There were his guns, and his rods, and all his old schoolboy books, worn and familiar, and the painting of the chapel at Eton, and the quad of his college at Oxford. There was the case of butterflies, passionate hobby of one summer holiday only, and the collection of birds' eggs, and on the mantelpiece the random objects that he had gathered from time to time in his boyhood: a piece of flint from Hungry Hill, a queer-shaped stone like an egg he had found once on Doon Island, a patch of dried moss from the bogs around Kileen.
"Tomorrow," he said to Jane, "tomorrow we will go fishing for killigs in the creek," and holding her at arm's length, and cocking his head on one side, he observed, "You know you are becoming very pretty."
Jane blushed, and told him not to be absurd.
"She is having her portrait painted," said Barbara. "We all think it a most excellent likeness, although Willie Armstrong says it does not do her justice."
And there in the drawing-room, standing upon its easel, the paint still wet on the canvas, was the replica of the Jane who stood beside him, wearing the new cream gown which had been purchased in Bath that winter, her pearl necklace round her throat, her warm brown eyes full of the expression he knew so well, wistful and a little unsure of herself.
"And what does Dick Fox say to the portrait?" asked John.
"Oh, he is delighted, of course," said Eliza, tossing her head. "He used to come to every sitting, and talk to Jane to relieve the monotony. No doubt that is why Jane has such a simpering look about her in the portrait."
John, glancing at his youngest sister, saw that she seemed distressed at Eliza's words, and that tears, even, were not far distant. He smiled across at her and shook his head.
"Take no notice of Eliza," he said, "the grapes are very sour," and with quick understanding he changed the subject from the portrait.
So Jane is growing up, he thought at dinner, and is falling in love with Dick Fox on Doon Island, and only yesterday it seemed she was a little girl reading fairy stories before the fire in the old nursery. Dick Fox was a good sort of fellow, no doubt, but for a moment there was a nickering jealousy in John's heart that his pet Jane, who had been such a dear companion, should look kindly upon any man but himself, and the thought of her being kissed and perhaps fondled by a scruffy young officer from the garrison was distasteful, and did not bear thinking about.
?'
John started, and "Yes, sir, of course, I shall be delighted," he said, Without a notion of what his father had been talking about.
Barbara gave him a warning nudge with her knee.
"I entered into an agreement," continued Copper John, "to take one-half of the arrears and let him hold the ground at able130 a year. Needless to say I have not received a penny, and gave him notice to quit last March, which he has not yet done. The position is intolerable, as you see."
"Oh, quite, sir. Most intolerable."
"I mean to make every exertion in my power to get the communications opened by a good road between Doonhaven and Denmare, which, you will agree, will be of incalculable advantage to Robert Lumley's and Lord Mundy's estates, and if we can once open up the route from the lakes by Denmare and Doonhaven and Mundy to Slane, I think that visitors to the west would prefer it to returning the same way. Then we might safely build an inn in Doonhaven.
Indeed, it might induce gentlemen to reside in the neighbourhood. What do you think, John?"
"I am of your opinion undoubtedly, sir."
"I don't know whether the Government have money at their disposal for the purpose, but I shall get all the information I can. They might do it all at their own risk. It would be a great matter to open up communications with the west part of the country, and ships of war could be supplied with provisions in the event of another war. I only hope our Ministers will not kick up some row unexpectedly, and get us all into a scrape."
"I hope not, sir," said John.
Very little of what his father was saying made any interest to him, but he hoped that his voice rang with some conviction and that his father would be satisfied.
"The Flowers are at Castle Andriff, by the way," said Barbara. "They were abroad as usual, until just recently. I am glad to say that Fanny-Rosa is not such a harum-scarum, wild thing as she was. Wintering abroad has given her poise and good manners. But I believe she does exactly as she pleases.
And poor Mrs. Flower has no control over the younger girl at all."
"They say some Italian was desperately in love with Fanny-Rosa," said Eliza, "a titled man too, who had a wife already."
"Never listen to scandal, Eliza," said her father.
"It does no good to the hearer, and less to the speaker.
If you come into the library, John, I can show you the exact spot on the plan of Hungry Hill where I think of making a further trial. There is copper there, and at no very great depth either, so that our expenses would be inconsiderable."
John followed his father into the library, and pretended an interest in figures and mining calculations, but all the while his thoughts strayed to Fanny-Rosa. He had not seen her for eighteen months, not since that unforgettable day on Hungry Hill when she had lain in his arms in the heather beside the lake and Henry had sailed for the Barbados. Last year, during the hot summer in London, John had wondered how much she had seen of Henry in Naples. Had she been sorry when he died? His thoughts then had added to the turmoil in his mind, and Fanny-Rosa became a symbol to him of something rare, and beautiful, and unobtainable, a ghost girl in a foreign land he would never see again. She would marry some Italian, and perhaps years later come to Castle Andriff with a brood of babies and a flashy husband, herself coarse and heavy, her charm vanished with the years.
Deliberately he had painted this picture in his mind so that he should not be hurt by the thought of her, and the idea of her marriage to her foreigner, and out of his reach for ever, gave him a peculiar, rather warped, satisfaction. His Fanny-Rosa would be a memory, a phantom thing born out of the loveliness of Hungry Hill, while she who continued living was someone with whom he had no concern. And now all the careful locking of his memory was to be broken by the real Fanny-Rosa, no ghost at all, but alive, and unmarried, and even if every Italian in Naples had made love to her she would be more beautiful than ever, and she was coming to Clonmere next week, Barbara had said. She might want to see the greyhounds, and Jim was given special orders to have the dogs groomed and ready on the day the Flowers were expected, and their coats upon their backs in spite of the warm weather, for the scarlet and grey trimmings were really rather fine, and the large J. L. B. looked well against the background.
About two hours before the Flowers were due to come he became fearful and sick of heart, and going to the far end of the grounds, by the last fir tree, he sat out of sight of the castle and stared across at Doon Island, wondering whether it would not be wiser to get his boat and disappear all day, and not come in to the house and meet the Flowers at all. He felt suddenly that he did not want to see Fanny-Rosa, or talk to her, and if he did, nothing would happen as he had planned; she would hate the greyhounds, scorn his cups, talk all the while about the Italians she had met, and the day would be disastrous, a failure from beginning to end. He was still sitting by the creek when he heard the carriage bowl along the drive, pass under the arch of rhododendrons, and sweep round again to the house, and then in the distance came the sound of Barbara's voice, and Eliza's rather irritating, high-pitched laugh. Barbara called, "John…
John… ea? and he crouched behind the tree, determined not to join them, wondering whether he could return to the house in some way without being seen, and go and shut himself up in his room in the tower. The voices were silent, they must have gone indoors, and he heard Casey come round for the carriage and drive the horses to the stable. Some impulse stronger than himself made him rise to his feet and walk slowly back across the grass to the house. His hands were trembling, and he thrust them into his pockets. He was aware of someone looking down at him from the drawing-room window.
"How do you do, John?"
And glancing up, he smiled, for there was Fanny-Rosa, the ghost of Hungry Hill, and the eighteen months since he had seen her were as though they had never been, were as yesterday, and fresh and vivid in his memory were the touch of her hands and the warmth of her lips as she lay on her back in the heather with his arms beneath her.
Then he was in the drawing-room, he was standing beside her, Bob Flower was saying something in his ear, everyone was talking, and laughing, and eating cake. He heard himself offering Bob a glass of Madeira.
"Father is at the mine," Barbara was saying, "but he will be home to dine with us at five, as usual.
You men had better get off to your fishing while the weather holds."
"I should like to come," said Fanny-Rosa. "Does John not permit ladies in his boat?"
"Why, yes," said John, "why, yes '
And delightfully, joyfully, the whole day had to be planned afresh, for now that Fanny-Rosa would be of the party Jane would accompany her, and the Bule Rock being too far and the sea perhaps too rough for them, they must sail by the island instead, and more food must be put in the basket, and one of Barbara's shawls for Fanny-Rosa in case the wind freshened. What happiness in walking down to the creek, and bringing the boat to the steps, so that Jane and Fanny-Rosa might climb aboard, and then rolling his sleeves above his elbow, and shaking his hair back, and singing out to Bob to cast off from the moorings when the sail had been hoisted and the tiller shipped into place. Down the creek into the open waters of Doonhaven, with the long, straggling island ahead of him and the open sea beyond, and away on the left the great mass of Hungry Hill, green and shining under the sun.
How good to be no longer sullen and wretched and shy, hating himself for his moods, but instead to be doing the thing that he liked, to be sailing his boat, with the wind in his hair, and Fanny-Rosa in the stern beside him.
She had not changed, unless to be more lovely, and there was a grace about her that had not been before. The shawl Barbara had lent her was green, matching her eyes.
She had flung it carelessly about her shoulders, and she looked up at John and smiled, and the smile held a promise, and the promise breathed a hope.
"I hear that you know more about greyhound coursing than any man in the country," she said. "Tell me all you have been doing since I saw you last."
He began to tell her about the greyhounds, at first with diffidence, thinking she would not listen, and then with increasing confidence, making her laugh with his account of the racing crowds, the owners with their petty jealousies and frequent dishonesty.
Bob showed interest too, and asked many questions. It was agreeable, thought John, to speak for once in a way as an authority, and to know that his opinion on the one subject in the world that he knew anything about was listened to with respect.
They anchored for a cold luncheon of meat patties and cress sandwiches on the westward side of Doon Island, and then Bob Flower, looking across at the garrison, bethought him of a friend of his, lately gone as Adjutant to the battalion quartered there, and suddenly there was a suggestion that the party should go ashore, and walk up to the Mess, and enquire after him. John glanced at his sister's innocent little face and wondered if Dick Fox was at this moment watching her through his telescope from the windows of the Mess.
When they came to the anchorage Fanny-Rosa declared that she preferred to stay in the boat; she had come to enjoy the water, not the doubtful claret at the garrison, and surely Jane was not likely to come to any harm with Bob as a companion, for Bob was known to be the soul of decorum. So Jane stepped ashore, looking very pretty and demure, on the stolid arm of Bob Flower, and it was quite a coincidence that Lieutenant Fox should at that moment be coming down the path to meet them.
John put the boat about and sailed eastwards, towards Hungry Hill, and now that he was alone with Fanny-Rosa a queer feeling of restraint came over him. He felt he could not speak, or whatever he said would sound foolish and forced. He kept his eye on the sail, and did not look at her. There, across the water, lay the land, and the great hill rising to the sky. It seemed remote and intangible, the summit golden in the sun, and he thought of the lake, how still it would be, and cold.
"Do you remember the picnic we had there, last September year?" said Fanny-Rosa.
John did not answer at once. He wanted to look at her but dared not. He hauled in the sheet a little closer.
"I think of it very often," he said.
She moved slightly in the boat, arranging the cushion at her back, and now her arm rested against his knee, making a torment and a strange delight.
"We were very merry," she said, "very gay."
She spoke softly, almost sadly, as though reflecting upon a past that could never come again, and John wondered whether it was his love-making in the heather that she remembered, or Henry's laughter and Henry's smile. The old jealousy swept upon him once more, the old anguish, and doubt, and indecision, and putting the boat suddenly about, he bore away from Hungry Hill, towards the open sea. The boat rocked slightly in the swell, and some water splashed in over the bows, trickling down towards her feet.
Fanny-Rosa took off her shoes without a word, and leant closer to John's knee.
"You saw much of Henry, did you not, those few months before he died?"
The words were out at last. He could hardly believe that he had said them. This time he forced himself to look at her, thinking he should see some trace of sorrow in her face to add to his pain, but her unconscious profile was turned towards the sea. She shook the spray from her hair, and tucked her slim, bare feet under her gown.
"Yes," she said; "he seemed to enjoy Naples. It was so unfortunate that he left when he did, tired and unwell. We all felt it very much.", Her voice was calm, conventional.
Surely if she had cared for him or he for her she would not have spoken thus?
"Henry always liked people, and new places. That is where we differed," said John.
"You are not the slightest bit like him," said Fanny-Rosa. "You are much darker and broader.
Henry was more like Barbara."
None of this matters, thought John, as the boat heeled in the freshening breeze, whether I am dark or Harry was fair, or who resembles whom. The only thing I would know is what they really felt for one another in Naples, and why Henry left so suddenly, and his health became worse. Had they loved, and had they quarrelled, and was the last person that his brother thought of lying there in that hotel bedroom in Sens the Fanny-Rosa who sat beside him now?
The boat dipped in the swell, and the sea sparkled in the sun, and Fanny-Rosa, laughing, knelt up against him and held on to his shoulder.
"Would you drown me?" she asked, pushing his hair back from his eyes.
"I would not," he answered, putting the boat into the wind and leaving the tiller, with both arms around her while she kissed him on the mouth.
He understood then that he would never know what Henry had been to her in Naples, no one would know. If there was a story to tell of a man who went away from Italy bitter and disillusioned to die all alone in a little French hotel, the mystery would never be told.
The secret lay locked for all time in her heart.
John would wonder, and John would doubt, he would conjure pictures in his mind to the end of his days of those few months in Naples, and the senseless, futile jealousy would come to him again and again, but it would not be healed.
Henry was dead, Henry with his charm and his gaiety belonged no more to the things that were, and here was Fanny-Rosa alive in John's arms. Such sweet happiness could not turn to poison.
"Will you marry me, Fanny-Rosa?" he said.
She smiled, she pushed away his hands, and settled herself once more on the bottom boards of the boat.
"You will be swamping the boat if you do not look after it," she said.
He seized the tiller and the sheet, and headed the boat again towards Doon Island.
"Will you not answer
my question?" he asked her.
"I'm only twenty-one," she said. "I hardly think I want to marry yet awhile and settle down. There are still so many things that arc amusing to do."
"What sort of things do you mean?"
"I like to travel. I like to go on the Continent. I like to do as I please."
"All those things you could do as my wife."
"No, it would not be the same. On the Continent I should just be Mrs. Brodrick, and the men I met would think "Oh, she is a bride," and take no further notice of me. I would have to wear a cap in the house like my mother, and talk about preserves, and needlework, and servants. I care for none of those things."
"I should not expect you to discuss any such matters. If you expressed a desire to travel, why, we would travel. If you wanted to sail in a boat, we would sail in a boat. If you wished to drive to Slane in frost and snow, the carriage would be summoned, and we would drive to Slane, even if the horses died on their feet. You see, I would be a most accommodating husband."
Fanny-Rosa laughed. She glanced at John out of the corners of her eyes.
"I think maybe you would," she said, "but what would you get out of the bargain?"
"I should get you," he said. "Is not that enough for any man?"
He looked down at her, and even as he said the words the thought came to him that of course he was wrong, she would never belong to him or to anyone, because whoever married her would only have part of her, a smile, or a caress, or whatever she chose to give from momentary impulse. The real Fanny-Rosa would elude capture, would escape.
They had come abreast the garrison again, and there were Bob Flower and Jane, and the Adjutant, and Dick Fox, all waiting for them on the causeway. People once more, and conversation, the intimacy between them shattered and put aside for another moment, perhaps another day.
"We are bringing Lieutenant Fox and Captain Martin back with us to dine," said Jane, and they all climbed into the boat-and there was the damned fellow Martin looking with admiration at Fanny-Rosa.
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