Daphne du Maurier: Hungry Hill

"No, sir," said John; "that was just the excuse given. The Donovans shot my great-grandfather because the land here was theirs, before it was his, because the old Donovan chiefs possessed Clonmere, and Doonhaven, and Doon Island when the Brodricks were copying-house clerks in Slane, and they could not forget it. And they haven't forgot" ten it, even to this day. That's why Morty Donovan lets his tenants steal your cattle, and that's why your Cornish miners will stay one season on Hungry Hill, and no longer."

There was a silence, John Brodrick did not answer. He stared thoughtfully at his second son, while the rest of the family, astonished at their brother's outburst, sat in trepidation, scarlet and ill at ease.

"Very good, John," he said at length. "Eton and Brasenose have done more for you than I thought. A few years in London, at Lincoln's Inn, and they will make quite a speaker of you. And now, Barbara dear, if you have finished, I suggest we leave the room for Thomas to clear, and perhaps you will pour out tea in the drawing-room."

"Yes, father," said Barbara, and glancing reproachfully at John for the disturbance he had caused, she led the way upstairs to the drawing-room, where the serving-man had already placed the tea-tray in readiness.

"Silly fellow," said Henry, patting his brother on the shoulder, for their father had not yet come upstairs; "what induced you to speak so, at such a time? You know the irritation it causes my father just to mention the Donovans. And to damp his ardour, too, about the mine."

"John dear, it was thoughtless," said Barbara, "especially when you were late for dinner too. Now you will be in his bad books for a week at least."

"Oh, confound everything," said John wearily, throwing himself into a chair. "Why do I never do anything right? And why does everyone, myself included, always dislike hearing the truth? You don't think I like the Donovans, do you? Old Morty Donovan's a scoundrel, I know that."

He held out his arms to Jane, who came and sat on his knee, her arms round his neck.

"What shall we do, sweetheart? Shall we run away together, and build a little cabin on Doon Island?"

"It would be horrid in the winter," said Jane, laughing, and playing with his collar; "you would soon become ill-humoured, and vent it upon your Jane.

Henry would endure discomfort better than you."

"Henry endures everything better than I do," sighed John, "don't you, old fellow? You attend all the lectures at Oxford with the greatest equanimity, and are on breakfasting terms with half the dons. He has a visiting list of acquaintances, too, nearly a yard long. The only fellows who visit me in my rooms are tradesmen, or sporting chaps wanting to sell me a dog."

"Do you suppose," broke in Eliza, "that once the copper mine starts paying we shall all be very rich?"

"So rich, Eliza," said Henry, winking at John, "that all the impoverished Earls of the country will come from miles around to court you. You had better start planning your wardrobe soon. Poor Mrs. Murphy will have to get in a good stock of needles and thread and material."

"Mrs. Murphy," scoffed Eliza; "thank you very much. I shall purchase my dresses in Bath or Cheltenham, I shall never go to Mrs. Murphy again."

"That would be rather unkind," said Barbara. "We could always allow her to make some of our things. She tries so hard to do her best, poor woman. You could keep your Bath finery a secret from her."

"Barbara, the peace-maker," said John, "who pleases everybody and vexes none; where should we be without you? Jane, stop playing with my collar, you little plague. Isn't it your bed-time? Do you want me to carry you to bed, or will you wait for Martha to fetch you?"

"I haven't said goodnight to father," said Jane.

"Then you shall say goodnight, and afterwards I will take you to your bed," said her brother.

The child ran downstairs, and, listening at the library door, heard voices coming from within. She saw the wide-brimmed hat on the settle, and she made a face up at John, who was watching her from the stairs.

"It's Ned Brodrick with father," she whispered.

"Never mind, go and kiss him goodnight," said John.

Jane's small shoulders shook with laughter, and then, drawing herself up and composing her face to suitable gravity, she knocked at the library door. Her father was standing before the fireplace, confronting his visitor, whose features, though leaner and more cadaverous, bore a striking resemblance to his own. Ned Brodrick was, in point of fact, his natural brother, and John Brodrick, with a curious sense of family duty, had made him his agent now for a number of years. The mother, an extremely respectable woman who had been dairy-maid at Clonmere when she had caught the roving eye of John Brodrick's father, lived on a small pension in one of the cottages at Oakmount, and Ned dwelt with her. The ten pounds annuity left to him by his father when he died in 1800 was given to him with the pious hope, expressed in old Henry Brodrick's own words, that "the sum would keep him out of the mischief that had brought him into the world." The hope had not been fulfilled, however, for Ned Brodrick, disregarding his father's wishes, had become the parent of no less than four illegitimate children, all by different mothers. He was glad, therefore, to supplement his annuity by what he could earn as agent to his brother, and he was careful never to presume upon his relationship in any way, so that John Brodrick was always "Mr. Brodrick," and his nieces "the young ladies." He was, as it happened, as good an agent as John Brodrick could hope to find, and if he made a little extra for his own pocket now and again by falsifying the rent-roll of the tenants, it was no more and no less than any other man would have done in his place.

"Good evening, Miss Jane," he said now, with his customary bow and his usual look of solemnity, so far removed from mischief that it seemed hardly possible he could have ignored Henry Brodrick's will.

"Good evening, Ned," replied the child, turning swiftly from him and lifting her face to her father.

John Brodrick picked Jane up and kissed her on both cheeks, his hard, rather ruthless expression softening as he did so. This little daughter was very dear to him, dearer almost than Henry, if it were possible, and he looked forward to the time when she should become a companion to him and not merely an enchanting plaything.

"Goodnight," he said gently, "sleep well," and watching her for an instant while she opened the door, he then dismissed her from his mind and turned back again to his brother.

Jane climbed the stairs in search of John, but of course-it was typical of him-he had forgotten his promise, and she had to wander along the passage to his room in the tower, at the end of the house.

Jane found him with the window flung open, looking out towards the creek, shining silver under the moon, with the dark hump of Doon Island away in the distance.

She knelt on the window-seat beside her brother, and they were silent for a moment.

"John," she said presently, "what will they do to Hungry Hill? Will they spoil it, so that we can never go there again for picnics?"

"They will spoil the part where the mine is to be," said John; "there'll be chimneys, and shafts, and engines. You've seen pictures of mines, haven't you? But they won't touch the wild part at the top, and they won't spoil the lake. We can still go there and enjoy ourselves."

"If I were Hungry Hill I should be angry," said the child. "I should want to slay the human beings who dared interfere with me, You know how the hill looks in winter, John, when the clouds are upon it, and the rain drives down. Like a giant, frowning. If I were my father I would not have sunk my mine there, I would have found another place."

"Yes, but other places don't have the copper, sweetheart."