could be said to blush--she blushed, as
she stood right in their way, dropping hurried courtesies.
“Oh, Juggy,” exclaimed Betty, “where are you going; what have you got
there?”
“Just a lock of old cabbage laves for the pig, miss, that Mike was
throwing out.”
“What small cabbages--they are the shape of potatoes,” said Betty,
looking steadily at Juggy’s apron.
“Well, there is a couple or so, and I won’t deny it, miss, but sure,
times is hard, terribly hard, Miss Betty, and _you_ mind the days when
your uncle was alive, when I went to mass on me own ass’s car, and kept
a couple of pigs!”
“And what has happened to you, Juggy?” enquired George, sympathetically.
“Well, sir, ever since I offended the Lord and Mrs. Redmond, I’m in a
poor way. Sure, I get nothing out of the gate, but what people give me.”
“And I hope they are liberal,” said George, feeling his pocket.
“There does be no quality passing now; times is changed, but some are
not too bad at Christmas. Mrs. Mahon puts a flannel petticoat on me,
and Mrs. Maccabe puts a couple of shifts on me, and Miss Dopping puts a
pair of boots on me.”
“The Graces attiring Venus,” muttered the young man to Betty; then
louder:
“I hope you will allow me to contribute to your toilet,” placing five
shillings in her ready hand. “Get yourself one or two larger and
stronger aprons; you don’t know _how_ useful you may find them.”
“The Lord love your handsome face!” exclaimed Juggy, upon whom the
sarcasm was completely lost. “Faix! it’s a real trate to see a
gentleman,” and, as they passed on, she struck an easy and reflective
attitude, and remarked, in a tone of audible approval:
“Och! and wouldn’t they make a lovely pair! And wouldn’t I go ten miles
on me hands and knees to see their wedding?”
George could not restrain a smile, at the preposterous idea of coupling
_him_ with his present companion.
“What does she mean about offending Mrs. Redmond and the Lord?” he
enquired precipitately--trusting that Juggy’s compliments had not
reached Betty’s ears.
“Oh! it’s a long story. She has lived at the lodge for years, and some
of her people are not quite respectable. One of her brothers is a
poacher, and another keeps a still. She used to sell his potheen on the
sly, and I often wondered _why_ she had so many visitors, especially
on Sundays, in Uncle Brian’s time, for he was an indulgent master, and
seemed to think what he called ‘Juggy’s receptions’ a great joke, but
last year she quarrelled with Foxy Joe--you know Foxy Joe?”
“Yes, I am acquainted with him.”
“Well, I believe they had some dispute about money, or whisky, and
he informed on her, and told Aunt Emma that she kept a very thriving
unlicensed ‘public’ at the lodge gate, and so, one day, when Juggy
declared that she was dying of rheumatism and cold, and had sent up to
her house for port wine and a little jam, Aunt Emma marched down to the
lodge, about twelve o’clock at night, and made _me_ go with her. We
peeped in at one of the front windows, and saw the whole kitchen lit
up. One of the best drawing-room lamps was on the dresser, four silver
candlesticks had also been borrowed, as well as glasses, and the family
punch-bowl, and Mrs. Redmond’s pet claret jug. About fifty people
were sitting round, drinking and smoking, and shouting ‘more power.’
There was a fiddler on the table, and Juggy herself and the Mahons’
groom were dancing a frantic jig in the middle of the floor. When Mrs.
Redmond flung the door back and stalked in, perhaps you can imagine the
scene, for it is beyond my power of description.”
“I think I can picture it,” said George with a hearty laugh. “Tell me,
Miss Betty, how is it that I never see you at Noone? And do you know
that I am over almost every afternoon?”
“Oh, yes, I am aware of that, but I have had other engagements. Have
you been thinking that I am a sort of Cinderella, hidden in the kitchen
among the ashes?” she enquired mischievously.
“No,” he stammered; but the idea had occurred to him.
“I don’t drink five o’clock tea, and I generally go over and sit with
Miss Dopping, who has been ill; besides, I know that Belle is a host in
herself.”
(She said this in the frank innocence of her heart, and without the
faintest _arrière pensée_.)
“The more the merrier,” returned George, “we shall have your society
this evening at any rate.”
“No, I think not. I have a message to take for Mrs. Redmond. You see,
Jones has wasted nearly all my day,” and she came to a full stop where
the pathway led to the avenue.
“Good-bye, then,” he said, “since you must go, and remember your
promise.”
“Yes, I’ll remember my promise,” she answered gaily. “I am very, very
much obliged to you,” and she held out her hand.
He took it in his. What a cold, slender, little hand! It gave him a
grateful, cordial shake, like a hearty schoolboy, and in another second
its proprietor had disappeared in the deepening dusk.
And so that was Betty! who came into a room like a blast of wind,
according to Major Malone, and whom his mother had called “a beautiful,
warm-hearted, young creature.” Well, on the whole, he rather liked her.