by Sara Seale
“That won’t be enough. You should know your own daughter better than to suppose she’s made in the same mould as your sister. Besides, I think you owe it to her.
“Ah, stop your blethering! She’ll have a home and a little money. What more can you ask? Girls in England may drive their parents daft with crazy notions of independence, but we don’t bring our daughters up like that over here, and I’ll not have you putting such ideas in the child’s head. You’re here to take charge of my son, and I’m not concerned with anything else.”
“It was you who insisted in the first place, Kilmallin, that I took charge of your daughter too,” Mark reminded him.
Kevin’s face relaxed in an unwilling smile.
“So I did,” he said, “so I did, and you standing there all stiff and English and refusing to listen to me. Well, we’ll not discuss it any more. You’re doing a fine job, Mark, and I won’t be denying you your proper concern for both your pupils. It does you credit, but we won’t argue the point yet awhile.”
They all called him Mark now. He was one of the family, and, as such, was privileged to speak his mind, even to Kevin. It often seemed to him that he had lived with the O’Shanes for a great deal longer than five months, so well had he come to know them all. That other life in busy England seemed so far away, and even Anne as he had last seen her, so cool and self-reliant as she bade him good-bye, could be remembered without pain.
On these autumn evenings, he sat alone in the tower room, listening to the rain on the windows, and thinking about these things and many others. He saw now that what he had felt for Anne all those years ago had been a natural outcome of frequent partings and the desire for stability. She would have made a good wife and mother only because convention, and not emotion, would demand it of her. And that, Mark realised now, would never have been enough for him.
He thought he would go back to teaching when he had finished with Kilmallin. The old desire to break away was less now than it had been, indeed, he thought that, at the time, Anne’s death had had much to do with his restless wish for change. For the first time he began to think seriously of that long-standing offer of a partnership in a small preparatory school in the west of England. Perhaps he would get in touch with his old friend, George Bishop, again. By the summer Brian would be fit for school, and by the summer he should be moving on again.
About the middle of October Clodagh came back for another visit. She said Dublin was dull now the summer festivities were finished, there would be no worth-while parties until Christmas, and she might as well be dull at Kilmallin as anywhere else.
“Besides, I like your tutor,” she told Clancy, wrinkling her nose. “He’s very civilized.”
“What do you mean by that?” Clancy asked suspiciously, but Clodagh did not know.
She said it might be amusing to try and lead him on a little because he was so self-contained and English and probably would not know how to flirt. Clancy did not think he would either, but it was entertaining to watch her cousin’s kittenish and very blatant attempts to get a rise out of him.
Privately, she thought Mark’s manner admirable. If he cherished a secret affection for Clodagh, he hid it very successfully, and his attentions held a polite amusement, which, Clancy thought, had she been Clodagh, would have made her want to slap his face.
Conn came over more often then. They had seen very little of him during September, for he had been busy at the autumn sales.
“What did you buy?” Clancy asked, eager for the old confidence which had always made her the first to hear his news.
“Nothing,” he said briefly, “I was selling.”
“You didn’t buy at all? But you must replace what you’ve sold,” she said quickly.
“I’m not replacing anything this winter,” he said. “I’m reducing my stock as much as possible. What’s the use of trying to rear youngsters on that poor ground? I lose more than I can afford as it is.”
“But you have our land—the south pasture.”
“And haven’t I yearlings already eating their heads off there? Don’t meddle, my good girl. You’d think you were running Slievaun, not me.”
They were all in the schoolroom after tea, sitting round the fire. Clancy, crouched on the rug, looked up, and Mark saw the surprise in her face.
“You sound quite cross,” she said. “You used to like my advice. You used to say I had a good head on me for business.”
“Ah, don’t keep reminding me of what I used to say,” he replied irritably. “No man wants advice from women. Kilmallin himself should have taught you that by now.”
She was silent, but her face had a sensitive, dismayed look, as if he had slapped her.
“Conn is so disagreeable these days, isn’t he, Mark?” Clodagh curled herself up more firmly in the best chair. “But of course you didn’t know us in the days when he was the optimistic young horse-breeder with ideals like Clancy’s.”
“Ah, shut up, will you?” he said, and sent an apologetic glance to Clancy.
“I will not, then,” retorted Clodagh. “You have no manners at all, Conn. You should be in the schoolroom with Clancy and Brian, and perhaps Mark might teach you something useful.”
They were always bickering now, and it often seemed to Clancy there was malice behind Clodagh’s remarks.
“If you’re all going to be rude to each other, I think I’ll leave you and go and correct exercises,” said Mark, getting up, but Clodagh held out an inviting hand.
“Ah, don’t go,” she pleaded. “Conn and I will probably come to blows without your restraining presence. I wish I was one of your pupils, Mark. You have such beautiful manners.”
“You’d probably find my beautiful manners would desert me in the schoolroom if you were one of my pupils,” he told her.
Her eyes opened widely in their kitten stare.
“You sound as if you don’t approve of me,” she pouted. “Just when I’ve said such nice things about you, too. Don’t you think he has nice manners, Clancy? Don’t you think so, Conn?”
“I think,” said Conn, looking at Mark with acute dislike, “you can be the most exasperating little devil in the whole of Ireland, when you choose.”
“Oh!” She turned to make a small moue at Mark, but he gave her a steady look and went out of the room.
“There!” she said. “Now you’ve driven him away with your rudeness, Conn.”
“It’s you drove him away with your shameless talk,” flashed Conn. “Hasn’t he the beautiful manners! I wish I was one of your pupils, Mark! And you making the sheep’s eyes at him so for very decency he had to leave the room.”
Clodagh’s mouth curved in a warm, pleased smile. “You’re jealous, Conn Driscoll!” she said, “—jealous as a tom-cat.”
Clancy, between them, raised a distressed face.
“Oh, do stop it, both of you,” she cried. “I can’t bear it when you quarrel. Conn’s right, Clodagh, you do try and flirt with Mark, and I think it’s so silly.”
“Who cares what you think?” retorted Clodagh rudely. “If you had the sense of a rabbit you’d doll yourself up and go after him yourself instead of treating him to inky fingers and school-girl pranks.”
Clancy flushed scarlet.
“I think you’re disgusting!” she shouted. “Conn’s absolutely right.”
“Since when has holy Conn not been absolutely right?” mimicked Clodagh. ‘You’re a fool, Clancy O’Shane, and if you weren’t just a child, I’d feel sorry for you.”
“Why—why?”
Some nameless fear made Clancy pause in her mounting rage.
“Why? Because Conn—because you—ah, what’s the use? You wouldn’t know what I’m talking about.”
“And just as well, I’m thinking,” said Conn. “Half the time you don’t know yourself. Clancy, pay no heed to her.”
“What heed should I pay?” said Clancy, bewildered. “She’s only trying to hurt me like she tries to hurt you.”
“Listen, now, to t
he little woman!” scoffed Clodagh, her anger subsiding as she saw Clancy’s rise.
“I think you’re beastly!” Clancy cried. “We’re happy enough till you come here, upsetting Conn with your foolish talk and trying to set us against one another. Yes, you do, and Mark eggs you on,” she finished quite unjustly. Conn jumped to his feet.
“Och! I’ve had enough of this!” he exclaimed. “We’ll have Clancy in one of her crying rages any minute, and like as not she’ll tell her tutor he’s the cause of all the trouble, which I’m thinking he is. I’ll not be staying to supper after all. Good night.”
“A good thing too,” said Clodagh, but Clancy sprang up and ran after him.
“Ah, Conn, don’t go,” she begged. “We don’t see you much now, and—and Kilmallin will be disappointed. Clodagh didn’t mean it. I—I want you to stay, Conn.”
He looked down at her and his hard young eyes softened. “Poor Clancy,” he said, patting her hair. “You’re always the one to be upset by our childish squabbles, aren’t you? I’ll tell you what. I won’t stay now, but you sneak over tomorrow morning early, and make a day of it. When we’ve seen to the horses we’ll take the car and cock snooks at the lot of them and come to breakfast.”
Her eyes were despairing.
“Oh, Conn, I can’t. Morning lessons—he’d never let me off.”
“Who’s going to ask him? It’s the first time I’ve known Clancy O’Shane think twice before playing truant. Has the Englishman got you, too, with his beautiful manners?”
She flushed, but she was happy. Conn wanted her again. The old allegiance was back. That other new friendliness she had felt for Mark was too slender, too cautious a thing to stand in the way, now.
“I’ll be there,” she said, and he kissed her on the nose and was gone.
“You’re awfully silly,” said Clodagh’s voice from the chair.
“I am not, then, and it’s my own affair.”
“Conn only wants to score off Mark. He doesn’t like him.”
“He wants me.”
“Well, have it your own way. But I don’t think Mark will be very pleased.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Why should I? As you said, it’s your own affair.” Clancy came and sat on the arm of the chair opposite.
“Clodagh, why are you so hateful to Conn?” she asked.
Clodagh smiled, and stretched, uncurling herself. “Don’t you think Conn’s hateful to me?”
“Yes, in a way. But you always start it.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Clodagh replied. “You should try and grow up, Clancy.”
“What’s my growing up got to do with you and Conn?”
“I don’t know.” Clodagh sighed. “Sometimes you make me feel mean.”
“Do I? But I’m very fond of you, Clodagh. We all are.”
“Yes, I know, perhaps that’s why,” said Clodagh obscurely. “Oh, well, enjoy your stolen spree tomorrow. I shan’t tell.”
But they had forgotten Brian, who had been a silent but interested spectator of the whole scene. Clancy’s arm was healed long ago, but he had some old scores to pay off from that time when, for a short while, she had been the centre of interest in the house. Besides, he liked Mark, and wanted to curry favour.
Before he went to bed he described the quarrel and Clancy’s intentions at some length to Mark, and wag severely shaken to be hauled over the coals for telling tales.
Mark took no direct action, but when he said good night to Clancy he remarked pleasantly:
“I shouldn’t go if I were you.”
“Go where?” she asked, suddenly defensive.
‘You know perfectly well. I’m just warning you.”
Her old dislike of him returned.
“You can’t stop me,” she said.
He looked a little amused.
“I could, but I don’t intend to try,” he said, and went out of the room.
The day was not a success, although the early morning promised so much as Clancy ran down to the jetty, for the rain had stopped and the sharp October sunshine struck the calm waters of the loch with brittle clarity. There had been frost in the night, and rime still clung to the grass and the last of the bracken, dying in its golden glory.
To Clancy, pulling out on to the water with a glad, free swing, the day promised so much. Kilmallin with its guardian tower receded gently with the shore, and the bickerings of the day before were left behind. Mark, from his window, watched her go, and sighed. It was some time since he had been obliged to play schoolmaster in earnest.
But at Slievaun things were not well. Conn seemed morose, and indifferent to her coming, and even Bridie, who always had a welcome and something special to be tasted in the kitchen, was bustling and uncommunicative. After breakfast they saw to the horses, and Clancy was surprised and a little dismayed to see what little stock Conn had kept back from the sales. The stables had an air of neglect, and Conn himself seemed to have lost heart, or interest, or both.
“Is there something wrong?” Clancy asked a little timidly, for she had not forgotten how he had rounded on her the day before.
He shrugged.
“What should be wrong?”
“I don’t know. Things are different, somehow. You’ve kept such little stock, and—and you don’t seem to care any more, somehow.”
He took a long-handled fork and idly turned over a pile of straw, shaking out the foul from the good.
“Perhaps I’m tired of the struggle,” he said.
“But you have what you want,” she said a little piteously. “No one minds fighting for what they want.”
He leant on his fork.
“How do you know what I want?” he asked.
She regarded him with grave, puzzled eyes.
“Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all,” she said. “You’ve been different all the summer. Is anything wrong?”
“Ah, stop your questions,” he said impatiently. “You should know that a man has problems of his own at times.”
“Of course. But you used to tell me your problems, Conn dear. You used to say you always could talk to me.”
He smiled.
“And so I could. But you’re a child, Clancy, and there are some things you wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not a child,” she said gravely. “I shall be eighteen next month, though no one remembers it. Mark says I’m older than either you or Clodagh.”
He frowned.
“Och, that long-nosed Englishman! How should he know anything about any of us—a stranger among us and a foreigner at that. You pay too much heed to English ideas these days, you and Clodagh.”
“I have to pay heed,” she said calmly. “He’s my tutor, and I must say he’s quite a reasonable man when you know him. Besides, you told me yourself, before he came, that a lot of nonsense was talked about the English, and I must forget my prejudices.”
He ran a hand through his untidy red hair.
“You have the most exasperating habit of reminding a fellow of things he’s even forgotten he’s said,” he exclaimed. “Don’t let it grow on you, or you’ll never get a husband.”
“Perhaps I don’t want a husband,” she replied primly. “Mark says I ought to have some training to fit me for a life of independence. He says most girls these days do jobs if they don’t marry.”
He flung down his fork and took her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Mark says! Mark says! Will you stop quoting your lanky schoolmaster at me? Most girls do jobs! Since when has an O’Shane woman soiled her hands with work?”
“Well, I’m going to soil mine now,” said Clancy happily. “Come on, Conn, let’s muck out, then we’ll have the day free for our jaunt. It’s such a heavenly morning. It’s so long since we had a day like that—just you and me together, and no one knowing where we were.”
“Darling—” he began, but broke off, lifting his hands in a small gesture of helplessness. “Come on, then.”
&
nbsp; She worked with a will, whistling a clear, untroubled little air that Mark would have recognized, though neither she nor Conn knew its name. He worked beside her silently, and sometimes he would just stand and watch her, his eyes dark and brooding. But they did not take the car. Conn found other jobs to do about the yard, and when these were finished he said he had letters to write.
Clancy sat in the kitchen talking to Bridie until lunch was ready, and afterwards when they sat over the fire, drinking cups of strong black tea, she tried again.
“Would we take the car and just drive over the moor to Grania’s Cave?” she said, “or to Kinross Sands and have a lobster tea at old Mother Brady’s?”
“There’ll not be time,” he replied. “I have some accounts that should have been done a week ago. Just be a good girl, Clancy, and amuse yourself for a couple of hours till tea-time.”
Clancy sighed.
“All right, we’ll have our jaunt another day. I think I’ll go for a walk. Will I take your letters to the crossroads for you?”
“Yes, do that,” he said with relief. “If you hurry, you’ll just catch Micky-the-post.”
Kevin and Mark were having a drink in the library when she got home. The door was half-open and Mark saw her slipping through the hall. He said nothing, but Kevin looked up at that moment and shouted to her to come in and explain herself.
“Your tutor tells me he did not give you permission to go off for the day. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” said Clancy, a weight of weariness and disappointment making her sound sullen.
“Well, if you think mucking round a dirty farm all day worth whatever punishment Mark has in store for you, then you’re more of a fool than I took you for,” he said genially. It was only his second whisky of the evening and he was disposed to be tolerant.
Clodagh, perched on the arm of a chair with a glass of sherry, gave Clancy a curious look.
