When Dyck Calhoun waked, he was in the hands of the king’s constables,
arrested for the murder of Erris Boyne. It was hard to protest his
innocence, for the landlord was ready to swear concerning a quarrel
he had seen when he opened the door for a moment. Dyck, with sudden
caution, only said he would make all clear at the trial.
Dublin and Ireland were shocked and thrilled; England imagined she had
come upon one of the most violent episodes of Irish history. One journal
protested that it was not possible to believe in Dyck Calhoun’s guilt;
that his outward habits were known to all, and were above suspicion,
although he had collogued--though never secretly, so far as the world
knew--with some of the advanced revolutionary spirits. None of the loyal
papers seemed aware of Erris Boyne’s treachery; and while none spoke of
him with approval, all condemned his ugly death.
Driven through the streets of Dublin in a jaunting-car between two of
the king’s police, Dyck was a mark for abuse by tongue, but was here and
there cheered by partizans of the ultra-loyal group to which his father
adhered. The effect of his potations was still upon him, and his mind
was bemused. He remembered the quarrel, Boyne’s explanation, and the
subsequent drinking, but he could recall nothing further. He was sure
the wine had been drugged, but he realized that Swinton, the landlord,
would have made away with any signs of foul play, as he was himself an
agent of active disloyalty and a friend of Erris Boyne. Dyck could not
believe he had killed Boyne; yet Boyne had been found with a wound in
his heart, and his own naked sword lying beside him on the table. The
trouble was he could not absolutely swear innocence of the crime.
The situation was not eased by his stay in jail. It began with a
revelation terribly repugnant to him. He had not long been lodged in the
cell when there came a visit from Michael Clones, who stretched out his
hands in an agony of humiliation.
“Ah, you didn’t do it--you didn’t do it, sir!” he cried. “I’m sure you
never killed him. It wasn’t your way. He was for doing you harm if he
could. An evil man he was, as all the world knows. But there’s one thing
that’ll be worse than anything else to you. You never knew it, and I
never knew it till an hour ago. Did you know who Erris Boyne was? Well,
I’ll tell you. He was the father of Miss Sheila Llyn. He was divorced by
Mrs. Llyn many years ago, for having to do with other women. She took to
her maiden name, and he married again.
“Good God! Good God!” Dyck Calhoun made a gesture of horror. “He Sheila
Llyn’s father! Good God!”
Suddenly a passion of remorse roused him out of his semi-stupefaction.
“Michael, Michael!” he said, his voice hoarse, broken. “Don’t say such a
thing! Are you sure?” Michael nodded.
“I’m sure. I got it from one that’s known Erris Boyne and his first wife
and girl--one that was a servant to them both in past days. He’s been
down to Limerick to see Mrs. Llyn and the beautiful daughter. I met him
an hour ago, and he told me. He told me more. He told me Mrs. Llyn spoke
to him of your friendship with Erris Boyne, and how she meant to tell
you who and what he was. She said her daughter didn’t even know her
father’s name. She had been kept in ignorance.”
Dyck seated himself on the rough bed of the cell, and stared at Michael,
his hands between his knees, his eyes perturbed.
“Michael,” he said at last, “if it’s true--what you’ve told me--I don’t
see my way. Every step in front of me is black. To tell the whole truth
is to bring fresh shame upon Mrs. Llyn and her daughter, and not to tell
the whole truth is to take away my one chance of getting out of this
trouble. I see that!”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir, but I’ll tell you this--none that
knows you would believe you’d murder Erris Boyne or anny other man.”
Dyck wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I suppose you speak the truth, Michael, but it isn’t people who’ve
known me that’ll try me; and I can’t tell all.”
“Why not, if it’ll help you?”
“I can’t--of course I can’t. It would be disgrace eternal.”
“Why? Tell me why, sir!”
Dyck looked closely, firmly, at the old servant and friend. Should he
tell the truth--that Boyne had tried to induce him to sell himself to
the French, to invoke his aid against the English government, to share
in treason? If he could have told it to anybody, he would have done
so to Michael; but if it was true that in his drunken blindness he had
killed Boyne, he would not seek to escape by proving Boyne a traitor.
He believed Boyne was a servant of the French; but unless the facts came
out in the trial, they should not have sure origin in himself. He would
not add to his crime in killing the father of the only girl who had ever
touched his heart, the shame of proving that father to be one who should
have been shot as a traitor.
He had courage and daring, but not sufficient to carry him through that
dark chapter. He would not try to save himself by turning public opinion
against Erris Boyne. The man had been killed by some one, perhaps--and
the thing ached in his heart--by himself; but that was no reason why the
man’s death should not be full punishment for all the wrong he had done.
Dyck had a foolish strain in him, after all. Romance was his deadly foe;
it made him do a stupid, if chivalrous, thing. Meanwhile he would warn
the government at once about the projected French naval raid.
“Michael,” said Dyck, rising again, “see my father, but you’re not
to say I didn’t kill Boyne, for, to tell the truth, I don’t know. My
head”--he put his hand to it with a gesture of despair--“my head’s a
mass of contradictions. It seems a thousand years since I entered that
tavern! I can’t get myself level with all that’s happened. That Erris
Boyne should be the father of the sweet girl at Limerick shakes
me. Don’t you see what it means? If I killed him, it spoils
everything--everything. If I didn’t kill him, I can only help myself by
blackening still more the life of one who gave being to--”
“Aye, to a young queen!” interrupted Michael.
“God knows, there’s none like her in Ireland, or in any other country at
all!”
Suddenly Dyck regained his composure; and it was the composure of one
who had opened the door of hell and had realized that in time--perhaps
not far off--he also would dwell in the infernal place.
“Michael, I have no money, but I’m my father’s heir. My father will not
see me starve in prison, nor want for defence, though my attitude shall
be ‘no defence.’ So bring me decent food and some clothes, and send to
me here Will McCormick, the lawyer. He’s as able a man as there is in
Dublin. Listen, Michael, you’re not to speak of Mrs. Llyn and Miss Llyn
as related to Erris Boyne. What will come of what you and I know and
don’t know, Heaven only has knowledge; but I’ll see it through. I’ve
spoiled as good chances as ever a young man had that wants to make his
way; but drink and cards, Michael, and the flare of this damned life at
the centre--it got hold of me. It muddled, drowned the best that was in
me. It’s the witch’s kitchen, is Dublin. Ireland’s the only place in the
world where they make saints of criminals and pray to them; where they
lose track of time and think they’re in eternity; where emotion is
saturnine logic and death is the touchstone of life. Michael, I don’t
see any way to safety. Those fellows down at the tavern were friends of
Erris Boyne. They’re against me. They’ll hang me if they can!”
“I don’t believe they can do it, master. Dublin and Ireland think more
of you than they did of Erris Boyne. There’s nothing behind you except
the wildness of youth--nothing at all. If anny one had said to me at
Playmore that you’d do the things you’ve done with drink and cards since
you come to Dublin, I’d have swore they were liars. Yet when all’s said
and done, I’d give my last drop of blood as guarantee you didn’t kill
Erris Boyne!”
Dyck smiled. “You’ve a lot of faith in me, Michael--but I’ll tell you
this--I never was so thirsty in my life. My mouth’s like a red-hot iron.
Send me some water. Give the warder sixpence, if you’ve got it, and send
me some water. Then go to Will McCormick, and after that to my father.”
Michael shook his head dolefully.
“Mr. McCormick’s aisy--oh, aisy enough,” he said. “He’ll lep up at the
idea of defendin’ you, but I’m not takin’ pleasure in goin’ to Miles
Calhoun, for he’s a hard man these days. Aw, Mr. Dyck, he’s had a lot of
trouble. Things has been goin’ wrong with Playmore. ‘Pon honour, I don’t
know whether anny of it’ll last as long as Miles Calhoun lasts. There’ll
be little left for you, Mr. Dyck. That’s what troubles me. I tell you
it’d break my heart if that place should be lost to your father and you.
I was born on it. I’d give the best years of the life that’s left me to
make sure the old house could stay in the hands of the Calhouns. I say
to you that while I live all I am is yours, fair and foul, good and
bad.” He touched his breast with his right hand. “In here is the soul
of Ireland that leps up for the things that matter. There’s a
song--but never mind about a song; this is no place for songs. It’s a
prison-house, and you’re a prisoner charged--”
“Not charged yet, not charged,” interrupted Dyck; “but suspected of and
arrested for a crime. I’ll fight--before God, I’ll fight to the last!
Good-bye, Michael; bring me food and clothes, and send me cold water at
once.”
When the door closed softly behind Michael Clones, Dyck sat down on the
bed where many a criminal patriot had lain. He looked round the small
room, bare, unfurnished, severe-terribly severe; he looked at the blank
walls and the barred window, high up; he looked at the floor--it was
discoloured and damp. He reached out and touched it with his hand. He
looked at the solitary chair, the basin and pail, and he shuddered.
“How awful--how awful!” he murmured. “But if it was her father, and if I
killed him”--his head sank low--“if I killed her father!”
“Water, sir.”
He looked up. It was the guard with a tin of water and a dipper.