'All those things you could do as my wife.'
'No, it would not be the same. On the Continent I should just be Mrs. Brodrick, and the men I met would think 'Oh, she is a bride,' and take no further notice of me. I would have to wear a cap in the house like my mother, and talk about preserves, and needlework, and servants. I care for none of those things.'
'I should not expect you to discuss any such matters. If you expressed a desire to travel, why, we would travel. If you wanted to sail in a boat, we would sail in a boat. If you wished to drive to Slane in frost and snow, the carriage would be summoned, and we would drive to Slane, even if the horses died on their feet. You see, I would be a most accommodating husband.'
Fanny-Rosa laughed. She glanced at John out of the corners of her eyes.
'I think maybe you would,' she said, 'but what would you get out of the bargain?'
'I should get you,' he said. 'Is not that enough for any man?'
He looked down at her, and even as he said the words the thought came to him that of course he was wrong, she would never belong to him or to anyone, because whoever married her would only have part of her, a smile, or a caress, or whatever she chose to give from momentary impulse. The real Fanny-Rosa would elude capture, would escape.
They had come abreast the garrison again, and there were Bob Flower and Jane, and the Adjutant, and Dick Fox, all waiting for them on the causeway. People once more, and conversation, the intimacy between them shattered and put aside for another moment, perhaps another day.
'We are bringing Lieutenant Fox and Captain Martin back with us to dine,' said Jane, and they all climbed into the boat-and there was the damned fellow Martin looking with admiration at Fanny-Rosa.
So back up the creek to the moorings below Clonmere, and he landed the party ashore, and moored the boat, and made fast for the evening. He watched them wander up the bank towards the house. Barbara and Eliza had come down to meet them, Eliza bridling at the sight of a strange officer, and he straightened himself a moment and waited while Fanny-Rosa returned the shawl to Barbara, thanking her, and then hung back to admire the water- garden at the head of the creek.
She was pointing to the young iris, calling over her shoulder to Barbara, and as she stood there an instant, the sun playing in her hair, her face grave and thoughtful as she considered the flower, he knew that no picture he had ever made for himself in the lonely hours could equal the loveliness of this one in reality.
The ghost-girl of his dreams had come alive again, to fill his waking moments with happiness and pain.
'And you are not too tired?' asked Barbara, as they climbed the bank and stood on the drive before the castle.
'No,' said Fanny-Rosa, 'I am never tired, there is always so much to see, so much to know.'
She looked a moment at John, still busy with the boat, and then up at the grey, solid walls, the open windows, the tower, and the tall trees behind the castle.
'How lovely it is!' she said, and then carelessly, pushing back her curls, 'I suppose all of this will come to John, now Henry is dead?'
'Yes,' said Barbara, 'the property is entailed, of course, and everything besides. Poor Henry! and yet, of the two, I think John had always been fonder of Clonmere.'
Fanny-Rosa did not answer; she seemed to have forgotten her question. She was bending and patting the terrier that had come down the steps to greet them.
How improved she is, thought Barbara, how really charming and cultured, with no trace now of that foolish wild frivolity bequeathed by Simon Flower. Even Doctor Armstrong, sternest of critics, could not fault her beauty now, or find a hidden streak behind that perfect face.
One morning at breakfast time a groom rode over from Duncroom with the news that Robert Lumley had been seized with a stroke the night before, and was not likely to live. Copper John at once ordered the carriage and set out for his partner's residence.
He arrived to find Robert Lumley unconscious, and Doctor Armstrong, who had been summoned earlier, gave it as his opinion that he would only last a few hours. Robert Lumley's son, Richard Lumley, who was not in the country, was immediately written to, but he would hardly reach home in time to see his father alive. He had never been on good terms with his sister, Mrs. Flower, and thoroughly disapproved of his brother-in-law Simon, so that Mrs. Flower, when she arrived at Duncroom shortly after Copper John, was in a great fluster and agitation that there would be a general family unpleasantness, and seemed more concerned with the prospect of facing her brother, when he should make his appearance, than the fact that her father was lying on his death-bed.
'You will see,' said Copper John to his family the following day, when word came from Doctor Armstrong that the old man had died in the night, 'that Simon Flower will get what he deserves, and that is what is vulgarly known as 'a kick in the pants.' I shall be very much surprised if he or his wife has a share in the will.'
'It will be rather hard on Mrs. Flower and the girls,' said Barbara. 'After all, Mr.
Lumley professed himself fond of them, and when he was in the country spent much of his time at Andriff, more so than at Duncroom. He will surely leave them something, and if he does not, then Mr. Richard Lumley will make some provision.'
'Richard Lumley is likely to prove as difficult and cantankerous a man as his father,' replied Copper John, 'and it affords me small satisfaction to have him as partner in the Company. I only wish I could buy him out of the business altogether, and have the concern entirely in my own hands. However, we shall see what happens.'
He was away at Duncroom for two days to attend the funeral and afterwards the reading of the will, and on his return the family could see that he was in high good humour.
He took the crepe from his hat and threw it aside in the hall, and sat down immediately to a large dinner of roast lamb and potatoes, saying little until the first edge of appetite had been turned.
'Well,' he said at length, leaning back in his chair, and surveying his son and his daughters, 'I have this day done a very ingenious stroke of business. I have persuaded Richard Lumley that it would be to his advantage to sell me his share in the mine.'
He smiled in retrospect, and crumbled a piece of bread.
'It is quite true,' he continued, 'that the second mining speculation was a failure. He pointed it out to me himself and I could not deny it. We went down too great a depth. The Company has lately been obliged to pay upwards of three thousand pounds for the erection of an additional steam engine, and no immediate likelihood of profit. There is nothing, I told him frankly, so hazardous as mining, from the point of view of the proprietors, and it is possible that we have now reached the limit in depth to which we can go in safety. 'I am,' I said, 'prepared to make further trials, in other parts of the hill, but with what success I cannot foretell. If you would rather I gave you a good price now for your share, say so, and it may mean the saving to you of a considerable loss. It may, and it may not. It is for you to decide.'
Copper John took up his knife and fork again, and went on eating.
'And Mr. Richard Lumley decided to sell?' asked Eliza.
'He did,' replied her father, 'and I can say in all sincerity that I do not think he will regret his decision. I paid a very large sum for his share, and I have a lease of the ground for a further seventy years.
If you ever have any sons, John, they will be elderly men by then, and can renew the lease or not, as they think fit.'
He laughed, and looked at his daughters.
'I imagine,' he said, 'that by that time there will be little copper left in the heart of Hungry Hill.'
'Seventy years,' thought Jane, 'eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. We shall every one of us setting at this table be dead.'
Copper John filled his glass, and pushed the decanter towards his son.
'And what was the result of the will?' asked Barbara.
'Oh, that,' said her father, waving a hand in derision. 'Just what I said it would be. Richard Lumley has entire possession. I believe Mrs. Flower has a legacy of a few hundreds a year, and some pictures. She took it well, I will say that for her. And I hope she has the sense to keep the money from her husband. The most disgraceful thing I have ever witnessed was the conduct of Simon Flower after the funeral. He could not be found when the moment arrived for the reading of the will, and was finally discovered sitting in the pantry with the manservant, a fellow I have always mistrusted, and the pair of them drinking poor Robert Lumley's port. Needless to say he was in no condition to listen to his father-in-law's will, and went to sleep in the middle of it. Richard Lumley is not likely to have him under his roof again. He had recovered somewhat by the time we all came away- more's the pity, because
