Nothing more could be done until daylight, but already, seated at the table in the counting-house, with a glass of hot rum at his elbow, Copper John was dictating his orders to Captain Nicholson.
"I think I can say with a reasonable amount of confidence that we shall have no more trouble with the men from Doonhaven. They will return to work, those who have not taken to the hills, and it is even possible that we shall have new men coming up, asking for employment. The tunnel, incidentally, that leads from the mine into the hill we will deal with in somewhat the same fashion as we dealt to-night with the cleansing-shed. Remember, Captain Nicholson, to have the rubble of the shed cleared as early as possible within the next forty-eight hours, to enable us to get forward with the construction of the new building to take its place. Also the fellows lying there must have burial-that is, what remains of them, which will be considerably little… Well, gentlemen, I must thank you one and all for your assistance in this night's work. You will not find me ungrateful. Will those of you who are not too exhausted care to return with me and my sons to Clonmere, where my daughter will be very pleased to offer you refreshment?"
One by one the members of the party, wet and haggard, and drooping from fatigue, made their excuses, and so, in the falling rain, in the heavy, intense darkness that comes before the day, Copper John mounted his horse and rode through the silent streets of Doonhaven back to Clonmere, followed by his sons. Jane and Martha and the other servants, tense and anxious, were awaiting them in the hall, and at the sight of them safely returned old Martha burst into tears, shaking her head and reproving her master, clicking her tongue in distress at John's swollen face.
"That will do, Martha, that will do," said Copper John, dismissing the servants with a wave of his hand.
"None of us has come to harm and we have no bones broken. Master John will survive his cut, I have little doubt. What we need now is food and drink, and a warm by the fire, and very shortly to bed for what remains of the night, for we all of us have work to do in the morning."
They stood in the library, the four of them-the father with a glass in one hand and the other behind his back, his stern features relaxed for the moment while he smiled at his daughter, who tried to smile back at him, but was still so pale, so anxious, that the smile was a ghostly thing, a shadow of no substance; John leaning against the fireplace, his head resting in his hands, his face swollen and discoloured; while Henry, soaked to the skin, his clothes clinging to his slim body, his teeth chattering, lifted his glass and clinked it against his father's.
"Anyway," he said, "whatever happens, we have beaten them, haven't we, father?"
"Yes," said Copper John, "we have beaten them, Henry."
They drank together, watching one another over the rim of their glasses, and smiling.
The mine, thought Jane, has not been destroyed, the mine will continue to be worked on Hungry Hill, and Morty Donovan has lost. Her father and her brothers were safe. John had a swollen face, but that was all. It was a picture she remembered always, the father and son pledging one another across the table, and she remembered too how John, looking up from the fire at the shivering, white-faced Henry, said suddenly, in anger: "For God's sake go and change, Henry; you'll catch your death from this night's work."
She remembered how the rain pattered against the windows, and the wind sighed softly, and how, although they were safe, she was still afraid.
They slept deeply that night, the young Brodricks, and only once did their father, Copper John, stir in his sleep and frown and mutter as though at some passing dream. The wind moaned a little, and was silent. The rain whispered, and pattered, and ceased. And away on the heather, five miles distant, a small donkey stood shivering beside an overturned cart, with Morty Donovan lying beneath it, his neck broken, clutching in his dead hands the stones and moss of Hungry Hill.
On the first of every month, no matter where he should be, or engaged on what business, John Brodrick of Clonmere would write to his partner, Robert Lumley of Duncroom, and tender him a report on the condition of their mine on Hungry Hill, Doonhaven. It was one of those strict rules that he had laid down for himself at the beginning of the partnership, and although he had no great friendship for Robert Lumley, and saw him perhaps but twice in a whole year, yet month by month the letters would go forth, from Clonmere, from London, from Bath, from Lletharrog, from Bronsea, each letter written in his careful, pointed handwriting, signed with the Brodrick seal, a mailed fist holding a dagger, and the paper folded and crossed in the manner of the day.
"It is a pleasure for me to acquaint you, my dear Mr. Lumley," he would say, "that your royalty for the current year has exceeded that of last, and I have this day, the fourteenth of February, paid into your account in your bank at Slane the sum of Two Thousand pounds."
It was typical of John Brodrick that this interesting piece of information should be followed by a slightly bitter pill.
"I am sorry to say," he would continue, "that our expenses for the year have been equally heavy, and I have been obliged to erect yet another Steam Engine, the cost of which will have to be deducted from your royalty for the forthcoming year. As copper is now at a high price, I think it would be worth while to risk a considerable sum in a further trial of a place some quarter of a mile distant from the present mine, on the northern part of the hill, above the road. It will be an expensive trial, but the advantages to the country in works of this kind are so great that I would risk a good deal for the chance of establishing a further mine, even though it should not be Very profitable."
And the shaft would be sunk, and the new mine worked, and more men employed and more ships bought for the purpose of shipping the ore from Doonhaven to Bronsea to be smelted, and so little by little, and then faster and faster, the Brodrick fortune mounted, and Copper John would add to his property at Clonmere, twenty greeves here, and twenty greeves there, land along the coast beyond Doon Island, land beyond Kileen, on the way to Denmare.
Then there would be the question of appointments in Doonhaven, the arranging of which the owner of Clonmere would consider to be his right, and not Robert Lumley's.
"I am sorry we are likely to lose the services of Doctor Beamish in Doonhaven. It would be a matter of great moment to establish a medical man of some skill in the county, who would attend to the complaints of the poor people and in whom we ourselves could place confidence if his attendance was required. It has been hinted to me that Doctor Armstrong, who has been attached to the garrison on Doon Island, is inclined to retire from the army and is not averse to settling in the country, and especially in this district. Colonel Leslie speaks in the highest terms of his skill, and I believe Doctor Beamish knows him very well. As you are aware, the method of choosing a Dispenser in the county is by election, each subscriber to the Dispensary having votes according to the amount of his subscription. As my subscription is double or even treble that of all the other persons in the district, I put it to you that I am the" only person entitled to vote, and that if I so desire it, and he is agreeable, then Doctor Armstrong shall fill the place…?
Needless to say, Doctor Armstrong did, much to the gratification of the young Brodricks, whose friend and companion he had become.
"As to the matter of our tenants," Copper John would add, "on whose subject you asked my advice in your last communication, I may say that I consider it a very bad plan to forgive arrears of rent. Those few who are inclined to pay well find they are not a bit better off than those who do not, and of course have no encouragement to pay better in future. My own system is to give the grounds of those who do not pay to those who do, and thus encourage the latter to pay even better than they did before."
And John Brodrick, the expression in his eyes a little harder, and the lines of his mouth a little firmer as the months went by, would close his letter with remarks about his family.
"We intend to cross the water early in September, and spend the winter as usual at Lletharrog. Henry, I regret to say, is still in very p
oor health, and we are in a state of great anxiety about him. He does not seem to get rid of his cough, and the doctor he saw in Brighton has recommended a warmer climate for him. He intends to start for the Barbados at the same time, or a little earlier, than we leave for Lletharrog. John is well, and has some greyhounds that he declares will be ruined unless they have some courses before next season, and he intends to bring them over to Duncroom when you are next at home. My daughters, I am glad to say, are also in very good health and they unite with me, my dear Mr. Lumley, in sending best wishes…?
And so the line beneath the signature, and the letter folded and sealed and given to Thomas to take down to Doonhaven, and one more duty had been accomplished and the act dismissed from his mind.
Leaving the house, and finding a stick, Copper John would take a turn or two about the grounds.
He would walk down to the creek, and examine the state of the tide, observe John's boat as she lay at her moorings, have a glance at Jane's water-garden beside the boat-house, look upwards to the herons in the tall trees beyond, and then across the creek to the smoke from the garrison on Doon Island, and away over the harbour waters of Doonhaven to the rise of Hungry Hill. Then up behind the house to the kitchen garden, where he would find Barbara, in earnest consultation with old Baird as to the best method of treating the new vine in the hot-house, and through the woods that his grandfather had planted, the wind singing in the pines like surf upon the shore, and along the narrow, twisting paths that were Barbara's pride, to the summer-house they had built that spring for Henry. He was lying there now, stretched out on his long chair, with Jane beside him, and she was reading to him.
Henry would look up, smiling gaily, his eyes unnaturally bright, a spot of colour on each cheek, so that his father, ignoring the thin body under the coverlet, would think to himself, he is certainly better.
"You observe me, sir," laughed Henry, "taking my ease as usual, and being most confoundedly lazy. I even have to confess that I fell asleep during the early part of the afternoon, and I believe I would be sleeping still had not Jane crept in to read verses to me."
"No, Henry, you are unfair," reproved Jane. "I came at your special request, and you were not sleeping, you were lying with your hands behind your head and an expression of great weariness upon your face.
I only wish you had been sleeping. Doctor Armstrong told John you could not have too much rest."
"Willie Armstrong is an old maid," said Henry; "he fusses over me as though I were a child, instead of a hearty fellow with a rude health temporarily at a low ebb because I was fool enough to catch a bad chill last winter. You wait till I come back from the Barbados. I think I shall have myself tattooed and grow a curly beard. were you going for a stroll, sir? Let me come with you, I have lain here long enough."
And to show how he despised his weakness, Henry threw aside his coverlet and rose to his feet, humming a little tune gaily under his breath, and at once began to discuss some business of the estate with his father, who, taking his arm, walked with him through the woods towards the home farm in the park.
"They will go too far, and father will be so occupied in talking that he will not remember," thought Jane, "and then this evening Henry will be so exhausted that he will eat no dinner, and Barbara will be anxious, and when I look out from my room, some time after midnight, I shall see the light under Henry's door, and I shall know he is not sleeping again."
She went on sitting in the little summer-house, by her brother's vacant chair, and wondered what his thoughts had been, this spring and summer, lying up here day after day, when he had first risen from his bed after his illness. Henry, who so enjoyed activity, discussion, people, and travelling, to be obliged to do without them, and without even the strength to help his father with the business of the mine. Anyone but Henry would have become morbid, restless, irritable, but if he felt any of these things he did not show them. He had always a smile for each member of his family, some jest to make, some amusing observation, and would be full of plans of what they would all do when he was well again, the parties and the picnics they would have.
"We will have one more picnic, anyway," he had said, that very afternoon, "before I sail for the Barbados.
We will take the horses, and go to the lake on Hungry Hill, as we used to do when we were children, and Willie Armstrong shall come, and young Dickie Fox from the garrison-ah, don't blush, Jane-and Fanny-Rosa Flower, if Mrs. White will let her, and her brother Bob, if he is still on leave from his regiment, and we will all enjoy ourselves immensely, and no one will be sick, or sad, or sorry."
And in his excitement and delight at the project he had brought on an attack of coughing, and vividly, horribly, she would remember the night of the trouble at the mine, and Henry standing in the library, shivering in his wet clothes. Well, that was all over, anyway. No more thieving, no more fighting, and Morty Donovan was dead. Sam Donovan had sold the farm, and was keeping a shop in Doonhaven. How angry the proud old man would have been-he would have considered it a disgrace for a Donovan to keep a shop. The other brother lived in a poor way on the road to Denmare. He kept a few pigs, and a cow, and sold whisky without a permit. No, the Donovans would never trouble any of the Brodricks again. The old mine was flourishing, and a new one had been started, and more men than ever were employed. Everything was going smoothly. They would all be so happy, but for the anxiety about Henry. And a little shiver came over Jane. The summer-house felt lonely suddenly without Henry, queer and deserted, as though he had already left for the Barbados and the sun was no longer shining through the trees. They should be thinned, she thought; one day they will enclose the summer-house, and the sun will not come to it at all, and she picked up her book of poetry, and the cushions, and the coverlet, and went away down through the flower-garden to the house.
As she stood on the slope above Clonmere she could see John and Doctor Armstrong mooring the boat in the creek. They had been over to Doon Island to exercise John's greyhounds. John was looking up and laughing, his lock of dark hair falling over his face, and he saw her, and waved his hand. The dogs were coupled together, and stood shivering in the bows of the boat, eager to spring ashore, straining at the leash that held them. The great silver cup they had won last season was now John's proudest possession, and graced the sideboard in the dining-room. He had shown it to Fanny-Rosa Flower, when she had driven over with her father and brother to enquire after Henry, and Jane had been secretly amused when Fanny-Rosa told him, with great seriousness, that he should have his family crest put upon the cup, to give it greater majesty, and that he should also have the Brodrick coat of arms stamped upon the dogs' blankets.
Poor John, he had sat quite abashed and silent, while Fanny-Rosa drank her tea, watching him out of the corners of her eyes; and Jane had wondered how much of what she had said she really believed and was a little unconscious snobbery inherited from her mother, and how much was deliberate teasing, done to amuse herself and to provoke John.
How lovely she was. though, thought Jane, and how amusing a companion, and how extraordinary it was that Doctor Armstrong, who had been at Clonmere at the time of the visit, should have said so firmly, after the Flowers had departed, that Fanny-Rosa was too flamboyant and restless for his taste, and had a careless streak to her nature that was not due merely to youth but was part of her blood. "What type do you admire, then?" Jane had enquired, in all innocence, and he had looked back at her very earnestly, as though he longed to say something, but had not done so, and instead he observed that doctors were forbidden by their profession to admire anyone, in case they became patients, and he left it to Dickie Fox and the young officers on Doon Island to do all the admiring for him.
All this passed through Jane's head as she watched her brother and the doctor climb from the boat with the dogs, and she wondered what Doctor Armstrong would say if he knew that the book of poems in her hand had been sent across to her from the garrison by Lieutenant Fox, with one page in particular marked with a cross-a l
ove poem, by an Elizabethan poet, entitled "On Entering My Lady's Chamber." Perhaps he would find it shocking.
And now Eliza was leaning from her bedroom window, calling that Thomas had rung the dressing-bell, and it wanted but a quarter of an hour to dinner, and if John and Doctor Armstrong were going to walk the dogs to the kennels they would be late, and father would be put out.
Father was coming down through the woods at this moment, with Henry leaning on his arm, and Barbara had joined them from the walled garden, a basket of nectarines on her arm, the fruit still warm from the sun, and Jane was aware of a strange feeling of happiness, of security. We are all here, she thought, the whole family, smiling and chatting and at ease with one another, dinner will soon be on the table, Thomas is walking through from the kitchen with his tray, the doors and the windows of the castle are flung open, catching the last gold rays of the sun before it sinks westward behind the trees. If only these moments would linger, would stay forever, and there would be no packing up and departing, no covering of the furniture with dust-sheets and closing of shutters and taking the steam-packet from Slane one chilly autumn morning, and a winter ahead chat might bring uncertainty and change.
So the long days of August passed, and September came too early and too fast, with the preparations for Henry's journey to the Barbados. It was arranged that he should leave Doonhaven by his father's ship, the Henrietta, which was sailing with her cargoes to Bronsea, and from there Henry would go to Liverpool and embark for the West Indies.