Interference

“Joey, Joey, Foxy Joe, I say, hold hard.”

Thus challenged by Denis Malone, in a ringing brogue, an elderly dwarf, who had been shuffling along a boreen, halted and looked sharply about him. It was at the close of a dull afternoon; there was more than a hint of frost in the air, and over the marshy lands, at either side of the lane, a thin white mist was rising. To the left, Denis and his step-brother, with guns on their shoulders, were struggling across a bit of bog—towards where Joey stood awaiting them. Joey is possibly fifty years of age, and not more than four feet in height. He has a long body, and very short legs; nevertheless, he wears the clothes of a full-grown man; his frieze coat almost sweeps the ground; his waistcoat reaches half way to his boots, and his trousers are doubled back to his knees, and there pinned; long, reddish elf locks fall over his collar, and his little grey eyes look out somewhat vacantly from a pent-house of bushy red brows. However, if not very bright—although Joey’s enemies declare that he is more of a knave than a fool—at any rate he has wit enough for his business; he is messenger and postman to the neighbourhood, and wears a leather bag, slung over his shoulder, as an insignia of his profession. In one hand he carries a stout blackthorn, and in the other a plump woodcock. A minute later, George Holroyd was within easy hail, coming over the wet tussocks with long strides; these long strides suddenly increased to a rapid run, for a deep, wet gripe, with treacherous sides of thick, withered grass, lay between him and Joey. “You’ll never do it, Captain darlin’,” screamed the dwarf, raising his stick. “It’s eighteen foot if it’s——” Before another word left his lips, “Captain darlin’” stood in the boreen beside him.

“Oh, begorra thin, well lepped! You’re as souple as Pat Kearney’s heifer; he can’t keep her out of the potato garden, at no price. Is she loaded, Captain?” pointing to the gun. (N.B., the Irish peasant believes every young officer to be a captain at the very least.)

“To be sure, she is.”

“An’ supposin’ she went off and shot me?”

“No fear of that, Joey,” remarked Denis, who had joined them. “A mannikin like you would be as hard to hit as a jack snipe, and they are the very devil. We saw nothing else to-day.”

“Well, well; so ye had poor sport, had ye? It’s a bad day for fowling; what ails the red terrier, Crab?”

“I peppered him with No. 9 shot, and I want you to carry him home.”

“Is it Crab?” he returned, in a tone of peevish incredulity. “Faix, Mr. Denis, a lighter job would answer me better! I’m sorry you did not shoot him all out, when ye went about it! I’ve a print of his teeth in the calf of me leg yet. Look at him now, rowling the white of his eye on me, bad cess to him.”

“Well, then, carry my gun; that won’t bite you.”

“Be gor! I would not touch a shootin’ iron for the Pope himself—may be she’d go off in spite of me.”

“What good are you, then?” exclaimed Denis, angrily. “Afraid of a dog; afraid of a gun; I’ll go bail you would not be so nervous if you were asked to carry a quart bottle of whisky.”

“Begorra, yer honour, ye have only to thry me! I’ve just been over at Mr. Blake’s. Now there’s a man for ye! He called me in, and gave me a glass of spirits strong enough to take the paint off a hall door. Be gor,” his little eyes glistening at the recollection, “to this minute itself, I’m aware of a torch-light procession going down me throat.”

“And what have you got there?” continued Denis imperiously.

“Oh, a terrible fine young woodcock Mr. Blake is sending Mrs. Redmond.”

“Show it here.”

Joey tendered it proudly.

“It’s a fine, heavy bird,” said Denis, balancing it critically on the palm of his hand. “And it’s a mortal sin to give it to an old woman that does not know goose from grouse. Where was it shot?”

“By Bresna Wood, I’m thinking—they are in now, but it’s over early to be shooting them yet.”

Meanwhile Denis, with the skill of a conjurer, had thrust his hand into his lean game-bag, and dexterously substituted the noble woodcock for a miserable jack snipe, which, as all the world knows, strongly resembles the former in everything but size. “Well, Joey, here you are!” handing him the snipe with imperturbable countenance.

“What!” screamed Joey, surveying it with open-mouthed horror. “What devil’s trick are you up to now, Mr. Denis? Arrah!” snatching at it passionately. “Give it back to me here, before you make a wran of it.” It was evident that Joey believed that Denis had wrought a spell on the bird, and might possibly develop it so far as to reduce the woodcock to nothing at all.

“What’s come over it?” he whimpered, turning it about in great perplexity. “What have ye done to it, at all, at all? Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself, so ye ought; it’s not the weight of a robin red-breast.”

“Then give it to me again, and I’ll blow on it, and make it the size of a cock turkey.”

“In troth, and I won’t. I know yer too well. Here our roads part,” opening a gate that led towards Noone, “and I’ll be for wishing ye good evening, gentlemen; gentleman, I mane,” he muttered to himself as he shambled off, with the jack in his hand. “Sure all the world knows there’s only wan in it.”

Denis put down Crab; leant his gun against the gate, and gave vent to a loud ironical view halloo. “Gone away—gone away—gone away!”

An unpleasant reference to Joey’s nickname which Joey deeply resented. He turned back for a moment and shook his stick furiously at Denis, saying: “Never fear, me fine fellow, but I’ll have it in for ye yet,” and then plodded on.

“How that chap does hate me!” remarked Denis complacently, as he shouldered his gun. “I’d like to wring his neck. He is the spy and informer of the whole country.”

“I say, though! that’s rather hard lines about the bird,” expostulated his brother, who had lagged behind, to pick up Crab. “What will Mrs. Redmond think, when she receives a surprisingly minute jack snipe, with Mr. Blake’s compliments?”

“Oh! I’ll take down the woodcock myself this evening, and kill two birds with one stone, for I shall see Betty—not to speak of Belle, a belle that no one seems disposed to ring, in spite of her fine eyes, smart frocks, and fascinating manners.”

“Talking of manners,” said his brother, “I wish Cuckoo could be sent to school.”

“You may well say so! she’s an awful brat. The mother spoils her and gives her her head entirely.”

“She ought to be sent to some good, strict establishment without delay.”

“She ought,” assented Denis; “many things ought to be done, if the coin were forthcoming. For instance, I ought to have been put into the Service—a cavalry regiment for choice—an only son and heir to a property, instead of being a pill!”

“How soon will you take your degree?”

“I don’t know. I hate the whole thing; sometimes I think I’ll enlist.”

“If I were you, I would stick to my profession, it’s a very good one, and now you are four and twenty, Denis, it’s time you began to put your hand to the plough.”

“I suppose the mater has been asking you to lecture me, eh?” said Denis in a surly voice.

“No, indeed, she has not. She has the greatest faith in you, Denis. I am only speaking off my own bat.”

“Then, in that case, please keep your bat out of my affairs. I don’t meddle with you, do I?” he enquired savagely. “You have never done anything for me that I know of, and have no right to offer your opinion and advice. Advice is cheap.”

“All the same, I intend to tell you that I am very sorry to see you idling about at home, instead of making a start, and Cuckoo growing up without any education at all,” returned his brother firmly.

“Oh, she is not as bad as you think,” said Denis in a milder key. It would not suit him to have a row with George. “She does lessons three times a week with Betty Redmond; she and Betty are tremendous pals—and talk of an angel, here she comes!”

At this moment, a roomy bath-chair, containing a substantial old lady, appeared looming down the road. At first it seemed to be rolling along of its own accord, but, on nearer inspection, a black hat was visible (though almost concealed by Mrs. Redmond’s bonnet, and enormous yellow boa). A slender young girl was the motive power, and pushing behind with might and main.

It was getting dark, and faces were not seen very distinctly, but when Mrs. Redmond came near the two sportsmen, she imperatively called out, “Stop,” and waved Denis towards her, with her gigantic fur muff.

“I’ve just been up to Bridgetstown, but I did not see your mother. They said she was out; however, I went in and sat down, to give Betty a rest. Cuckoo entertained us about—Ah, I suppose this is your brother; it is so dark, Mr. Holroyd, that I am sorry I cannot see you; but I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Mr. Holroyd muttered indistinctly, and removed his cap.

“I am afraid you will find it frightfully dull here, and so different to military life! I am devoted to the army, so is my daughter Belle. We have many friends in the Service. I hope we shall see a great deal of you; whenever you are feeling at all bored, mind you come and look us up!”

Mr. Holroyd declared that he would be charmed to accept Mrs. Redmond’s invitation, but that he was sure he would not be at all bored; he liked the country, and hoped to have some hunting.

Hitherto no one had noticed the girl behind the chair. The outline of her features was indistinguishable; nevertheless, George had compassion on her, and said:

“Is this not rather heavy work; the roads are so muddy?”

“Not at all! Not at all!” rejoined Mrs. Redmond hastily. “It’s all downhill going home, and exercise is capital for young people, especially this kind of exercise, for it brings all the muscles into play, legs and arms alike.”

“But surely it is rather a long distance for one young lady,” expostulated George.

“You ought to have Miss Redmond posted somewhere on the road as second horse—lay a dâk, as they call it in India,” suggested Denis facetiously.

“Pooh! it’s only a mile from gate to gate. Belle would be only too delighted to take her turn, but she is such a little delicate darling, the slightest physical exertion knocks her up at once. For a strong girl it is nothing. Why, at Folkestone, I used to keep a bath-chair man for three hours at a stretch, and Betty has had a long rest.”

“Nevertheless, I hope you will accept me as her substitute, and permit me to convey you home,” said George politely.

“Oh, well, really, Mr. Holroyd,” exclaimed the old lady (divided between delight at the offer, and apprehension as to the style of raiment in which her dear Belle might be discovered), “I would not think of it; no, not on any account.”

“Oh! but you must. I assure you I will take no refusal, I never take a refusal” (this was an excellent trait, thought the old lady), as he placed his hand on the back of the chair.

“Here, Denis, you can carry my gun, and Crab will have to walk; he is more frightened than hurt;” and before Mrs. Redmond could expostulate, he was rolling her rapidly homewards.

“Well this is kind,” she said. “What a delightful change from Betty; she does jerk so, and can scarcely get me on at all. I’m sure it is all knack.”

“Knack, indeed,” thought her charioteer. “By Jove! this old woman weighs fifteen stone, and the chair as much as a cab; unfortunate girl, how her arms must ache!”

Meanwhile the unfortunate girl, and Denis, lingered behind, and Denis made over the woodcock, with a short sketch of its history, and roars of laughter.

“And how do you like him?” enquired Betty, looking after the bath-chair. “Is he the stuck-up beast you expected?”

“No, I cannot say that he is stuck-up, but he is rather superfine for Bridgetstown; he wears silk socks of an evening, flies to open the door for the mater, and calls the governor ‘Sir.’”

“You must be quite startled at such queer ways,” returned the girl, with an irony that was completely lost on her listener. “Anything else?” she asked blandly.

“He is shocked at Cuckoo, and no wonder, and he has been trying to lecture me.”

“And no wonder,” she echoed expressively.

“Now, Betty!”

“Pray, what was the text of his lecture?”

“Hanging about at home, and you know who is to blame for that,” and he tried to look sentimental, as he peered into her face.

“Denis, don’t be ridiculous! you are like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I know very well who is to blame for your idleness; no less a person than yourself: you loaf about the country with a gun or a rod, when you ought to be earning your living, or learning to earn your living, like another young man. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, I know I am ashamed for you.”

“I’ve a good mind to enlist!” he exclaimed in a tone of gloomy resolution.

“Well, anything is better than idleness,” returned Betty cheerfully. “I would far rather see you a steady private soldier, than a good-for-nothing private gentleman.”

“There’s no one, not even my mother, who would dare to speak to me as you do, Betty Redmond.”

“Your mother, poor soul! I suppose not, but as to other people, it’s not that they don’t dare—they don’t care! Do you imagine that anyone is afraid of such an insignificant helpless idler as Denis Malone?”

“Betty, you have a tongue, and no one suspects it but me!” cried Denis, angrily.

“Well, I am very glad that it is sharp enough to penetrate your rhinoceros skin. I hope you will take what it says to heart. Now, I must fly. They are nearly out of sight.” And with a gesture of farewell, she ran after the bath-chair.

Mrs. Redmond talked incessantly as she was trundled along. She discoursed of the dreariness of the country, of her military friends, of her limited means, and of Belle, her beautiful Belle! Utterly lost in this wilderness—a veritable pearl among swine—Belle, the ornament of countless balls, the admired of all, the cynosure of even royal eyes, and yet, in spite of her dull life at Noone, she was so gay, so contented, the very light of the house!

This was satisfactory information, for when they arrived at the hall door, the whole mansion was in outer darkness. Belle was sitting in the study, with a small French poodle in her lap, and three fox terriers stretched out before the fire, in various attitudes of luxurious repose. These latter animals had been the property of the late master of Noone, and actually enjoyed a legacy of five pounds each per annum, for the term of their natural lives—and of course it was Mrs. Redmond’s interest to prolong their days, though she did not care for dogs. Their names were respectively “Brown,” “Jones,” and “Robinson,” and they had each their distinctive characteristics.

“Brown” was stout, elderly, and self-conscious; he liked his comforts, such as fire, a regular walk, and a good and punctual dinner. He was a bon vivant and did not eat fat or vegetables—an habitué of the kitchen—and slept with the cook.

“Robinson” was a young and very handsome animal, who was fond of admiration, and ladies and tea; was particular about his appearance, and had quite a fund of small affectations; he was a general favourite—even Mrs. Redmond was proud of “Robinson.”

“Jones” was also young and handsome—white body, black and tan head—a mighty hunter, whose thoughts were centred on sport, and who cared not a straw for the cook—indeed his whole heart was given to Betty. He led a joyous, but by no means innocent, life, in the woods, and would sit over a rabbit hole for hours, and, when he was in full chase of poor bunny, his delighted barks made the plantations to ring. Many a time, he would return late at night, and lay his prey at Betty’s feet, gobble down his dinner, stretch his tired, muddy body before the fire, and there hunt in dreams!

On this particular evening, all the dogs were at home, “laid out,” so to speak, on the hearth-rug, whilst Belle nursed “Mossoo” and devoured a battered novel, by the light of a cheap candle.

“Mossoo,” a pampered, shivering, discontented little beast, was adored by his mistress—in fact, she belonged to him—not he to her! He was washed, trimmed, be-ribboned and caressed, fed on cream and chicken, and dainty dinners, with plenty of gravy. He had no sporting instincts, he disliked mice, was desperately afraid of cats and of wetting his feet, and the other dogs hated him, as boys in a family invariably hate the pet, the coward, and the sneak. He was accomplished too, degradingly accomplished; and as he went through his antics and stood upon his head, “Brown,” “Jones,” and “Robinson” sat and stared at him with grave and scornful faces, and seemed to glance at one another as much to say: “Did you ever see such a fool?”

However, as long as “Mossoo” had fresh cream and a soft pillow, and his mistress’s applause and devotion, he was above the opinion of his fellows.

Suddenly there was an unusual sound, a strange voice in the hall; the dogs leapt to their feet, and tore out of the room, one yelping, skelping whirlwind. If Belle had been a man, she would have used strong language as she capsized “Mossoo,” laid down her book, and strained her ears to catch a sound above that maddening din.

Yes! a man’s voice, and then her mother’s.

“Oh, you must come in, you really must! and have a glass of our celebrated rhubarb wine” (celebrated indeed!)

Belle jumped up. She was in a shabby, old, red tea-gown; her hair resembled a bottle brush. With great presence of mind she blew out the candle, pushed one or two chairs into their places, flung herself into a luxuriant seat, rather out of the fire-light, and feigned sleep.

“If mother orders the lamp,” she said to herself, “I am lost.”

But luckily her astute old mother grasped the situation, and when, ten minutes later, George Holroyd took leave, he carried away with him the memories of a dim room, a pair of magnificent dark eyes, a ditto of restless, small, white hands, and a bewitching smile. It is not certain, that he had not left a minute portion of his heart behind him. At any rate he had promised to return the following day, and bring his music, all his songs, and more especially his duets. His late arrival at home was the subject of much graceful badinage on the part of his brother and sister.

“Did you see Belle, and was she dressed?” enquired the latter, capering round him.

“Of course she was dressed, you little savage.”

“I am surprised to hear it. How I wish you had caught her in her old red dressing-gown.”

“Was the chair heavy?” enquired Denis.

“Weighs a ton; the old lady should really charter a pony or a donkey.”

“She had a fine donkey to-day and that was yourself,” returned Denis with a grin. “Fancy tooling old Mother Redmond home! Upon my word, I did not think you were so soft. Eh! what?”