'I bet you don't put Betty Finnigan where she should be as quick as you knocked down those two whiskies,' said Jack Donovan, thrusting a grinning face far too close to his own.
'Oh really? What makes you think that?' said Johnnie.
'Because they don't let you do those things at your fine school across the water,' said Jack Donovan.
'Anyone can slip a glass of whisky down his throat, but it takes a man to have a woman.'
There was another great burst of laughter, and some of the other people in the public-house turned round and stared at Johnnie.
'Have your fun, boy,' said an old fellow, waving his glass. 'These young sparks are jealous of you, that's the plain truth of it, isn't it, Betty?'
The bright-eyed girl in the shawl nodded, and smiled again at Johnnie.
He rose slowly to his feet, and looked down at Jack Donovan.
'Thank you for your company, Jack,' he said.
'One of these days we'll drink together again.
Meanwhile, I have another appointment.' He slammed down some silver on the bar, and put his hat on the side of his head. 'Am I going your way, or are you going mine 8? he said to Betty Finnigan…
It was five o'clock by the time Johnnie stood once more outside the bank. It was closed and barred, and the shutters drawn. His grandfather must have left fully an hour ago. Perhaps he would be waiting for him at the hostelry. Well, let the old bastard wait. It would not hurt him. Strange, thought Johnnie, how he did not feel nervous of him any more. His grandfather might look upon him with those grim, cold eyes of his, he might summon him to the bleak, cheerless study, and still he would not care. What had given him this feeling of cool confidence he could not say. Maybe it was the whisky he had taken, maybe it was the feel of the girl in his arms, maybe it was just the fact that he was seventeen, that he was Johnnie Brodrick of Clonmere, and if anyone dared to contradict him he would knock his back-teeth down his jaw, that made it impossible ever to be afraid again of an old man of seventy- five who should have been in his grave years ago.
When Johnnie came to the hostelry he found the carriage drawn up outside, and Tim standing by the horses' heads.
His grandfather was by the open door of the carriage, his watch in his hand.
'Good afternoon, sir,' said Johnnie. 'Have I kept you waiting?'
It was queer. He wondered if he had grown much during the last months, because he was now taller than his grandfather. Or was it possible that the old man had shrunk? Surely he leant more on that stick of his than he used to do? Copper John looked at his grandson, and replaced his watch in his waistcoat pocket.
'I was just about to leave Slane without you,' he said shortly, climbing into the carriage and seating himself in the far corner. 'Well,' he said, after a moment, 'what have you been doing with yourself?'
Johnnie took his handkerchief out of his pocket with a flourish, and blew his nose. It would be delicious, he reflected, to throw caution to the winds and tell the truth, and then watch the expression on his grandfather's face. He fought down inside himself a wild desire to laugh.
'I spent the afternoon, sir,' he said, 'appreciating the beauties of Slane.'
His grandfather grunted.
'You were in the city shortly after two o'clock,' he said. 'You must have walked three times round the place, and seen all there was to see by four. Open the window your side, my boy; the air is very close in here.'
He smells the whisky in my breath, thought Johnnie; now there'll be the devil to pay. I shall have to tell him I felt faint, and was obliged to go into a public-house and lie down. Once more the outrageous laughter rose in his throat. His grandfather said no more, however. He seemed thoughtful, preoccupied, and rather unlike his usual self. Perhaps his interview with the manager of the bank had not been a happy one. It was hardly possible, though, with the copper mines bringing in twenty thousand a year. But his mother was always prone to exaggeration. Possibly the tale was completely untrue, and things were going badly.
Anyway, it was not his affair, thought Johnnie, and yawning, he closed his eyes and leant back against the cushions of the carriage, one hand on the window-strap for balance. He felt delightfully sleepy, incredibly content, and if that was the result of whisky and Betty Finnigan, what the devil would he be feeling like in a few years' time, after he had seen service in the Dragoons? The world was not such a bad place, after all. In a very few minutes he was fast asleep, his face flushed, his black hair tumbled, and looking, if the truth be told, considerably less than his seventeen years.
He did not wake until the carriage rattled down into Doonhaven itself, when he came to with a start, recollecting the presence of his grandfather beside him, and was much relieved, and not a little surprised, to find that his grandfather had also slept, and therefore could not upbraid him for being an idle dog and a dull companion. It was a great temptation to tell Henry how he had spent his afternoon in Slane, but something prevented him: a faint suspicion that his younger brother, instead of shouting approval and patting him on the back, might draw away from him, puzzled, rather put off, and perhaps think less of him than he had done before. The family had dined, of course, and his grandfather had done so in Slane, so Johnnie, feeling that he could eat the house, fell upon the cold supper laid aside for him in the dining-room, and made non-committal replies to Henry's eager questions about the afternoon.
The younger boys and his sister had already retired to bed, and when Johnnie and his brother went upstairs to the drawing-room to say goodnight, he found his grandfather standing before the mantelpiece, with a curious, rather embarrassed, expression on his face. His mother was seated in the chair by the window, and his aunt Eliza opposite her, and they had both put aside their work and were listening to the head of the house. Good Lord, thought Johnnie, he has found out about me this afternoon and is telling them…
'Wait a moment,' said his grandfather. 'Both you boys had better hear what I am about to inform your mother and your aunt. Sit down, will you?'
His grandsons obeyed. Copper John coughed, and clasped his hands behind his back.
'I don't want to make a long story,' he said, 'but will acquaint you in a few words with what has happened. I only propose to make a short visit this time, in order to see the mines and discuss the business there, and shall then return to the other side of the water. I shall, in the future, continue to reside there rather more frequently than I have done in the past, making, with your permission, Fanny-Rosa, my headquarters at Lletharrog. Eliza can use the house at Saunby, when she feels at liberty to do so. This house, of course, will be kept open for the entire family, and my grandchildren will continue to make it their home.'
He paused, and coughed again. Eliza seemed puzzled, and glanced across at her sister-in-law.
'What will you do, father,' she said, 'all alone at Lletharrog? It is rather far for you to keep going backwards and forwards to Bronsea. That is why you moved to Saunby in the first place.'
'I shall not be alone, my dear,' said her father, 'that is what I wish to tell you. Mrs. Collins consented to become my wife three weeks ago. We were married in Bronsea, and moved out to Lletharrog afterwards. She is a dear, good, faithful woman, and devoted to me. I am very glad indeed to call her Mrs. Brodrick, and I hope you will do the same.'
For a moment there was a great and dreadful silence.
Then Fanny-Rosa said, 'Good God!', and Eliza burst into a torrent of weeping.
'Oh, father,' she said, 'how could you! Mrs.
Collins, your cook, how shaming, how disgraceful, after all these years! What will people say, all our friends in Saunby? They will never speak to any of us again.'
'One thing is certain,' said Fanny-Rosa: 'the news of this will kill Barbara. We shall have to keep it from her somehow.'
'Barbara knows already,' said Copper John quietly. 'I told her this evening when I went to her room. She appeared fully to understand.'
'If she had not become an invalid this would never have happened,' wept Eliza. 'It is because she lay here, with me looking after her, that you became so dependent on '
And once again she was choked by tears.
'Of course,' said Fanny-Rosa, 'your father is entitled to do as he pleases. It is not as though Mrs. Collins is a young woman, who might.
What I mean to say is, this new arrangement cannot affect Johnnie in any way, I suppose?'
'I assure you,' said her father-in-law, 'that Johnnie's interest will be affected in no way whatsoever, nor yours, Fanny-Rosa, nor yours, Eliza, nor those of any member of my family.
