Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3). Dowling Richard
asked, anxiously, while he paused before his friend, "that her health has suffered by all she has gone through?"
"No; but I am quite sure your peace of mind has," replied Jerry, with a dry smile.
With all his desire to be conciliatory, he could not wholly curb his tongue.
"I," laughed the other, "was never happier in all my life. Why, only to think that she is under this roof now, and that we are going on a long journey with her to-morrow, and that I am to be near her for a whole month! It's too good to be true."
"I hope not."
"Well, Jerry, I hope not too; but it seems too good. I know you are one of those men who never give way to their feelings until they know exactly whither their feelings are taking them. It isn't every one who has such complete self-command as you. I am willing to risk everything in the world for a woman. Some men are too cautious to risk anything."
"There's a good deal of truth and a good deal of rubbish in what you say," rejoined Jerry, colouring slightly, and concealing his face from his companion by going to the window and looking out at the evergreens and leafless trees in the front garden.
Alfred's last speech had not been exactly a chance shot. He more than guessed Jerry cared a good deal for Madge; but the tone of the other had exasperated him, and he made an effort to compel silence, if not sympathy, from him. Jerry was not prepared to retort. He did not want to deny or assert his own susceptibility to the unconscious arts of any woman; and, above all, he did not wish Madge's name to be introduced even casually.
At last dinner came. It was an informal, a substantial, cosy meal. No special preparations had been made for the guests. There was no display, no stint, no profusion. Jerry sat beside Madge, and Alfred between Edith and Mrs. Davenport. Jerry was the most taciturn-Madge the most demure of the party. Mr. Paulton was chatty, cordial, and particularly gracious to the widow. Mrs. Davenport was polite, impassable, absent-minded.
When they were waiting for the joint, Mr. Paulton turned to Jerry, and said:
"Are you depressed at the prospect of spending a while with an invalid? To look at you both, one would think it was you, not Alfred, who wants change of air."
"And so it is," said Jerry, stealing a look at Madge.
In order to divert attention from her, for she felt her face growing hot, she said:
"I believe the south of Ireland is very mild?"
"Oh, very!" Jerry answered, with startling vivacity. "It's the mildest climate in the world; but the people are not particularly mild: they are full of fire and fight. I have no doubt Alfred will come back a regular Milesian. You know those who live a while in Ireland always become more Irish than the Irish."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Paulton. "He may become as Irish as he likes if he at the same time grows as well in health as we like."
"I intend coming back quite a Goliath, mother. I shall eat and drink everything I see," said Alfred gaily.
"You would find some of the things in the neighbourhood of Kilcash rather hard to chew. I think Mrs. Davenport will agree with me that it would take Goliath a long time to make a comfortable meal of the Black Rock, or to make a comfortable meal on it?"
At the name of the Rock, Mrs. Davenport looked up and shuddered visibly, and said, as she rested slightly on the back of her chair:
"The Black Rock is a hideous place."
Then, turning to Alfred: "You must not go there."
"I am altogether in the hands of this unprincipled wretch," answered Alfred, smiling and nodding at Jerry.
"Then," said Jerry, "if you are not very civil-if you show a disposition to exhibit your Goliath-like prowess on me, I shall take you to the Black Rock, and first frighten the life out of you, and then throw you into the Puffing Hole, where, except you are the ghost of your own grandfather, or something equally monstrous, you will be promptly smashed into ten billions of invisible atoms."
The rest of the dinner passed off quietly. When the dessert had been put on the table, and the servants had withdrawn, Mr. Paulton said:
"Mr. O'Brien, I have often heard you talk of this Black Rock and the Puffing Hole, but I am afraid I never had the industry to ask you for a description of either. Are they very wonderful?"
"There is nothing wonderful about the Rock, except its extent and peculiar shape and colour. But the Puffing Hole, although not unique, is curious and terrible."
"I am doubly interested in them now, since I have the pleasure of numbering Mrs. Davenport among my friends. What are the Black Rock and Puffing Hole like?" He smiled, and bent gallantly towards the widow.
"I think," said Jerry, "Mrs. Davenport herself is the best person to give you a description of either. Her house is near them, and she has lived, I may say, next door to them for years, and knows more than I do of the place. To make the matter even, if Mrs. Davenport will do the description I will do the narrative part of the tale. That is a fair division."
Mrs. Davenport trembled slightly again, and was about to speak, when Mr. Paulton said, in a tone of impetuous persuasion:
"Your house near these strange freaks of nature, Mrs. Davenport! Of course I did not know that, or I should not have dreamed of asking Mr. O'Brien for an account of them."
The old man's belief was that it would divert Mrs. Davenport's mind from wholly gloomy subjects if she were only induced to speak of matters of general interest.
She shook her head sadly.
"It is true my home was for many years at Kilcash House, which is near the Black Rock. But-"
She paused, and a peculiar smile took possession of her face. All eyes were fixed on her in expectation. No one cared to speak. What could that strange break mean? Surely, to describe a scene or phenomenon of the coast with which she was most familiar could not be very distressing?
"But," she resumed, "it is my home no longer. It is true I am going back there for a little time-a few weeks; but that is only to arrange matters. I have now no home."
The voice of the woman was almost free from emotion. It was slightly tremulous towards the end; but if she had been reading aloud a passage she but dimly understood, she could have displayed no less emotion.
"No home! – no home!" said Mr. Paulton, so softly as to be only just audible. "I was under the impression you had been left Kilcash House."
"Yes, my husband left me Kilcash House and other things-other valuable things-and a large sum of money. But-"
Again she paused at the ominous "but."
Again all were silent, and now even Mr. Paulton could not light on words that seemed likely to help the widow over her hesitation.
"But I cannot take anything."
Once more the old man repeated her words: "Cannot take anything! Are the conditions so extraordinary-so onerous?"
He and O'Brien thought that the principal condition must be forfeiture in case she married Blake. This would explain much of what was now incomprehensible.
"There are no conditions whatever in the will," she said in the same unmoved way.
"No conditions! And yet you have no home, although your late husband has left you a fine house?"
"Yes, and all that is necessary for the maintenance of that house; notwithstanding which, I have no home, and am a beggar."
"Mrs. Davenport," cried the old man, with genuine concern, "what you say is very shocking. I hope it is not true."
"I know this is not the time or place to talk of business. I know my business can have little or no interest for you."
"Excuse me, my dear Mrs. Davenport, there is nothing out of place about such talk now, and you really must not say we take but slight interest in your affairs. On the contrary, we are very much interested in them. I think I may answer for every member of my family, and say that beyond our own immediate circle of relatives there is no lady in whom we take so deep an interest."
The old man was solemn and