Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [174]
A small man was standing with his head directly interposed between the gaslight and the Major so that his face was in darkness. His elongated shadow stretched out gigantically over the open expanse of floor to engulf the Major—indeed, all the shadows seemed to stretch out from him and that single light behind his head, lending him the appearance of a black spider at the centre of another web. The Major failed to recognize the silhouette. But there was no mistaking the deferential yet agitated tones in which the man, advancing, began to speak. It was Mr Devlin and he regretted very much disturbing the Major at this unpardonable hour but he would surely be forgiven when the reason was known...(“Is the wretched fellow incapable of speaking straight?” wondered the Major, grinding his teeth).
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
It was his daughter, Sarah...she hadn’t come home yet and though he knew she was in safe hands...in short, he’d heard that the ball had terminated more early than was expected... mind you, everyone had said what a great success it was... and therefore, because there was such trouble in the country round about...
“Sarah? What time is it now?” He had left his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. He thought of the candles left burning in his room.
“Mr Spencer took her home...perhaps an hour ago, perhaps more. More, I should think. Where is Mr Spencer?” He looked round for the cook, but of course she had disappeared.
Grasping Devlin by the arm, he dragged him deeper into the room, nearer the solitary gas jet so that he could see the man’s face. From the darkness there came a faint, distressed mewing and a dislocation of shadows. The cats had returned. For a moment he had thought that the mewing was coming from Devlin himself.
But Devlin had also begun to speak, in a high, frenzied tone which grated unbearably on the Major’s nerves. He’d known as much! He’d warned her against it...But no, she wouldn’t listen. No decent girl would show her face with those drunken devils on the loose. He’d warned her! They’d gone rampaging through Kilnalough not an hour ago and she hadn’t come home...She’d been so intent on dancing with the quality, well, that was where it had got her. He’d seen the damage they’d done...they’d overturned the milk churns so that the main street was like a white river, Finnegan’s window with a black, star-shaped hole in it...and the butcher’s shop-window lay piled under the sill like a snowdrift! And they’d been dressed up in their finery, in their claw-hammer suits like gentlemen. Ha, fine gentlemen! And he’d heard girls screaming...But she’d not come home even then...It was he, the Major, who was responsible. She had been left in his care. He was not a gentleman. Indeed, he was a swine and a cad to leave the girl on such a night...Ah, a cripple and without protection...And Mr Spencer who thought that he could buy him, Devlin, with his money and his hypocrite’s talk, what sort of a man was that? D’ye hear me?
The Major shook Devlin so violently that his last words were uttered in gasps. He fell silent then.
“Sarah will be all right with Edward. Nobody will touch her.”
“Nobody, is it?” Devlin leered. “And where is she at this minute? Tell me that. All right with him, d’you say? Sure he’s likely worse than any of them!”
“You’re speaking of a gentleman!” snapped the Major. “Mr Spencer is a man of honour.”
Abashed, Devlin fell silent. The Major peered at his face, certain that he had been drinking. For once the bank manager looked dirty and dishevelled; his hair, oiled and combed, had swung forward over his forehead, curving ridiculously upwards like a pair of horns. His trousers were secured