Interference

Behold a lovely morning in late November—a morning borrowed from Spring, as bright and sunny as if it had been advanced by the liberal month of May. True, that as yet there had been but little frost, that the South of Ireland is proverbially mild, and the pleasure-ground at Bridgetstown a notoriously sheltered and favoured spot. Chrysanthemums—yellow and brown—still braved the nipping wintry air, hollyhocks, dahlias, and pale monthly roses as yet held up their heads; laurels and holly glistened in seasonable green, and a gorgeous Virginia creeper flaunted along the grey garden wall.

On such a morning, George Holroyd came whistling across the pleasure-ground in search of his mother. She was extremely fond of flowers, and if hoarding up shilling to shilling was Mrs. Redmond’s passion, and deepest earthly enjoyment, grubbing, transplanting, nursing, and potting was hers. George swung back the garden gate, till it shivered on its hinges, and beheld his mother, and a tall girl, promenading along the central gravel walk. His mother was leaning upon her companion’s arm, and carried an earthy trowel in one hand—they were evidently engaged in earnest conversation. On hearing the gate slam, they both turned towards him, and could it be possible that his mother’s confidante was Betty Redmond? For a moment he doubted her identity, so great was the difference between smiles and tears—between a wild rose complexion and a countenance sodden and swollen with crying—between a dull misty afternoon, and a brilliant morning. The sun brought out the bronze tints of Betty’s brown hair, and was reflected in the depths of her deep grey eyes—eyes of that mystic shade, that can be soft with joy or love, brimming with sympathy, dancing with mirth, or dark as night with grief or jealousy. Such eyes are wont to dazzle, and into their depths it is most dangerous for a young man to gaze, unless he would be their slave for life. Luckily for mankind, the power of these eyes was unknown to their possessor; to her, they were merely a pair of useful organs, that saw well, slept well, and wept well—to the latter George Holroyd could bear testimony. Betty had discarded her waterproof, and wore a well-fitting blue serge gown, a black straw sailor’s hat, in which was jauntily stuck two bits of scarlet geranium, the very last of the season. She was tall and slight, and as George looked, he agreed with his mother—Betty Redmond was beautiful. Hers was a style that bore a searching light, the open air, the bold unflattering sun. Belle looked best in dim rose-shaded lamplight, or within the circuit of a fire, whose blaze was reproduced in her magnificent dark orbs. Belle was a brilliant hot-house azalea, and Betty a bit of white mountain heather.

It is true that her nose was not as neatly chiselled as her cousin’s, and that her small white teeth were somewhat irregular; nevertheless Betty was a pretty girl and found great favour in George Holroyd’s eyes; but whether she was a “warm-hearted young creature” he had yet to discover.

“This is my son, George,” explained Mrs. Malone proudly. “George, don’t you know Betty? I mean Miss Elizabeth Redmond.”

“Yes,” replied George. “I have already had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. I helped her to excavate a treasure in the upper wood at Noone.”

Betty coloured to her brow, for his eyes were looking straight into hers, with an expression that confused and vexed her—an expression of undisguised admiration.

“I am fortunate in meeting you, Miss Betty,” he continued, “for it strikes me, that we are like the little couple in the weather-glass house: when I am here, you are at Noone; when I am at Noone, you are here.”

“I come over to read with Cuckoo two mornings a week; we take it month about—it is my turn to come to her,” returned the girl, looking at him steadily.

If Mr. Holroyd was going to stare at her in that odd way, she would dislike him extremely. Mr. Holroyd read her haughty young face like a book. What a pretty mouth and chin she had—a pretty mouth that looked as if it could speak proud things!

“I wish you would allow me to come and do lessons with you,” he returned with a smile. “I am shockingly ignorant, my spelling is shaky, and my geography deplorable.”

“I think it more likely we should learn from you; you have seen so much of the world, and so many strange places and people, I am sure you could teach us a great deal.”

“I could teach you Hindustani and the new sword exercise, and how to load cartridges.”

“Ah! I am afraid that your instruction would be wasted on us,” she answered, looking after Mrs. Malone, who had been hurried off to the hotbed by Joe the gardener.

“May I ask what you are doing?” he enquired, glancing at a hammer and some pieces of scarlet cloth she held in her hand. “Have you been cutting up the Major’s uniform?”

“I have been nailing up the Cloth of Gold rose, which the wind has blown down; but you see there are some trails that I could not reach,” pointing to them as she spoke.

In another instant, George was on the ladder, receiving nails and bits of cloth, and particular directions, gazing down into a pair of beautiful upturned eyes. The full effect of a pair of exquisite upturned eyes must be experienced to be appreciated! George studied them gravely. Something told him that it was no ordinary maiden who held the ladder; he must not flirt with this innocent inexperienced girl. No, no; Honour stood by with her finger on her lips.

“You seem to know your way about here pretty well,” he observed, apropos of Bridgetstown, when they had conversed with frank companionship for some time.

“Yes, I am quite at home. I have been coming here since I was a little thing. Your mother calls me her eldest daughter.”

“Then I am your brother, of course.”

“No, no, that does not follow by any means; you are a stranger at Ballingoole.”

“Yes, I know I am only a mere Englishman, but I hope I shall be presented with the freedom of the town. Mrs. Finny assures me that I am an honoured and distinguished visitor.”

“What would be the good of the freedom of the town? It is a stagnant little place; we have no excitements; and you are a soldier—a wanderer on the face of the earth.”

“That is true, I am a rolling stone, and don’t care much about the moss.”

“You like the life, then?”

“Yes, I could not conceive any other; it suits me down to the ground.”

“And what will you do when you are what the Major calls ‘kicked out?’”

“I am sure I don’t know; loaf round, I suppose, until it is time to die!”

“And how did you like Mrs. Finny?” enquired Betty with a sly smile; “did she made you any sweet speeches?”

“She made me blush! a thing I have not done for years! Butter should be applied in small quantities, with a delicate silver knife, and not administered by the half-pound with a trowel. However, it pleased my mother.”

“Only your mother?” with merry incredulous eyes.

“Yes, my sensitive nature, and highly-strung nerves——”

“Your what?” she interrupted, and they both burst out laughing. Mrs. Malone heard the laugh, at the bottom of the garden—and was delighted to think that her handsome soldier son and her favourite visitor were getting on so well.

At this instant the garden gate again opened with a clang, and admitted the graceful and vivacious Cuckoo.

“George!” she screamed. “Oh! there you are; what are you doing up the ladder?”

“Looking for birds’ nests, as you may see!”

“Cuckoo!” exclaimed Betty tragically, “it is not possible that you are out in your new shoes?”

“Yes, I’m in a hurry. I have something to tell George, something he would like to hear. Only he is so rude that I think I shall keep him waiting, marking time, as he calls it.”

“I rude!” he echoed; “my good Cuckoo, you are joking.”

“Yes, you know you called me a little pig only yesterday.”

“But of course I meant a pretty little pig,” he rejoined as he carefully selected a nail, and drove it into the wall. “What are your tidings, fairest of the fair?”

“A horse has come for you—such a beauty?”

“By Jove, you don’t say so!” jumping down as he spoke. “Everything comes to him who waits!”

“Yes. But I heard the man that brought him telling Knox, not to go near his heels, for he was a born devil, but that the Major wouldn’t mind that, and he winked; why did he wink, George?”

“Where did he come from?” enquired her brother as eagerly as a boy of ten. “He is not an old friend, is he?”

“He came from near Cousin Mick’s; he belongs to a man named Clancy—a tenant of his.”

“Let us go and inspect him, instantly, Miss Redmond, that is if you care about looking at him; but any one who is so devoted to dogs must be fond of horses.”

Betty admitted the impeachment, and they hurried towards the house, whilst Cuckoo went shrieking down the garden: “Mother! mother! come and look at George’s new horse.”

In a very short time, the whole establishment was collected on the lawn, surveying the recent arrival, with critical eyes. The Major with his legs very wide apart, and a toothpick in his mouth, carried on a whispered conversation with a pale-faced little man, in extraordinary tight trousers, now holding his head this side, and now on that, like a crow peeping down a marrow bone.

Every male about the place, from the groom to the message boy, was assembled in solemn conclave, for is not every Irishman born into the world with “an eye for a horse?”

The animal under inspection came out of the ordeal nobly. He proved to be young, well-bred, and sound; a fine upstanding iron grey, five off, with lots of bone below the knee, plenty of room for his bellows, and grand quarters.

And although Sam the groom said, “his colour was against him,” and Tom, the message boy, “suspicioned him of a splint,” and he had not “sufficient quality” to please Joe the gardener, yet on the whole, the verdict was in his favour, and he was pronounced to be “a shocking fine colt.”

But his price! Well his price was surprisingly low, and was possibly accounted for by his rolling eye, and extremely animated manners.

According to the little wizened groom who led him (by preference) “he was an outrageous lepper, and could jump a town, was never known to turn his head from anything, and had a cruel turn of speed.”

Being requested to canter him quietly round the lawn, and exhibit his paces, he refused with considerable decision. He declared that he had the lumbago so badly he could not sit in a saddle, and had not been on a horse’s back for months.

“Let the gentleman throw a leg across the harse, and try him for himself.”

The gentleman, who was greatly taken with the animal, was nothing loth, and promptly advanced to mount him.

“Take him aisy, your honour,” muttered the groom, as he let down the stirrup leathers. “Take him kindly, he is young, and ye must just flatter him a bit at the first go off.”

But the horse scornfully refused to be taken aisy or flattered. He had been standing for some time, and was possibly cold, and certainly impatient; he had not been ridden for weeks (for reasons known to his groom).

Consequently when he was mounted and let go, he lashed out with his heels in a manner that rapidly scattered his admirers, made two vicious buck jumps, and then bolted; going immediately down the avenue, at the rate of twenty miles an hour.

“And the gate is shut!” gasped Mrs. Malone, as she clutched Betty’s arm, convulsively; “the gate—the iron gate.”

Betty stood still and held her breath; they all stood and gazed, in expectation of some horrible catastrophe; for the avenue gate was over four feet high, with strong spikes along the top bar.

“Thank God,” exclaimed Mrs. Malone, breaking a painful silence, as the grey, who had a fall of the ground with him, sailed over it like a deer.

“At laste he can lep,” remarked Sam the groom, wiping the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve.

“And where is he now?” asked the Major in an angry voice.

“He is away up the Roskeen Road,” shouted Tom, who had swarmed up a tree. “Faix, he nearly did it that time; he was just into Mrs. Maccabe’s cart. Hurroo! the Captain has got a pull at him, and is taking him across country, he—he has gone slap through Dooley’s haggard and potato garden, and begorra,—now, now he is making for the canal.”

And with this cheering announcement, Tom climbed down, declaring that he could see nothing more.

In less than half-an-hour George and the grey came trotting back, intact, and apparently on the best of terms with one another, although they were both very hot; the grey had lost two shoes, and his rider his cap.

“He has no more mouth than a stone wall,” said George as he got off. “But he can’t fall. He took Dooley’s boundary as if it were a cart rut. I’ve knocked the conceit out of him a bit; he was heading for the canal, but when he found it was all the same to me, he shut off steam.”

“George, my dear boy, what a terrible horse!” cried Mrs. Malone. “I was sure you would have been killed, when he went at the gate.”

“Yes, like the old lady I thought that ‘every moment would be my next,’ till I discovered that he could jump. He is all right, mother, he only wants exercise, there is no fear of me. And I mean to buy him.”

“Your father was a splendid rider, George; no horse ever conquered him. You take after him, I see.” And she looked at her handsome, eager-eyed son with an air of melancholy pride.

“What do you say to him, Miss Betty?” he enquired. “You shall ride him if you like, some of these days, when he is better bitted, and broken.”

“Betty is a nailer to ride. She’d back anything,” volunteered Denis in his gruff voice.

“He is not a lady’s horse,” objected the Major, “though handling and exercise is all he wants. Only for this gout of mine I’d buy him myself, and have him as quiet as a sheep by the end of the week; it’s all hands, sir, hands—and I don’t think much of yours. Eh! what? what?”

The Major was sorely vexed at George’s success, and the unmistakable admiration that his riding had evoked, from a notoriously critical class. The Major himself was no horseman; a lamentable exhibition in the saddle; he had a capital seat in a dog-cart, that was all.

Presently, as the cowed and subdued grey was about to be led off to the stable, with drooping head and heaving sides, Cuckoo rushed at the groom excitedly, and said:

“You have not told us his name. What is he called?”

“Faix! the only name I ever heard put on him was Clancy’s mad colt, but I believe he was christened ‘Scatter Brains,’” replied the little man with a sly smile as he led his charge away, to have a rub down and a feed.

That evening “Scatter Brains” was purchased by George Holroyd for seventy-five guineas, and a luckpenny to the groom, who received it, and a glass of whisky, with an expression of intense satisfaction—not to say relief.

“You are not from this part of the world, are you?” enquired George by way of conversation.

“No, your honour, I was formerly a native of Cork, and I would not tell your honour a lie.”

“And of where are you now a native?”

“Well—I’ve been at Clancy’s this fifteen years. I see you can ride, sir,” he continued confidentially. “So I’ve no shame or fear in telling you, that that horse requires a power of humouring. I’ve never walked straight since the last time he got shut of me. We are not sorry to part with him; he has a desperate trick of bolting, and for nothing at all! When you are just walking innocently along the road, he is away with you. He has a terrible bad name, and that’s why ye got him chape; they does be all in dread of him! But there is just wan resource, for a man with nerve, and I’ll tell it to you. Pretend you like it—I never could—and that will cure him. When he bolts with hounds (as in course he always does), and mostly lames a couple of dogs, stick in the spurs, and lam into him with a new ashplant, until he is fit to drop, just give him his head, and the stick: he could not fall if he tried, and when ye feel him under you, just devouring the ground, and greedy to be airing himself over an eighteen foot gripe and double, ye would not grudge three hundred sovereigns; he is a chaser, that’s what he is, and invaluable to a stout rider, a bold man like yourself—but many and many’s the time I thought he would make a ghost of me.”

“And have you lost your nerve?”

“Between ourselves, sir,” lowering his voice, “I have; I haven’t a pinch left. I’ve scarcely a whole bone in me skin. I was first a riding boy, and then a jock, and then a breaker-in, and I have had some extraordinary bad falls. Well, sir, since you are so pressing, I’ll take just another tinte of whisky, and wishing long life and good luck to your honour, and many a good day on the grey,” and so somewhat unsteadily departed.