CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S LOVE-MAKING.
The household at Castle Morony was very sad for some time after the
trial. They had hardly begun to feel the death of Florian while the
excitement existed as they felt it afterwards. Mr. Jones, his father,
seemed to regard the lost boy as though he had been his favourite
child. It was not many months since he had refused to allow him to
eat in his presence, and had been persuaded by such a stranger as was
Captain Clayton, to treat him with some show of affection. When he
had driven him into Ballyglunin, he had been stern and harsh to him
to the very last. And now he was obliterated with sorrow because he
had been robbed of his Florian. The two girls had sorrows of their
own; though neither of them would permit her sorrow to create any
quarrel between her and her sister. And Frank, who since his return
from the North had toiled like a labourer on the property--only
doing double a labourer's work--had sorrow, too, of his own. It was
understood that he had altogether separated himself from Rachel
O'Mahony. The cause of his separation was singular in its nature.
It was now November, and Rachel had already achieved a singularly
rapid success at Covent Garden. She still lived in Cecil Street, but
there was no lack of money. Indeed, her name had risen into such
repute that some Irish people began to think that her father was
the proper man for Cavan, simply because she was a great singer. It
cannot be said, however, that this was the case among the men who
were regarded as the leaders of the party, as they still doubted
O'Mahony's obedience. But money at any rate poured into Rachel's lap,
and with the money that which was quite as objectionable to poor
Frank. He had begun by asserting that he did not wish to live idle
on the earnings of a singer; and, therefore, as the singer had said,
"he and she were obliged to be two." As she explained to her father,
she was badly treated. She was very anxious to be true to her lover;
but she did not like living without some lover to whom she might be
true. "You see, as I am placed I am exposed to the Mosses. I do want
to have a husband to protect me." Then a lover had come forward.
Lord Castlewell had absolutely professed to make her the future
Marchioness of Beaulieu. Of this there must be more hereafter; but
Frank heard of it, and tore his hair in despair.
And there was another misery at Castle Morony. It reached Mr. Jones's
ears that Peter was anxious to give warning. It certainly was the
case that Peter was of great use to them, and that Mr. Jones had
rebuked him more than once as having made a great favour of his
services. The fact was that Peter, if discharged, would hardly know
where to look for another place where he could be equally at home and
equally comfortable. And he was treated by the family generally with
all that confidence which his faithfulness seemed to deserve. But
he was nervous and ill at ease under his master's rebukes; and at
last there came an event which seemed to harrow up his own soul, and
instigated him to run away from County Galway altogether.
"Miss Edith, Miss Edith," he said, "come in here, thin, and see what
I have got to show you." Then, with an air of great mystery, he drew
his young mistress into the pantry. "Look at that now! Was ever the
like of that seen since the mortial world began?" Then he took out
from a dirty envelope a dirty sheet of paper, and exposed it to her
eyes. On the top of it was a rude coffin. "Don't it make yer hair
stand on end, and yer very flesh creep, Miss Edith, to look at the
likes o' that!" And below the coffin there was a ruder skull and two
cross-bones. "Them's intended for what I'm to be. I understand their
language well enough. Look here," and he turned the envelope round
and showed that it was addressed to Peter McGrew, butler, Morony
Castle. "They know me well enough all the country round." The letter
was as follows:
MR. PETER MCGREW,
If you're not out of that before the end of the month, but
stay there doing things for them infernal blackguards,
your goose is cooked. So now you know all about it.
From yours,
MOONLIGHT.
Edith attempted to laugh at this letter, but Peter made her
understand that it was no laughing matter.
"I've a married darter in Dublin who won't see her father shot down
that way if she knows it."
"You had better take it to papa, then, and give him warning," said
Edith.
But this Peter declined to do on the spur of the moment, seeming to
be equally afraid of his master and of Captain Moonlight.
"If I'd the Captain here, he'd tell me what I ought to do." The
Captain was always Captain Clayton.
"He is coming here to-morrow, and I will show him the letter," said
Edith. But she did not on that account scruple to tell her father at
once.
"He can go if he likes it," said Mr. Jones, and that was all that Mr.
Jones said on the subject.
This was the third visit that the Captain had paid to Morony
Castle since the terrible events of the late trial. And it must be
understood that he had not spoken a word to either of the two girls
since the moment in which he had ventured to squeeze Edith's hand
with a tighter grasp than he had given to her sister. They, between
them, had discussed him and his character often; but had come to no
understanding respecting him.
Ada had declared that Edith should be his, and had in some degree
recovered from the paroxysm of sorrow which had first oppressed her.
But Edith had refused altogether to look at the matter in that light.
"It was quite out of the question," she said, "and so Captain Clayton
would feel it. If you don't hold your tongue, Ada," she said, "I
shall think you're a brute."
But Ada had not held her tongue, and had declared that if no one else
were to know it--no one but Edith and the Captain himself--she would
not be made miserable by it.
"What is it?" she said. "I thought him the best and he is the best. I
thought that he thought that I was the best; and I wasn't. It shall
be as I say."
After this manner were the discussions held between them; but of
these Captain Clayton heard never a word.
When he came he would seem to be full of the flood gates, and of Lax
the murderer. He had two men with him now, Hunter and another. But
no further attempt was made to shoot him in the neighbourhood of
Headford. "Lax finds it too hot," he said, "since that day in the
court house, and has gone away for the present. I nearly know where
he is; but there is no good catching him till I get some sort of
evidence against him, and if I locked him up as a 'suspect,' he would
become a martyr and a hero in the eyes of the whole party. The worst
of it is that though twenty men swore that they had seen it, no
Galway jury would convict him." But nevertheless he was indefatigable
in following up the murderer of poor Florian. "As for the murder in
the court house," he said, "I do believe that though it was done in
the presence of an immense crowd no one actually saw it. I have the
pistol, but what is that? The pistol was dropped on the floor of the
court house."
On this occasion Edith brought him poor Peter's letter. As it
happened they two were then alone together. But she had taught
herself not to expect any allusion to his love. "He is a stupid
fellow," said the Captain.
"But he has been faithful. And you can't expect him to look at these
things as you do."
"Of course he finds it to be a great compliment. To have a special
letter addressed to him by some special Captain Moonlight is to bring
him into the history of his country."
"I suppose he will go."
"Then let him go. I would not on any account ask him to stay. If he
comes to me I shall tell him simply that he is a fool. Pat Carroll's
people want to bother your father, and he would be bothered if he
were to lose his man-servant. There is no doubt of that. If Peter
desires to bother him let him go. Then he has another idea that he
wants to achieve a character for fidelity. He must choose between the
two. But I wouldn't on any account ask him for a favour."
Then Edith having heard the Captain's advice was preparing to leave
the room when Captain Clayton stopped her. "Edith," he said.
"Well, Captain Clayton."
"Some months ago,--before these sad things had occurred,--I told you
what I thought of you, and I asked you for a favour."
"There was a mistake made between us all,--a mistake which does
not admit of being put to rights. It was unfortunate, but those
misfortunes will occur. There is no more to be said about it."
"Is the happiness of two people to be thus sacrificed, when nothing
is done for the benefit of one?"
"What two?" she asked brusquely.
"You and I."
"My happiness will not be sacrificed, Captain Clayton," she said.
What right had he to tell that her happiness was in question? The
woman spoke,--the essence of feminine self, putting itself forward to
defend feminine rights generally against male assumption. Could any
man be justified in asserting that a woman loved him till she had
told him so? It was evident no doubt,--so she told herself. It was
true at least. As the word goes she worshipped the very ground he
stood upon. He was her hero. She had been made to think and to feel
that he was so by this mistake which had occurred between the three.
She had known it before, but it was burned in upon her now. Yet he
should not be allowed to assume it. And the one thing necessary
for her peace of mind in life would be that she should do her duty
by Ada. She had been the fool. She had instigated Ada to believe
this thing in which there was no truth. The loss of all ecstasy
of happiness must be the penalty which she would pay. And yet she
thought of him. Must he pay a similar penalty for her blunder? Surely
this would be hard! Surely this would be cruel! But then she did not
believe that man ever paid such penalty as that of which she was
thinking. He would have the work of his life. It would be the work
of her life to remember what she might have been had she not been a
fool.
"If so," he said after a pause, "then there is an end of it all,"
and he looked at her as though he absolutely believed her words,--as
though he had not known that her assertion had been mere feminine
pretext! She could not endure that he at any rate should not know the
sacrifice which she would have to make. But he was very hard to her.
He would not even allow her the usual right of defending her sex by
falsehood. "If so there is an end of it all," he repeated, holding
out his hand as though to bid her farewell.
She believed him, and gave him her hand. "Good-bye, Captain Clayton,"
she said.
"Never again," he said to her very gruffly, but still with such a
look across his eyes as irradiated his whole face. "This hand shall
never again be your own to do as you please with it."
"Who says so?" and she struggled as though to pull her hand away, but
he held her as though in truth her hand had gone from her for ever.
"I say so, who am its legitimate owner. Now I bid you tell me the
truth, or rather I defy you to go on with the lie. Do you not love
me?"
"It is a question which I shall not answer."
"Then," said he, "from a woman to a man it is answered. You cannot
make me over to another. I will not be transferred."
"I can do nothing with you, Captain Clayton, nor can you with me. I
know you are very strong of course." Then he loosened her hand, and
as he did so Ada came into the room.
"I have asked her to be my wife," said the Captain, putting his hand
upon Edith's arm.
"Let it be so," said Ada. "I have nothing to say against it."
"But I have," said Edith. "I have much to say against it. We can all
live without being married, I suppose. Captain Clayton has plenty to
do without the trouble of a wife. And so have you and I. Could we
leave our father? And have we forgotten so soon poor Florian? This is
no time for marriages. Only think, papa would not have the means to
get us decent clothes. As far as I am concerned, Captain Clayton, let
there be an end of all this." Then she stalked out of the room.
"Ada, you are not angry with me," said Captain Clayton, coming up to
her.
"Oh, no! How could I be angry?"
"I have not time to do as other men do. I do not know that I ever
said a word to her; and yet, God knows, that I have loved her dearly
enough. She is hot tempered now, and there are feelings in her heart
which fight against me. You will say a word in my favour?"
"Indeed, indeed I will."
"There shall be nothing wrong between you and me. If she becomes my
wife, you shall be my dearest sister. And I think she will at last.
I know,--I do know that she loves me. Poor Florian is dead and gone.
All his short troubles are over. We have still got our lives to lead.
And why should we not lead them as may best suit us? She talks about
your father's present want of money. I would be proud to marry your
sister standing as she is now down in the kitchen. But if I did
marry her I should have ample means to keep her as would become your
father's daughter." Then he took his leave and went back to Galway.