ANGER CRUEL AS DEATH
Lady O'Gara met Mrs. Comerford in the hall. Despite the shadows of all
the greenery outside flung through the fanlight across the White Horse
of Hanover, which stands in so many Irish fanlights, she could see that
the lady was in one of the towering rages she remembered and had
dreaded in her youth. Looking at her, with a stammering apology on her
lips, she had a wandering memory of the day at Inch long ago when Terry
had broken a reproduction of the Portland Vase. He had been a big boy
of sixteen then and he had flatly refused to meet his mother, going
away and laying _perdu_ in a stable loft for two or three days till she
had forgotten her anger in her fear for him.
"Stella is here, I suppose," said the icy voice. That suggestion of
holding herself in check, which accompanied Mrs. Comerford's worst
anger, had been a terrifying thing in Mary Creagh's experience of her.
"I believe it is you I have to thank for introducing her to her mother.
What a fool I was to have come back. I thought that shame was covered
up long ago. What a mother for Stella!"
She spoke with a fierce scorn. She had not troubled to lower her voice.
Lady O'Gara lifted her hand in a warning gesture, glancing fearfully
back over her shoulder. But the angry woman did not heed her.
"Have you told her what her mother is, what _she_ is?" she demanded
furiously. "Did you understand what you were doing, Mary O'Gara? It
was your husband who told me Bride Sweeney had come back, who urged me
to get Stella away. I was mad ever to have come home."
"Hush, hush!" said Lady O'Gara, wringing her hands and whispering.
"Stella is in there; she will hear you..."
"Perhaps I mean her to hear me. She shall know what sort of woman it
is who has crept back here to disgrace her and me and to ruin her life."
There came out into the hall a little figure gliding like a ghost,
Stella, her eyes wide and piteous, her pretty colour blanched.
"My mother is a good woman," she said, facing Mrs. Comerford. "You
must never say a word against her. I would follow her through the
world. I have had more happiness with her in those stolen meetings
than you could ever give me."
A pale shaft of Winter sunshine stole through the low hall window,
filtered through red dead leaves that gave it the colour of a dying
sunset. It fell on Stella's hair, bringing out its bronzes. She had
the warm bronze hair of her father's people. It came to Lady O'Gara
suddenly that she and Stella had much the same colouring. In Terence
Comerford it had been ruddier. Why, any one might have known that
Stella was a Comerford by that colour; not the child of some dark
Frenchman.
"You stand up to me better than your father ever did," said Mrs.
Comerford in white and gasping fury. Had she no pity, Mary O'Gara
asked herself; and remembered that Grace Comerford's anger was sheer
madness while it lasted. She had always known it. She had a memory of
how she and Terence had tried to screen each other when they were
children together.
"You dare to tell me that your shameful mother is more to you than I
am!" the enraged woman went on. "It shows the class you have sprung
from. I took you out of the gutter. I should have left you there."
"Oh, hush! hush!" cried Lady O'Gara in deep distress. "You do not know
what you are saying, Grace. For Heaven's sake, be silent."
Mrs. Comerford pushed her away with a force that hurt. A terrible
thing about her anger was that while she said appalling things her
voice had hardly lifted.
Stella looked at her in a bewildered way. "I do not understand," she
said. "You always told me my father was a gentleman. You said little
about my mother. What have you against my mother except that she was a
poor governess?"
"All that was fiction," said Grace Comerford, with a terrible laugh.
"Very poor fiction. I often wondered that any one believed it. Your
father was my son, Terence Comerford. He disgraced himself." She was
as white as a sheet by this time. "Your mother was the granddaughter
of the woman who kept the public-house in Killesky."
"Then I am your granddaughter?"
"In nature, not in law. My son did not marry your mother."
Stella groped in the air with her hands. They were taken and pressed
against Mary O'Gara's heart. Mary O'Gara's arms drew the stricken
child close to her.
"Go," she said to the pale, evil-looking woman, in whom she hardly
recognized Mrs. Comerford--"Go!--and ask God to forgive you and deliver
you from your wicked temper. It has blighted your own life as well as
your son's and your granddaughter's. Go!"
Mrs. Comerford put her hand to her throat. Her face darkened. She
seemed as if she were going to fall. Then she controlled herself as by
a mighty effort, turned and went out of the house. The bang of the
hall-door as she went shook the little house. A second or two later
her carriage passed the window, she sitting upright in it, her curious
stateliness of demeanour unaltered.
Mary O'Gara did not look through the window to see her go. Her eyes
were blind with tears as she bent over the child who was the innocent
victim of others.
All her life afterwards she could never forget the anguish of poor
Stella, who was like a thing demented. She could remember the objects
that met her eyes as she held the two hot trembling hands to her with
one hand while the other stroked Stella's ruffled hair. She felt as
though she were holding the girl back by main force from the borderland
beyond which lay total darkness. She could remember afterwards just
the look of things--the Autumn leaves and berries in the blue jars on
the chimney-piece; the convex glass leaning forward with its outspread
eagle, mirroring her and Stella; Shot lying on his side on the
hearthrug, now and again heaving a deep sigh. How pretty the room was,
she kept thinking! What a quiet background for this human tragedy.
She knew that her heart was gabbling prayers for help, eagerly,
insistently, while her lips only said over and over: "Hush, Stella! Be
still, darling child!" and such tender foolish phrases.
At last the heart-broken crying was over. The girl was exhausted. Now
and again a quiver passed through her where she sat with her face
turned away from Lady O'Gara--but the terrible weeping was done.
"Come," Lady O'Gara said, at last. "We must find some water to bathe
your face, you poor child. You are coming back with me to Castle
Talbot. You are mine now. I shall not give you up again."
Stella shook her head; she stooped and kissed Lady O'Gara's hand as
though she asked pardon. The swift dipping gesture like a bird's was
too painful, recalling as it did the bright Stella of yesterday. Her
hair was roughened like the feathers of a sick bird. Lady O'Gara, her
hand passing softly over it, had felt the roughness with a pang.
"I am not yours, dear Lady O'Gara," she said. "I am no one's but my
mother's. I am not going to Castle Talbot. I shall stay here for the
present. If she does not come back I will go to look for her. All
that other life is done with."
With a gesture of her little hands she put away all that had been hers
till to-day, including Terry. His mother's heart began to ache anew
with the thought of Terry. What would he say when he knew that Stella
knew? Poor boy, he had a very gentle and faithful heart. Oh, what a
tangle it all was, what a coil of things!
"But you can't stay here, darling child," she said tenderly. "How can
you stay in this lonely little house by yourself? I will take you away
somewhere where you do not know people, if you think that would be
better. There are griefs that are more easily borne under the eyes of
strangers. Let me see! There is a convent I know where you could be
quiet for a little time, and I could trust the Reverend Mother--Mary
Benedicta is her name; she is a cousin of mine and a dear friend--to be
as loving to you as myself."
"She would be my ... father's cousin," said Stella; and a shudder ran
through her. Then she said piteously:
"I never thought of my father as wicked."
Oh, poor Terence! How was she going to explain to the child to whom he
had done this hideous wrong? Was it any use saying that Terence had
always been good-natured? She remembered oddly after many years a day
when he had turned away from the glazing eyes of a wood-pigeon he had
shot. What use to tell such things to his daughter, whose life was
laid in ruins by that sin of his youth? Those tragical eyes would
confute her in the midst of her excuses. She could not yet make any
plea for forgiveness for the dead man.
"Mother Mary Benedicta would be gentle with you," she said, "if you
will not come to Castle Talbot. But, dear, no one need know. You
shall take Eileen's place with me. You shall be my little daughter."
Her loving heart was running away with her. Shawn would never forgive
her if she brought Stella to Castle Talbot, to which Terry might return
at any time. Mary Benedicta would know how to tend the wounded spirit,
if poor little Stella would but consent.
"It is getting late," said Stella, breaking in on the confusion of her
thoughts. Her voice, which seemed drained of tears, was suddenly
composed. "You will be late for lunch."
"And you, Stella, what about _your_ lunch?"
She could have cried out on the futility of this talk of lunches.
Stella shook her head.
"There is food here if I want it. My mother had taken to storing
dainty food for me, since I have been so much with her, as though her
food was not good enough for me. I shall not starve, Lady O'Gara."
"Stella, I tell you it is impossible for you to stay here alone."
Lady O'Gara spoke almost sharply. She had a foreboding that Stella's
will would be too strong for her.
"She will come back. She has left everything behind; even her purse
with money in it. She must find me here when she comes home. We can
go away together."
Lady O'Gara looked at the little face in despair. It was so set that
it was not easy to recognize the soft Stella who had crept into all
their hearts. Even Shawn had felt her charm though he had locked the
door of his heart against her. A thought came to Lady O'Gara's mind.
Stella's remaining at the cottage for the present would at least give
time. Prudence whispered to her that she must not bring Stella to
Castle Talbot. She might have felt equal to opposing Shawn, but,
perhaps, she was relieved by the chance of escape. Shawn was not
well--those dark shadows were more and more noticeable in his face.
Other people had begun to see them and to ask her if Sir Shawn was not
well. Presently Stella might be more amenable to reason, and go to
Mother Mary Benedicta at St. Scholastua's Abbey. Benedicta was like
her name. She, if any one, could salve the poor child's wound. She
was as tolerant as she was tender, and she had been fond of Terence
Comerford in the old days. No fear that she would be shocked at the
story, as some women--cloistered or otherwise--might have been!
Benedicta was perfect, Mary O'Gara said to herself and heaved a sigh of
relief because there was Benedicta to turn to.
She felt tired out with her emotions, almost too tired to think.
Suddenly she had a happy inspiration. She and Stella should eat
together. The girl looked worn out. If she left her she was tolerably
sure Stella would not think of food.
"No one will be alarmed if I do not come back for lunch," she said. "I
often do not trouble about lunch when I am alone. They will expect me
in for tea. Sir Shawn will not be home till late. Do you think you
could give me some food, Stella?"
"Oh, yes, it will be a pleasure," Stella said, getting up with an air
of anxious politeness. "I am sure there are eggs. You will not mind
eggs for lunch, with tea and bread and butter. I am afraid the kitchen
fire may be out--but the turf keeps a spark so long. It is alight when
you think it is out."
She took the poker and stirred the grey fire to a blaze, then put on
turf, building it as she had seen others do in the narrow grate.
"There are hearths in Connaught on which the fire has not gone out for
fifty years," said Lady O'Gara, watching the shower of sparks that rose
and fell as Stella struck the black sods with the poker.
Neither of them ate very much when the meal was prepared, though Stella
drank the tea almost greedily. She had begun to look a little
furtively at Lady O'Gara before the meal was finished as though she
wished her to be gone. It hurt Mary O'Gara's kind heart; though she
understood that the girl was aching for solitude. But how was she
going to leave her in this haunted place alone--a child like her--in
such terrible trouble?
Suddenly she found a solution of her difficulties. It would serve for
the moment, if Stella would but consent.
"Would you have Mrs. Horridge to stay with you?" she asked. "You know
you cannot stay here quite alone. She is a gentle creature, and very
unobtrusive. I shall feel happy about you if she is here."
To her immense relief Stella consented readily.
"She has been very good to my mother," she said; "and they are both
victims of men's cruelty."
Lady O'Gara, who was looking at Stella at the moment, noticed that her
eyes fell on something outside the window and a quick shudder passed
through the slight body. She went to Stella's side and saw only a heap
of stones for road-mending. They must have been newly flung down
there, for she did not remember to have seen them when last she passed
this way.
Was it possible that Stella knew? That her eyes saw another heap of
stones, and upon them a dead man lying, his blood turning the sharp
stones red?