Fancies and Goodnights - Collier John (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью без txt) 📗
However, he had little thought to spare for the dog. As soon as he got over his first excitement, he moved on in the direction of the gateway. The girl was already out of sight when he got there, but he recognized the neglected avenue which led up to the battered tower on the shoulder of the hill.
Ringwood thought that was enough for the day, so made his way back to the inn. Bates was still absent, but that was just as well. Ringwood wanted the evening to himself in order to work out a plan of campaign.
«That horse never cost two ten-pound notes of anybody's money,» said he to himself. «So she's not so rich. So much the better! Besides, she wasn't dressed up much; I don't know what she had on — a sort of cloak or something. Nothing out of Bond Street, anyway. And lives in that old tower! I should have thought it was all tumbled down. Still, I suppose there's a room or two left at the bottom. Poverty Hall! One of the old school, blue blood and no money, pining away in this God-forsaken hole, miles away from everybody. Probably she doesn't see a man from one year's end to another. No wonder she gave me a look. God! if I was sure she was there by herself, I wouldn't need much of an introduction. Still, there might be a father or a brother or somebody. Never mind, I'll manage it.»
When the landlady brought in the lamp: «Tell me,» said he. «Who's the young lady who rides the cobby-looking, old-fashioned-looking grey?»
«A young lady, sir?» said the landlady doubtfully. «On a grey?»
«Yes,» said he. «She passed me in the lane up there. She turned in on the old avenue, going up to the tower.»
«Oh, Mary bless and keep you!» said the good woman. «That's the beautiful Murrough lady you must have seen.»
«Murrough?» said he. «Is that the name? Well! Well! Well! That's a fine old name in the west here.»
«It is so, indeed,» said the landlady. «For they were kings and queens in Connaught before the Saxon came. And herself, sir, has the face of a queen, they tell me.»
«They're right,» said Ringwood. «Perhaps you'll bring me in the whiskey and water, Mrs. Doyle, and I shall be comfortable.»
He had an impulse to ask if the beautiful Miss Murrough had anything in the shape of a father or a brother at the tower, but his principle was, «least said soonest mended,» especially in little affairs of this sort. So he sat by the fire, recapturing and savouring the look the girl had given him, and he decided he needed only the barest excuse to present himself at the tower.
Ringwood had never any shortage of excuses, so the next afternoon he spruced himself up and set out in the direction of the old avenue. He turned in at the gate, and went along under the forlorn and dripping trees, which were so ivied and overgrown that the darkness was already thickening under them. He looked ahead for a sight of the tower, but the avenue took a turn at the end, and it was still hidden among the clustering trees.
Just as he got to the end, he saw someone standing there, and he looked again, and it was the girl herself, standing as if she was waiting for him.
«Good afternoon, Miss Murrough,» said he, as soon as he got into earshot. «Hope I'm not intruding. The fact is, I think I had the pleasure of meeting a relation of yours down in Cork, only last month … .» By this time he had got close enough to see the look in her eyes again, and all this nonsense died away in his mouth, for this was something beyond any nonsense of that sort.
«I thought you would come,» said she.
«My God!» said he. «I had to. Tell me — are you all by yourself here?»
«All by myself,» said she, and she put out her hand as if to lead him along with her.
Ringwood, blessing his lucky stars, was about to take it, when her lean dog bounded between them and nearly knocked him over.
«Down!» cried she, lifting her hand. «Get back!» The dog cowered and whimpered, and slunk behind her, creeping almost on its belly. «He's not a dog to be trusted,» she said.
«He's all right,» said Ringwood. «He looks a knowing old fellow. I like a lurcher. Clever dogs. What? Are you trying to talk to me, old boy?»
Ringwood always paid a compliment to a lady's dog, and in fact the creature really was whining and whimpering in the most extraordinary fashion.
«Be quiet!» said the girl, raising her hand again, and the dog was silent.
«A cur,» said she to Ringwood. «Did you come here to sing the praises of a half-breed cur?» With that she gave him her eyes again, and he forgot the wretched dog, and she gave him her hand, and this time he took it and they walked toward the tower.
Ringwood was in the seventh heaven. «What luck!» thought he. «I might at this moment be fondling that little farm wench in some damp and smelly cowshed. And ten to one she'd be snivelling and crying and running home to tell her mammy. This is something different.»
At that moment, the girl pushed open a heavy door, and, bidding the dog lie down, she led our friend through a wide, bare, stone-flagged hall and into a small vaulted room which certainly had no resemblance to a cowshed except perhaps it smelt a little damp and mouldy, as these old stone places so often do. All the same, there were logs burning on the open hearth, and a broad, low couch before the fire-place. For the rest, the room was furnished with the greatest simplicity, and very much in the antique style. «A touch of the Kathleen ni Houlihan,» thought Ringwood. «Well, well! Sitting in the Celtic twilight, dreaming of love. She certainly doesn't make much bones about it.»
The girl sat down on the couch and motioned him down beside her. Neither of them said anything; there was no sound but the wind outside, and the dog scratching and whimpering timidly at the door of the chamber.
At last the girl spoke. «You are of the Saxon,» said she gravely.
«Don't hold it against me,» said Ringwood. «My people came here in 1656. Of course, that's yesterday to the Gaelic League, but still I think we can say we have a stake in the country.»
«Yes, through its heart,» said she.
«Is it politics we're going to talk?» said he, putting an Irish turn to his tongue. «You and I, sitting here in the firelight?»
«It's love you'd rather be talking of,» said she with a smile. «But you're the man to make a blunder and a mockery of the poor girls of Eire.»
«You misjudge me entirely,» said Ringwood. «I'm the man to live alone and sorrowful, waiting for the one love, though it seemed something beyond hoping for.»
«Yes,» said she. «But yesterday you were looking at one of the Connell girls as she drove her kine along the lane.»
«Looking at her? I'll go so far as to say I did,» said he. «But when I saw you I forgot her entirely.»
«That was my wish,» said she, giving him both her hands. «Will you stay with me here?»
«Ah, that I will!» cried he in a rapture.
«Always?» said she.
«Always,» cried Ringwood. «Always and forever!» for he felt it better to be guilty of a slight exaggeration than to be lacking in courtesy to a lady. But as he spoke she fixed her eyes on him, looking so much as if she believed him that he positively believed himself.
«Ah,» he cried. «You bewitch me!» And he took her in his arms.
He pressed his lips to hers, and at once he was over the brink. Usually he prided himself on being a pretty cool hand, but this was an intoxication too strong for him; his mind seemed to dissolve in sweetness and fire, and at last the fire was gone, and his senses went with it. As they failed he heard her saying «For ever! For ever!» and then everything was gone and he fell asleep.
He must have slept some time. It seemed he was wakened by the heavy opening and closing of a door. For a moment he was all confused and hardly knew where he was.
