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Pixie O'Shaughnessy

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Four.</h3> <h4>The Last Run.</h4> “Me dear,” said Bridgie to Mademoiselle, the next morning, showing all her dimples at once in the most mischievous of smiles, “what do you think Mr Hilliard said to me last night before he left? He has made arrangements to stay a few days later to have another ride with the hounds. He believed it would be a very good meet on Thursday, and how wonderfully my sister did ride, to be sure. It’s my belief he started with the intention of asking me to let Esmeralda go in my place, but I looked so innocent at him that he hadn’t the heart. ‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘she did so, and I feared he would think I made but a poor show in comparison.’ Wasn’t it cruel of me now, and the poor thing looking at me speechless, with those lovely, humbugging eyes! I had to turn away and laugh in a corner, but I wouldn’t relent, for, says I to myself, if I have to give up my run, I’ll get some fun another way—and it is amusing, isn’t it now, when a man shows you so plainly that he doesn’t want you?” “Indeed that is a form of humour I do not understand!” returned Mademoiselle, with her nose in the air. “But you will give way, of course—that goes without saying—and let Esmeralda go once again. You will not stand out to the end!” “How could I? Suppose it was myself, and—someone I told you about. How should I feel if I had the chance of seeing him, and she would not allow me? I believe they are really beginning to care for each other, and he is a nice man. I should like him well enough.” “A week ago you were alarmed at the thought! I confess he makes on me a pleasant impression, but surely you know very little about him, and it is rather rash to accept him at once as a possible suitor. What do you know beyond that he is handsome, and appears amiable and kind?” “His uncle was one of the Hilliards of Nanabeg. My father knew him well, and he was a fine, old-fashioned gentleman. That was what made this Mr Geoffrey come here for the hunting. He had heard his uncle speak of Bally William, and the Trelawneys take paying guests for the hunting season, so he arranged to come to them. He is not very well off, I’m afraid, for Joan tells me that he has to make his money out of glue, poor creature! But he must be nice, if he is the old squire’s nephew.” Mademoiselle’s eyes rolled upward with an eloquent glance. It was a new article of faith that a nephew must needs be exemplary because his uncle had been a popular country squire, but she held her peace and amused herself by watching the play which went on between the two sisters during the next twenty-four hours. Esmeralda was plainly anxious and ill at ease, and made tentative allusions to the coming meet, which Bridgie received with bland obtuseness. She had not the courage to make her request in so many words, but instead brought forward a succession of gloomy prophecies calculated to dampen expectation in the mind of any but the most enthusiastic rider. “It will be a heavy run to-morrow,” she said, shaking her head dismally as she glanced out of the window on the quickly melting snow. “I wouldn’t wonder if it poured with rain! It’s a fine draggled set the women will look before they get home.” “I prefer the ground soft, and as for sunshine, it’s a thing I detest,—dazzling your eyes, and the poor mare’s into the bargain. Dull weather and a cloudy sky is what I hope to see, and for once it looks as if I should get my wish.” “Well, it’s good weather you need, to get safely over that country. Mr O’Brien was saying only last season that it was the worst we had. There are some nasty bits of water this side of Roskillie, and they will be swollen with all this snow. Now next week over at Aughrin it really will be pleasant and comfortable.” “I’m so glad, darling! I hope you will enjoy it!” Bridgie put her head on one side, with a smile of angelic sweetness. Then, as Esmeralda flounced from the room in disgust, turned back to Mademoiselle, laughingly penitent. “Isn’t it wicked of me now, but I do enjoy it! She must care very much to be so shy about asking, for in an ordinary way she would have blurted it out long ago. Well, I shall just wait until to-morrow, and then I’ll say I am—” she paused to laugh over the word—“indisposed!” There is many a true word spoken in jest, and Bridgie was reminded of the proverb when the next morning arrived, and her inclination for hunting or any other amusement died a sudden death through an incident which happened at the breakfast-table. The Major was the only one of the party who received a letter, and when he had perused it he gave an exclamation of dismay, and leant back in his chair with an expression of bewilderment. “It can’t be! It isn’t possible!” he muttered to himself, and when Bridgie inquired the reason of his distress, he threw the letter across the table with an impatient movement. “That wretched bank! They say I have overdrawn. It’s impossible,—there was a decent balance only a few months back! They have made some mistake. I am positive it is a mistake.” He left the room as he spoke, for breakfast had come to an end at last, after the usual long-drawn-out proceedings, and he had waited until he had finished his meal before opening the uninteresting looking envelope, and only Bridgie was left, sitting patiently behind the urn, with Mademoiselle to keep her company. She also rose as if to go, feeling that she might be de trop under the circumstances, but Bridgie raised a pale face, and said flatly— “Don’t run away, Thérèse, I’d rather you stayed! I knew it must come some day. It’s only a little sooner than I expected.” “But, ma chérie—don’t look like that, Bridgie dear! Your father says there is a mistake. He seemed surprised like yourself. If, as he says, the bank is mistaken—” But at this Bridgie shook her head with doleful conviction. “The bank is never wrong! Oh, I’ve been through this before, and every time father declares it’s a mistake, but it never is! I’ve been disappointed so often that I can’t hope any more. Poor dear father seems to have no idea how quickly money goes, and he is so extravagant with his horses. He bought a new hunter this autumn, and made alterations in the stables. I have tried to be careful, but, as I said before, it is so little I can do! Well, this is the last stage but one. There are a few more shares that can be sold to keep us going for a little longer, and then out we go. Poor father, he won’t be able to carry out his programme at this rate. Esmeralda’s duke has not come forward, and neither has my millionaire. When we leave the Castle we shall have to squeeze into a cottage, and live on potatoes and buttermilk. I am glad I am not going to the meet. I should have been wretched all the time, but Joan need not know until she comes back.” Bridgie’s pale cheeks seemed sufficient explanation of her determination to stay at home, and Esmeralda was sweetly sympathetic and concerned, but quite decided that exertion must at all costs be avoided. “Me dear, you must not think of going! It would be madness. I’ll keep father company, so don’t you worry a bit, but just lie down and take it easy the whole day long,” she cried gushingly; and Bridgie smiled, despite her heartache, and felt comforted by the reflection that two people would owe their happiness to her absence. The Major looked very handsome in his “pink” coat, but his brow was clouded, and he sighed profoundly as he came into the dining-room to light his cigar, and saw his eldest daughter standing disconsolately by the window. “So you are not coming after all, Bride? Letting Joan take your place? Well, everyone to his taste. I feel as if it would do me good to have a hard run and let off steam that way. I’ll show them some riding to-day, if they have never seen it before. There won’t be much that will stand in my way, but you prefer to stay at home and eat your heart out in quiet. Your mother was the same; she couldn’t throw it off. It’s a pity for your own sake you don’t take after me instead.” Then suddenly, as he looked at her, his face altered, and he put his arms round her with a rare tenderness. “Poor little woman! Poor little anxious Martha, this is rough on you! I’ve brought about this ill day by my thoughtlessness. If I’d been as careful as you, we might have lasted out until the children were grown up, but I was like Micawber—always expecting something to ‘turn up.’ You must try to forgive me, Bride. You must not be hard on your old father!” Ah, and it was a lovely sight to see Bridget O’Shaughnessy’s face at that moment—the sweetness of it, and the pity and tenderness, and the deep, unselfish love! Her father was touched by the sight, and lingered by her side, stroking her soft hair and murmuring fond, regretful words. “I haven’t treated you well. That minx Joan has twisted me round her finger, and you have suffered for it. You have had a hard time these last two years. Never mind, we’ll make a fresh start. I’ll turn over a new leaf from this day, and you shall take me in hand. Who knows but we may pull through yet?” He went off waving his hand in adieu, and Bridgie stood watching the two riders until they disappeared from sight, and repeating his loving words with fond appreciation. Hard time! Who had had a hard time? She was a fortunate girl to have had so much love and kindness, to possess such a dear, gallant, handsome father. What if they had to leave the Castle? Happiness did not depend upon the walls by which they were surrounded. So long as they were all together, they might laugh at poverty! Meanwhile Esmeralda and her father were gently trotting along towards the park at Roskillie, from whence, in hunting parlance, they were to proceed to “draw Long Gorse,” and on their way were enjoying the picturesque surroundings of a meet in the country. Along every high road, footpath, and byroad came horses and riders of various sorts and sizes, walking or jogging along towards the central point. Schoolboys were coming on ponies to see the start, farmers on clever nags; neatly dressed grooms riding, or leading horses conspicuous for shape and beauty. Down the cross-road approached the hounds themselves, headed by their whipper-in and surrounding the picturesque figure of the huntsman. They took up their position in the park, and presently from every point of the compass the scarlet coats came trotting forward, followed by a string of drags, dogcarts, and gigs. The Major and his daughter came in for greetings on every side, for they were among old friends, and the girl’s beauty and daring had made her popular with all. There were other ladies present, but they looked colourless and insignificant beside the glowing young Amazon, and she was quite conscious of the fact, and of the becoming correctness of the new habit. While yet twenty yards distant her quick eye had distinguished Geoffrey Hilliard, but she affected not to see him until he rode up to her side, his face aglow with pleasure. “You managed it, then? You managed to get here?” “My sister is not feeling very well. She begged to be excused,” replied Esmeralda demurely, and Hilliard laughed and muttered something about “blessed Saint Bridget,” which on the whole she thought it wiser not to hear. When the signal was given to move on, he kept beside her as the horsemen proceeded to cross several grassy fields; and, contrary to his usual custom, her father lagged behind, as though relieved to leave her to the care of another. Esmeralda turned lightly in her saddle, saw him riding at the farther end of the long line, and looked wonderingly at her companion. “Something’s wrong with the Major. He was so glum all the way here, and look at him now with his head hanging forward! It’s not like him to be down-hearted at a meet.” “Perhaps he is tired. He’ll waken up presently when we get to business. It would only worry him if we took any notice.” “That’s true. Perhaps the mare fidgets him. It’s the one he bought a short time since, and she has an awkward temper. Sometimes she is a paragon and does everything that she ought, but at others she is fidgety and uncertain. Father thinks she has been badly ridden at the start, but that she is good enough to take trouble with still.” “She looks a beauty, and she has not had any time to annoy him to-day. I think it can hardly be that. Did not your brother return to town yesterday? I stayed away on purpose, because I feared that on his last day you would not care to be disturbed; but isn’t it very likely that Major O’Shaughnessy is depressed at being without him?” Esmeralda looked up with a brightening glance. “Why, of course, I never thought of that! Father hates saying good-bye to Jack, hates him being in town at all, for he is the first O’Shaughnessy who has ever gone into business. There was a great scene when Jack was twenty, because he insisted on doing something for himself. ‘Have you no pride?’ cries my father. ‘Faith I have!’ cries Jack. ‘Too much of it to spend all my life starving in a ruin.’ ‘You will be the first of your race to soil your hands with trade.’ ‘Honest work,’ says Jack, ‘will soil no man’s hands, and please God, I’ll touch nothing that isn’t honest.’ ‘You’ll be falling into English ways and selling the old place as not fit for you to live in. I know the ways of your purse-proud English.’ Then Jack went white all over his face, and he says, ‘It’s never a stone of Knock I’d sell if I could keep it with my own heart’s blood, but it’s time it had a master who could spend money on it instead of seeing it fall to pieces before his eyes.’ Then it was the Major’s turn to go white, and mother said softly, ‘Jack dear—Jack!’ You never knew my mother. Bridgie is like her, she always made peace—and after that father made no more objections. I think, in a curious sort of way, he was proud of Jack because he would have his will, and he is doing well. He will retrieve our fortunes some fine day. There! there go the hounds! They are over into the covert, and see! see! there’s that old shepherd holding up his hat. The fox is off! Now for it!” Now for it indeed! From that time forth there was little chance of connected conversation, but all his life long Geoffrey Hilliard looked back upon that morning with the fond, yearning tenderness with which we recall the sunshine which precedes a storm. It was so delightful to be mounted upon a fine horse galloping lightly across country with that beautiful figure by his side, the dark eyes meeting his with a flash of understanding at every fresh incident of the run. As time wore on and the ground became more difficult, the other ladies dropped behind one by one, but Esmeralda never wearied, never flinched before any obstacle. It was the prettiest thing in the world to see her trot slowly but straightly towards gate or fence, loosen the reins, and soar like a bird over the apparently formidable obstacle, and Hilliard privately admitted that it took him all his time to keep level with her. The Major still rode apart, and seemed to take pleasure in choosing the most difficult jumps that came in his way; but his mare behaved well, and no one felt any anxiety about the safety of one of the cleverest riders present. Danger was close at hand, however, in one of those nasty “bits of water” of which Esmeralda had spoken to her sister. The hounds doubled suddenly, and the huntsmen, wheeling their horses to follow, saw before them at a distance of some quarter of a mile a line of those well-known willows which to the practised eye so plainly bespeak the presence of a brook. Esmeralda pointed towards them and spoke a few warning words. “A bad bit, swollen, I expect, after the snow. A fence this side. There’s the Master taking a view. He will tell us if it’s safe, if not, we must try the meadow. Ride over here towards him.” She swerved to the side as she spoke, and a moment later was within short enough distance to hear the warning cry. The Master pointed with his whip in the direction of the meadow of which Esmeralda had spoken, and the next moment the whole hunt was galloping after him. The whole hunt, we have said, but there was one exception, for one rider refused to take warning or to turn aside from the direct line across country. The sudden change of course had left him in the rear, and so it happened that his absence was not noted by his companions, and it was only when several moments had passed that Esmeralda, looking from side to side, began to draw her delicate brows into a frown as she asked Hilliard— “Where’s father? I can’t see him. He is not here.” “I don’t see him either, but he was with us five minutes ago before we turned back. I saw him in the last field.” “So did I, but where is he now? He can’t—” Esmeralda reined in suddenly and turned startled eyes upon her companion—“he can’t have tried that brook?” “No, no! Certainly not.” But even as he spoke Hilliard had a prevision of the truth. Although he would not admit as much as Esmeralda, there had been something in the Major’s bearing which had struck him unpleasantly since the moment of meeting, and his reckless riding had deepened the impression. “You go on,” he said earnestly, “and I will ride back and see. Perhaps he took a look at the brook and then had to come round after all, which would make him late. Please go on, Miss Joan.” But Esmeralda looked him full in the eyes and turned her horse back towards the brook. “I am going back myself. If there has been an accident, it is I who should be there. Don’t hinder me, Mr Hilliard. I must go to my father.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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