"There are brown trout in the lake on Hungry Hill," said Hal swiftly. "They say the fairies put them there, and at night they become little old men and work in the mines."
Thirteen-year-old Robert stared at his young cousin, and then turned away his head. Hal was soft, he decided; how very awkward. And he began to discuss cricket with stolid William Eyre.
The weather held fine for the festivities, and the people of Doon-haven stood at their cottage doors to watch the carriages go through the village up to the mines. The road itself was crowded with the younger and more inquisitive of the inhabitants, all agog at the notion of "the gentry" sitting down to supper side by side with the miners. The full moon shone upon Hungry Hill, and it might have been the light of day as the carriages swung round and came to rest before the great drying-sheds, which, swept and cleared, with three immense tables down the centre, had been turned into a banqueting hall for the occasion. Candles, in their brackets, had been placed at intervals along the walls, and long school forms, borrowed for the night, were to seat the diners. At the far end of the shed, pompous and important, stood the members of the catering firm from Slane, who were to serve the food and wait upon the guests. The miners and their families were all seated in their places when the Brodricks arrived, and as Henry and Katherine entered, the manager, Mr.
Griffiths, started three cheers for the owner and a general clapping of hands, which was quite unexpected to Henry, and he stood smiling at the entrance to the shed, with Katherine at his side.
"I will thank you for that welcome after supper," he told them when the clapping died away. "Meanwhile, let's get on to the most important business of the evening, and I hope you are all as hungry as I am."
Soup, and roast mutton and beef, followed by apple tart, with ale to drink, put every man in a good temper. The murmur of voices, which had been low and cautious to start with, rose to a roar, and Henry, winking at the manager, who sat on his right hand, observed that the only way to a fellow's heart was to fill his belly first. His speech, when he came to make it, was short, for no one, he told them, wanted to listen to anyone but themselves after nine o'clock at night, and as the next day was to be a full holiday for everyone, in honour of the occasion, the sooner they went home to enjoy it the better. He then announced an increase of pay to every miner, from that day forward, which was received with yells of approval and only one discordant note, from some fellow at the far end of the shed who was moved to shout out "And about time too." Henry, with memories of Bronsea and the heckling he had been faced with then, remained perfectly cool.
"I may say," he added, "that, speaking as one chiefly concerned with my own interests, the idea of this was not my own, but Mrs. Brodrick's. It is she you have to thank."
More applause for Katherine, who smiled, and blushed a little, and said nothing.
"Fifty years ago today," continued Henry, "my grandfather John Brodrick signed the original agreement with Mr. Robert Lumley of Duncroom, for a mine to be started on Hungry Hill. The original miners were mostly Cornishmen, a few of whom are with us today as pensioners, and whose sons have carried on their work and are settled amongst us. The rest of you, if not all from Doonhaven and the neighbourhood, belong to this country, and know that our granite hills do not yield easily to pick and shovel like the chalk cliffs of other, easier lands. From the beginning my grandfather had to import gunpowder to do his work, and blast the copper out of Hungry Hill, and although today machinery and explosive are modernised, we still have to deal with the same old stubborn granite. We still have the westerly gales that prevent shipment of the cargoes to Bronsea during the winter months, and, perhaps most important of all, we still have to contend with that strange fluctuating affair known as the copper trade itself, the ups and downs of which are beyond you, and very often beyond me too, and have their origin in the varying claims and discoveries of other countries. The copper mines of Hungry Hill have had their difficulties, like every other mining concern. My grandfather had to contend with riots and floods and many other vicissitudes in his time, which, I am glad to say, have not been my portion. The troubles today are rather different-the law of supply and demand, the labour shortage, the more favourable life, on paper if not in actuality, offered many of you in America, and the fact that the deeper we go in search of our copper the more reluctant are the old granite bones of Hungry Hill to give it to us. One day, perhaps not very far distant, we shall strike for the last time and know that the best of the copper has been brought to the surface, and that what remains is not worth the cost of raising it. Until that day, my friends, I wish you good luck and God-speed, with all the thanks in my heart for your loyalty, your energy and your courage."
And with these words Henry sat down, wondering, as the applause rang in his ears, whether his grandfather would have made the same sort of speech, or whether, in the manner of fifty years ago, he would have kept his listeners a full hour, and be damned to them if they showed signs of impatience. Griffiths, the manager, made reply for the miners, and then there were songs, and talking, and more songs; and finally, about eleven o'clock, when the air in the drying-shed was becoming thick and hazy with smoke and the company boisterous and rather over-full of ale, Henry, and Katherine, and the rest of the family slipped away, and summoned the carriages, with all the satisfaction of a good deed done.
"Well," declared Aunt Eliza, "I only hope those men are grateful for all Henry has done for them. But they are all the same; every kindness is taken for granted, and it was just the same in my father's time. Personally, I consider all these improvements only make them lazy. Great bits of machinery to bring the stuff up above ground, when I can remember every ounce of copper coming to the surface in a bucket."
"You ought to have been a director," laughed Henry; "hard as nails, and not a penny extra to the miners. Is it true my grandfather used to flog 'em in the early days?"
"It would have done them no harm if he had," she replied, "and I know he quelled the riot they had in '25 by blowing several of them up with gunpowder, and quite right too. There was never any trouble afterwards."
"It must have left a great deal of bitterness, all the same," said Katherine.
"Stuff and nonsense! They learnt their lesson.
My father always used to say that if you once showed weakness to these people they paid you back fourfold in treachery."
"Surely there is a middle way, between extreme hardness and foolish weakness?" said Katherine.
"What, for want of a better word, I should call understanding."
"Don't you believe it," said Henry. "The people don't want to be understood, it would spoil their sense of injustice. They revel in their wrongs.
My grandfather was perfectly right. Do you think I shall get any more work out of my Doonhaven miners now I have raised their wages? Not a bit of it. "Ah, Mr. Brodrick's gone easy," they'll say; "we'll take an extra half-hour for dinner, and smoke another pipe of "baccy."
"Did you raise the wages to get more out of them?" asked Katherine. "I thought you did it because we agreed they were too low, and the families were suffering."
Henry made a penitent face, and felt for her hand.
"Of course I did," he said, "but you know the proverb about killing two birds with one stone…
Here, what the devil is Tim up to?"
The carriage lurched suddenly, throwing Henry against his wife. There was a jerk, and a sliding of hoofs as the horses were pulled to a standstill. Tim was shouting to the animals, and the carriage rocked between the wheels. Henry flung open the door and stepped down into the road.
"It wasn't my fault, sir," said Tim, who, white in the face, was climbing down from his seat.
"He walked right out into the centre of the road, and was under the horses before I could stop him… He must have been drunk, of course."
He went forward to hold the horses, while Henry bent over the prone figure of the man who had stumbled in front of the carriage. The second carriage had stopped behind them, and
Tom and Herbert, realising there had been an accident, came running down the road to assist them.
"What's wrong? Is anyone hurt?" asked Tom.
"Some idiot of a fellow came right out of the hedge and ran straight into us," said Henry. "Not Tim's fault at all. It's a mercy we were not all thrown into the ditch. Hand down the carriage lamp, Herbert, and let's see the damage."
Together he and Tom Callaghan dragged the unfortunate man from under the carriage, and laid him out on his back in the road.
"I'm afraid his back is broken," said Tom quietly. "Let me loosen the collar and turn the head to the light. Henry, I think Katherine and your aunt had best get into the other carriage and drive home to Clonmere. This isn't a sight for their eyes. Herbert, will you look after them?"
"What is it? Who is it?" said Katherine, stepping down from the carriage. "Poor fellow.
Let me help, Henry, please."
"No, dear one, I want you to go home. Do what I tell you," said Henry.
Katherine hesitated a moment, and then took Aunt Eliza's arm and turned back to the other carriage.
"Drive on," called Henry, waving his hand to the groom; "we shall follow directly."
Edward had now joined them, and Bill Eyre.
"What a wretched business," said Edward. "Is the man dead?"
"I'm afraid so," said Tom; "the wheel seems to have passed right over his head… We had better lift him into the carriage, and take him straight away to the surgery and rouse the doctor.
The young fellow, not old Armstrong. Not that he will be able to do anything, I don't recognise the fellow, he's no one I know in Doonhaven. About forty-five, I should say, reddish hair going grey. Give us the light again."
Once more they looked down into the face of the dead man. It was badly marked and disfigured, but even so there was something about the hair, the staring blue eyes, that awoke recognition in Henry and a flood of memories.
"Good God," he said slowly, "it's Jack Donovan."
The brothers stared at one another, and old Tim, coming close to them, bent down in his turn and examined the dead man.
"You're right, sir," he said. "It's him sure enough. I'd heard he was home from America, but I hadn't seen him myself. And what does he do but come home and get drunk and walk straight in under my horse's feet. '?
"Is this the man you told me about once?" asked Tom quietly.
"Yes," said Henry. "What a wretched unfortunate business! Why the devil did he have to come back?"
"No use wondering that," said Tom, "
"we have to get him down to the village. Who's his nearest relative? Hasn't he an aunt, Mrs.
Kelly? And I suppose that old rogue Denny Donovan, who used to keep a pub, is an uncle?"
"Yes, sir," said Tim, "Denny is his uncle, but the man's never sober, not much use rousing him. Denny's son, Pat Donovan, has a bit of a farm across the hill here; that's where Jack must have been staying."
"Time enough for all that in the morning," said Tom Callaghan "Let's get the poor fellow to the surgery."
What a damnable end to the evening, thought Henry, as the carriage with its miserable burden rattled down the hill into Doonhaven, And why, of all people, must it have been Jack Donovan, returned from America, who chose to end his life in such a fashion? If only he could have run into somebody else's carriage. Henry had not the slightest pity for the fellow, he was a scoundrel in every sense, and the world was well rid of him, but for anyone to be killed in this way, beneath his horses and his carriage, and especially after the celebration that had taken place that evening, was painful and disturbing, It was not his fault, it was not anyone's fault except Jack Donovan's himself, but that was not the point. The thing had happened. And it brought back the past and so much distress that was best forgotten. '
It was some time after midnight when Henry and his brothers returned to Clonmere. The body of Jack Donovan had been taken to the surgery and the doctor summoned. He must have died instantly, the doctor said, and certainly Tim could be absolved from all blame, for it was obvious that the dead man had been drinking. The doctor promised to go himself in the morning and break the news to Jack Donovan's cousin Pat, and Tom Callaghan also announced his intention of doing the same.
"There's no need for you to concern yourself in the matter, old fellow," he said to Henry. "I'm the Rector of this place, and I'm used to this sort of thing, even if the Donovans don't belong to my church. You have a big house-party on your hands, and it's your duty to look after them."
The castle was hushed and silent in the moonlight.
Only a pinprick of light from their bedroom warned Henry that Katherine was awake and waiting for him. He was afraid she would be very much grieved at what had happened. Damn Jack Donovan, he thought angrily, even if he was dead. His brothers went up to bed, but Henry remained below, wondering whether he should make up some story to Katherine or not. It would be useless, though; he had never lied to her. He stood by the front door gazing out across the creek to Hungry Hill.
It lay in shadow now, and the moon, shining high above Doon Island, seemed pale and cold. Fifty years ago his grandfather must have stood here, with his future before him and the agreement for the mines in his pocket. And fifty years hence, what? His own grandson, a son of Hal's perhaps, with this same moon looking down upon Clonmere, and the creek, and the scarred, blank face of Hungry Hill?
He turned and went indoors, and climbed the stairs softly to Katherine's room. She was sitting up in bed waiting for him, her long dark hair in two plaits like a child. She looked pale and anxious.
"I am sure the man is dead," she said at once. "I felt it, directly you told me to come home."
"Yes," he said, "he is dead."
He told her a little more about it: how they had gone to the surgery, and roused the doctor, and then, when she asked the man's name, he hesitated, having some intuition that the name would make her unhappy, as indeed it made him unhappy too.
"It was Jack Donovan," he said at last.
"It seems he had returned from America."
She said very little, and he went and undressed, and when he came back she had blown out the candles and was lying in darkness.
He held her close to him, and when he kissed her eyes he found they were wet with tears.
"Don't think about it," he said; "it was a wretched unfortunate thing to happen, but the doctor said he died instantly. He was a hopeless fellow, you know that, and would only have made trouble in the district if he had settled down here again. Please, dear one, don't think about it any more."
"It's not that," she said. "I'm not crying for Jack Donovan."
"What is it, then?" he said. "Won't you tell me?"
She said nothing for a moment, and then, putting her arms round him, she said: "I cried just now because I remembered Johnnie, and how lost and unhappy he was. I might have done so much more for him than I did."
"That's absurd," said Henry. "What more could you have possibly done?"
It was Jack Donovan, of course, who had brought back the old tragedy. Johnnie had been dead nearly twelve years, and Katherine had never mentioned him before. And here she was, lying in his arms, with the tears running down her cheeks. He was aware, for the first time in his life, of a queer pang of jealousy. It was disturbing, strange, that Katherine, his beloved wife, so calm always, so patient and reserved, should weep like a little child for his dead brother, after all these years.
"It's that damned accident," he said, "it's been a shock to you. I wish to God it could have been avoided… Katherine darling, you do love me, don't you? More than anyone else, more than the children, more than Hal?"
The great supper up at the mines, the cheering and the clapping, the celebrations of the day, and the sudden horror of the accident on the way home were all forgotten in his sudden longing for reassurance. If he doubted Katherine he doubted everything. There was no faith, no hope, no meaning in life at all.
"You do love me?" he said. "Don't you…
&nbs
p; Don't you?"
Henry decided against taking a house for the season in London that year. For one thing, both doctors, the new man and old Uncle Willie, said that it would be too much for Katherine. And the other reason was that Henry wished to superintend the work upon the castle. For his secret, announced to the family during the celebrations in March, was no more than this, that he had been in consultation with a well-known architect, who, at his request, had drawn up plans for an entire new front to the castle.
"How my father and all the aunts ever crammed into the rooms cannot imagine," he said. "Aunt Eliza has told me that they never could invite people to stay in my grandfather's time"
He smiled down at his wife, unrolling the plan the architect had given him, as excited as a child with a new toy.
"Now admit, dearest," he said, "that this new wing, where you and I and our guests shall live, is really very imposing."
Katherine smiled, and took the plan in her hands.
"It's like a palace," she said. "What are we going to do with all those rooms?"
"Don't you think the idea of a grand entrance hall is rather fine?" he said eagerly. "I've always felt rather ashamed of our small hall, scarcely more than a passage, when I've been to Andriff and other places. What about this staircase? Magnificent, isn't it? Of course, I shall buy some really good pictures for the gallery. We'll go out to Florence and Rome next winter, and really spread ourselves.
Now this is what will please you most. Look, the boudoir, all for you, between our bedroom and the spare room on the corner. And the little balcony leading from it, over the big front door. Here is my dressing-room, facing the woods. But tell me that you like the boudoir? It was my idea entirely."
Katherine lifted her hand and touched his cheek.
"Of course I like it," she said. "It's quite true, I've always wanted a little room of my own, where I can write my letters and not be disturbed."
"And you will have such a view," he said excitedly, "the best view in the castle, right away across the creek to Hungry Hill. You see, dear one, if you are not feeling strong your breakfast can be brought to you in the boudoir, and you will only have to walk through from your bedroom. These new rooms will have the sun the whole day long. At the moment we lose it, in winter, almost directly after luncheon. I dare say that is why you often look so pale."
Hungry Hill Page 33