Hungry Hill (18 page)

The house-master over again, thought John. How many times, at Eton, had he heard those same words?

And the old feeling of stubborn exasperation came upon him, as it used to do whenever mention was made of his idleness.

“Even when you were in Lincoln’s Inn,” went on his father, “the work you got through in six months I could have done in six days, at your age.”

“We are very different, sir,” said John. “You have a natural capacity for work. I have not. Since we are speaking plainly I may as well confess that I dislike intensely doing anything for which I have no ability.”

Copper John stared at him without comprehension.

Then he shrugged his shoulders, as though further discussion was useless.

“You are now twenty-eight, John,” he said, “and your character is formed, and I can say no more. Eton, Oxford, and Lincoln’s Inn have done very little for you.

I cannot but be disappointed when I see my only surviving son throw to the winds the fine education and the wide opportunities he has had for becoming a responsible member of the community, and take upon himself, instead, all the faults and failings that are so marked a national characteristic of this unfortunate country of ours. I can only hope that you never sink so low as our neighbour Simon Flower.”

If only, thought John, you would have something of Simon Flower’s tolerance, something of his natural charm of manner and generosity, something of his understanding that young men like to be left alone to their own devices, we should be getting on rather better than we are doing now.

“This country,” said Copper John, “could be a great one, and a fine one, if the people in it had initiative and a sense of responsibility. They unfortunately lack both these qualities, and so, I fear, do you.”

“Perhaps,” said John, “they have no desire to see their country either great or fine.”

“Well then, what, in God’s name, do they want?” cried Copper John in sudden anger.

“Since you are one of them, perhaps you can enlighten me?

I have been trying to find out for nearly forty years.”

John was filled with sudden pity for this father of his, with whom he had so little in common, and whom he saw now, for the first time, not as a great success, not as the Director of the rich copper mines and landlord of a fine estate, but as a lonely widower, who had lost his favourite son and was deeply disappointed in his second, and who, in spite of all his hard work and toil and concentration, had failed to understand or to please his fellow-countrymen.

“Speaking for myself, sir,” said John, “I would say that I desire nothing so much as to be left alone. Whether the people of the country feel this too I cannot say.”

Once again his father shrugged his shoulders. It was obvious that the two of them would never talk the same language.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you ever think of anything else in life but your greyhounds?”

And supposing, thought his son, that I told him the truth, supposing that I made a confession of all the thoughts that fill my waking hours: how I hate the mines for the ugliness they have brought upon Doonhaven, because they stand for progress and prosperity, and how I cannot walk about the estate while he still lives and owns it, because I take no interest in a thing that I do not possess, and which is not mine alone, and how I am at present ill-tempered, ill-mannered, and more than a little drunk because my mind and my body have need of Fanny-Rosa, the daughter of a man he despises, and the only thing that concerns me at this moment is whether she will belong to me or not, and, if she should, whether she also belonged to my brother who is dead; supposing I make confession of all these things, what would he do but stare at me aghast and bid me leave the room, and possibly the house also? It was better to keep silence.

“Occasionally, sir,” he said, “I think of the killigs in the creek and the hares on Hungry Hill, but mostly I concern myself with my greyhounds.”

Copper John turned back to his desk.

“I regret,” he said drily, “that I have not the time and leisure to join you in your pursuits. As there seems little sense in prolonging this interview any further, I will wish you a very good night.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

And John left the library, and went slowly upstairs to his room in the tower. He had made his apology-but he knew that the breach between his father and himself was wider now than ever.

Jane’s eighteenth birthday fell in the third week of August, and it was decided to have a celebration because of it. The portrait was finished, and hung in the dining-room, and Barbara thought that invitations might be sent out to their various friends in the neighbourhood to come and view the portrait on the birthday itself. The dozen people first invited swelled rapidly to thirty, as is the manner with invitations, and then Copper John wondered, since they had gone so far, whether it might not be extended to embrace all the tenants of Clonmere, for whom refreshments might be set out on the grass before the castle, forof course they could hardly mix with the guests in the house.

Something of the sort had been done when Henry had come of age, and, as Ned Brodrick agreed, it might induce those who were in arrears with their rent to feel it incumbent upon them to pay something.

“It is a relief,” said Eliza to Barbara, “that we are able to be out of mourning for poor Henry, otherwise we should have looked like crows, wandering about in our black gowns.”

“If we had still been in mourning,” replied Barbara gently, “I should never have considered sending out invitations at all, and I am sure Jane would not have wished me to.”

“The gown I had the Christmas before Henry died has not been seen by anyone in this country,” continued Eliza, with satisfaction, “although I wore it once or twice last winter in Bronsea, and at Cheltenham, when we went for the week.”

“I hope it is not white,” said John, who had been listening with some amusement to the plans and preparations. “Both you and Barbara are too sallow for white. Jane has a cream complexion, and can stand it.”

“I am sure I am not sallow,” retorted Eliza. “It has always been understood that I am the fairest of the family. At any rate I do not have freckles on my nose, like Fanny-Rosa Flower.”

“Fanny-Rosa’s freckles are very becoming,” said Jane. “I would like to have a few myself. Now, do not let any of us become angry or irritable at the prospect of my birthday. I am determined to enjoy myself, and I want everyone else to do the same. I shall wear the dress that I have in the portrait, and the same pearl necklace, and if Barbara can really persuade Dan Sullivan to come and fiddle for us, then I shall lead the quadrille myself, with you, John, for a partner. I doubt if I can persuade father to take my hand, even on my eighteenth birthday.”

“I shall be honoured, madam,” said John, bowing, “but you will be so hemmed about by the entire garrison of Doon Island that your fond brother will be unable to reach you.”

The weather was happily fine on the big occasion, and there was a general stir of excitement as the day wore on to afternoon, and one by one the tenants began to arrive, at a slightly earlier hour than the guests to the castle, and most of them somewhat suspicious of the invitation, a suspicion which they took immense care to disguise with smiles, and bows, and curtseys, and compliments of gross exaggeration upon the fineness of the day, the honour that their landlord did to them, and the very great beauty and outstanding accomplishments of all three Miss Brodricks. Barbara had taken care that the refreshments provided for those “outside” were of as substantial a nature as possible, without inviting to excess, and it was not long before every man, woman, and child on the Clonmere estate was plunging an eager hand into the eatables. Ned Brodrick the agent moved amongst them, wearing an old blue velvet coat that had belonged to his and John Brodrick’s father. This coat he wore only on great occasions, such as weddings or funerals, and with it an enormous broad-brimmed beaver hat, which, malice whispered, he wore when he begot his numerous offspring. The present festivity was much to his liking, for he enjoyed moving amongst the tenants, agreeing or commiserating with each in turn, whichever should please most, and keeping his ears well open to any piece of gossip which he might spread with advantage and so cause further gossip.

“Master John, if I may say so,” he said, in his quavering, sing-song voice, “you are looking better than I have ever seen you in my life, and that’s the solemn truth. And what a great piece of sport you are making with these greyhounds of yours. The whole country is ringing with it, so they were saying in Mundy.”

“I have to do something with my days, don’t I, Ned?” said John, remembering that only a week or so previously the agent had been grumbling to his father that “Master John gave him no help with the estate.”

“You have indeed,” answered the old hypocrite.

“I only wish my legs were younger, so that I could join you. And what a beautiful man Mr. Simon Flower is, to allow you to keep your hounds in his kennels. And his daughter just such another as himself.”

“Miss Flower will be here directly,” said John; “maybe you had better pay your compliments in person.”

“Ah, now you are jesting with me, Master John,” said the agent, with jovial false familiarity.

“What would Miss Flower have to say to an old man like meself? Look at Miss Jane now-you would say she was her dear poor mother over again, and that’s what they all say here today,” and he moved towards the youngest of his nieces, forgetting that two minutes before he had sworn, to a rather overheated tenant, that Miss Jane had always been, and always would be, the dead spit of her father.

John laughed, and walked down the bank to the drive, for that was the way the carriages would come, and he thought what a wise philosophy was this of his uncle Ned, to frame his conversation and his mood to suit that of whoever crossed his path, so that no offence was ever given and, whatever false utterances he gave tongue to, at least he did it with a smile on his long, thin face, andwitha true endeavour to please rather than to antagonise.

The guests to the castle were now beginning to arrive.

Three boatloads were landing at the creek, and from them poured the young officers from the garrison, each smart as paint in his regimentals, and John could see a flutter from Jane’s parasol as she stood with her father on the grass before the castle.

Soon she was surrounded, and poor Doctor Armstrong, who had been snatching a few minutes with her before the crowd arrived, found himself outside the circle, and was obliged to go into the house and gaze upon her portrait instead. Barbara was here, there, and everywhere, seeing that no one was without a sandwich, a piece of cake, or a glass of cowslip wine, while Eliza, not too comfortable in the dress she had worn at Cheltenham, for which she had grown too stout, contented herself with the plainer and less interesting of the officers, who could not get close enough to Jane.

John had walked as far as the park before he saw coming down the drive the horses for which he had been waiting-Fanny-Rosa a little ahead of the groom who attended her. Her habit was green, and matched her eyes, and she wore a ridiculous little straw bonnet that did not cover her chestnut hair.

“Mother begged to be excused,” she said, holding out her hand to John. “She said she could not go out so soon after my grandfather’s death. As to my father, I left him and Matilda playing cards in the stables with the coachman and your kennel-boy. That is why I have only the groom to attend me this afternoon. I suggested that they all came and brought the cards with them, but they preferred to stay at home. Besides, Matilda has no gown.”

“From what I have seen of Matilda,” said John, “she would hardly know what to do with a gown if she had one. And I may remind you that the first time I set eyes on you you were stockingless, and your hair was down your back.”

“Yes, John, and since then you have seen me with nothing on at all,” replied Fanny-Rosa.

“Oh, don’t blush and frown, and jerk your head in that manner. Poor Nobby is as deaf as an owl.

Now tell me, pray, what are we going to do besides admire Jane’s portrait and drink Barbara’s cowslip wine?”

“We are going to dance the quadrille while Danny Sullivan plays the fiddle.”

“I don’t know that I care for the quadrille. I would rather dance with my petticoats above my knees, like the country girls in the market-square at Andriff.”

“Then you shall do so. But to me alone. Not in front of the officers of the garrison.”

“I think the officers of the garrison would be highly entertained.”

“I have no doubt they would. But if you show them your petticoats then I shall fetch my gun from my room and shoot you.”

John walked beside the horse until they came to the trees behind the house, where the drive divided, one part leading to the back of the stables, and they took the horses to the yard, leaving them with the groom, and Fanny-Rosa dismounted, and slipped in at the back door of the castle to go upstairs and change her habit. She came down again within five minutes, looking more enchanting than ever, and, her arm linked in John’s with a possessive air that delighted him, they wandered into the dining-room to inspect the portrait.

The room was filled with people, eating, and drinking, and admiring Jane’s likeness, and it amused John to see how Fanny-Rosa’s manners in public differed from those when she was alone with him or amongst her own family in Andriff. For there, at home, she would be careless, impatient, the wild and wayward Fanny-Rosa who was so close to his heart, but here she was courteous, gracious, with even a hint of the great lady in her bearing.

“Clonmere looks very fine under these conditions,” she said to John. “I like to see the people about the grounds, and the house full. It makes for life, and gaiety.

Why does your manservant not wear livery? Ours always does. It would look so much better than that black coat.”

“We are too far from civilisation here to entertain much,” answered John, with a smile. “Listen, there is Dan Sullivan striking up on his fiddle.

Let us go and watch the fun.”