AN AFTER-DINNER GAME
Easiness, the failing of the old-world Irishman, had been Uncle Ulick's
bane through life. It was easiness which had induced him to condone a
baseness in his nephew which he would have been the first to condemn in
a stranger. And again it was easiness which had beguiled him into
standing idle while the brother's influence was creeping like
strangling ivy over the girl's generous nature; while her best
instincts were being withered by ridicule, her generosity abused by
meanness, and her sense of right blunted by such acts of lawlessness as
the seizure of the smuggling vessel. He feared, if he did not know,
that things were going ill. He saw the blighting shadow of Asgill begin
to darken the scene. He believed that The McMurrough, unable to raise
money on the estate--since he had no title--was passing under Asgill's
control. And still he had not raised his voice.
But, above all, it was easiness which had induced Uncle Ulick to
countenance in Flavia those romantic notions, now fast developing into
full-blown plans, which he, who had seen the world in his youth, should
have blasted; which he, who could recall the humiliation of Boyne Water
and the horrors of '90, he, who knew somewhat, if only a little, of the
strength of England and the weakness of Ireland, should have been the
first to nip in the bud.
He had not nipped them. Instead, he had allowed the reckless patriotism
of the young O'Beirnes, the predatory instincts of O'Sullivan Og, the
simulated enthusiasm--for simulated he knew it to be--of the young
McMurrough to guide the politics of the house and to bring it to the
verge of a crisis. The younger generation and their kin, the Sullivans,
the Mahoneys, the O'Beirnes, bred in this remote corner, leading a wild
and almost barbarous life, deriving such sparks of culture as reached
them from foreign sources and through channels wilder than their life,
were no judges of their own weakness or of the power opposed to them.
But he was. He knew, and had known, that it became him, as the Nestor
of the party, to point out the folly of their plans. Instead, he had
bowed to the prevailing feeling. For--be it his excuse--he, too, was
Irish! He, too, felt his heart too large for his bosom when he dwelt on
his country's wrongs. On him, too, though he knew that successful
rebellion was out of the question, Flavia's generous indignation, her
youth, her enthusiasm, wrought powerfully. And at times, in moments of
irritation, he, too, saw red, and dreamed of a last struggle for
freedom.
At this point, at a moment when the crisis, grown visible, could no
longer be masked, had arrived John Sullivan, a man of experience. His
very aspect sobered Uncle Ulick's mind. The latter saw that only a
blacker and more hopeless night could follow the day of vengeance of
which he dreamt; and he sat this evening--while Asgill talked on the
hill with The McMurrough--he sat this evening by the light of the
peat-fire, and was sore troubled. Was it, or was it not, too late? He
occupied the great chair in which Sir Michael had so often conned his
Scudery of winter evenings; but though he filled the chair, he knew
that he had neither the will nor the mastery of its old owner. If it
had not passed already, the thing might easily pass beyond his staying.
Meanwhile, Flavia sat on a stool on the farther side of the
blaze--until supper was on the board they used no other light--brooding
bitterly over the loss of her mare; and he knew that that incident
would not make things more easy. For here was tyranny brought to an
every-day level; oppression that pricked to the quick! The Saxons, who
had risen for a mere poundage against their anointed king, did not
scruple to make slaves, ay, real slaves, of a sister and a more ancient
people! But the cup was full and running over, and they should rue it!
A short day and they would find opposed to them the wrath, the fury,
the despair of a united people and an ancient faith. Something like
this Flavia had been saying to him.
Then silence had fallen. And now he made answer.
"I'm low at heart about it, none the less," he said. "War, my girl, is
a very dreadful thing." He had in his mind the words Colonel John had
used to him on that subject.
"And what is slavery?" she replied. There were red spots in her cheeks,
and her eyes shone.
"But if the yoke be made heavier, my jewel, and not lighter?"
"Then let us die!" she answered. "Let there be an end! For it is time.
But let us die free! As it is, do we not blush to own that we are
Irish? Is not our race the handmaid among nations? Then let us die!
What have we to live for? Our souls they will not leave us, our bodies
they enslave, they take our goods! What is left, Uncle Ulick?" she
continued passionately.
"Just to endure," he said sadly, "till better times. Or what if we make
things worse? Believe me, Flavvy, the last rising----"
"Rising!" she cried. "Rising! Why do you call it that? It was no
rising! It was the English who rose, and we who remained faithful to
our king. It was they who betrayed, and we who paid the penalty for
treason! Rising!"
"Call it what you like, my dear," he answered patiently, "'tis not
forgotten."
"Nor forgiven!" she cried fiercely.
"True! But the spirit is broken in us. If it were not, we should have
risen three years back, when the Scotch rose. There was a chance then.
But for us by ourselves there is no chance and no hope. And in this
little corner what do we know or hear? God forgive us, 'tis only what
comes from France and Spain by the free-traders that we'll be hearing."
"Uncle Ulick!" she answered, looking fixedly at him, "I know where you
get that from! I know who has been talking to you, and who"--her voice
trembled with anger--"has upset the house! It's meet that one who has
left the faith of his fathers, and turned his back on his country in
her trouble--it is well that he should try to make others act as he has
acted, and be false as he has been false! Caring for nothing himself,
cold, and heartless----"
He was about to interrupt her, but on the word the door opened and her
brother and Asgill entered, shaking the moisture from their coats. It
had begun to rain as they returned along the edge of the lake. She
dashed the tears from her eyes and was silent.
"Sure, and you've got a fine colour, my girl," The McMurrough said.
"Any news of the mare?" he continued, as he took the middle of the
hearth and spread his skirts to the blaze, Asgill remaining in the
background. Then, as she shook her head despondently--the presence of
Asgill had driven her into herself--"Bet you a hundred crowns to one,
Asgill," he said, with a grin, "cousin Sullivan don't recover her!"
"I couldn't afford to take it," Asgill answered, smiling. "But if Miss
Flavia had chosen me for her ambassador in place of him that's
gone----"
"She might have had a better, and couldn't have had a worse!" James
said, with a loud laugh. "It's supper-time," he continued, after he had
turned to the fire, and kicked the turfs together, "and late, too!
Where's Darby? There's never anything but waiting in this house. I
suppose you are not waiting for the mare? If you are, it's empty
insides we'll all be having for a week of weeks."
"I'm much afraid of that," Uncle Ulick answered, as the girl rose.
Uncle Ulick could never do anything but fall in with the prevailing
humour.
Flavia paused half-way across the floor and listened. "What's that?"
she asked, raising her hand for silence. "Didn't you hear something? I
thought I heard a horse."
"You didn't hear a mare," her brother retorted, grinning. "In the
meantime, miss, I'd be having you know we're hungry. And----"
He stopped, startled by a knock on the door. The girl hesitated, then
she stepped to it, and threw it wide. Confronting her across the
threshold, looking ghostly against the dark background of the night, a
grey horse threw up its head and, dazzled by the light, started back a
pace--then blithered gently. In a twinkling, before the men had grasped
the truth, Flavia had sprung across the threshold, her arms were round
her favourite's neck, she was covering its soft muzzle with kisses.
"The saints defend us!" Uncle Ulick cried. "It is the mare!"
In his surprise The McMurrough forgot himself, his role, the company.
"D--n!" he said. Fortunately Uncle Ulick was engrossed in the scene at
the door, and the girl was outside. Neither heard.
Asgill's mortification, as may be believed, was a hundred times deeper.
But his quicker brain had taken in the thing and its consequences on
the instant. And he stood silent.
"She's found her way back!" The McMurrough exclaimed, recovering
himself.
"Ay, lad, that must be it," Uncle Ulick replied. "She's got loose and
found her way back to her stable, heaven be her bed! And them that took
her are worse by the loss of five pounds!"
"Broken necks to them!" The McMurrough cried viciously.
But at that moment the door, which led to the back of the house and the
offices, opened, and Colonel John stepped in, a smile on his face. He
laid his damp cloak on a bench, hung up his hat and whip, and nodded to
Ulick.
"The Lord save us! is it you've brought her back?" the big man
exclaimed.
The Colonel nodded. "I thought"--he looked towards the open door--"it
would please her to find the creature so!"
The McMurrough stood speechless with mortification. It was Asgill who
stepped forward and spoke. "I give you joy, Colonel Sullivan," he said.
"It is small chance I thought you had."
"I can believe you," the Colonel answered quietly. If he did not know
much he suspected a good deal.
Before more could be said Flavia McMurrough turned herself about and
came in and saw Colonel Sullivan. Her face flamed hotly, as the words
which she had just used about him recurred to her; she could almost
have wished the mare away again, if the obligation went with her. To
owe the mare to him! Yes, she would have preferred to lose the mare!
But the thing was done, and she found words at last; but cold words. "I
am very much obliged to you," she said, "if it was really you who
brought her back."
"It was I who brought her back," he answered quietly, hurt by her words
and manner, but hiding the hurt. "You need not thank me, however; I did
it very willingly."
She felt the meanness of her attitude, and "I do thank you!" she said,
straining at warmth, but with poor success. "I am very grateful to you,
Colonel Sullivan, for the service you have done me."
"And wish another had done it!" he answered, with the faintest tinge of
reproach in his voice. It was a slip from his usual platform, but he
could not deny himself.
"No! But that you would serve another as effectively," she responded.
He did not see her drift. And "What other?" he asked.
"Your country," she replied. And, turning to the door again, she went
out into the night, to see that the mare was safely disposed.
The four men looked at one another, and Uncle Ulick shrugged his
shoulders, as much as to say, "We all know what women are!" Then
feeling a storm in the air, he spoke for the sake of speaking. "Well,
James," he said, "she's got her mare, and you've lost your wager. It's
good-bye to the brandy, anyway. And, faith, it'll be good news for the
little French captain. For you, John Sullivan, I give you joy. You'll
amend us all at this rate, and make Kerry as peaceable as the Four
Courts out of term time! Sure, and I begin to think you're one of the
Little People!" As he spoke he slapped Colonel John on the shoulders.
"About the brandy," The McMurrough said curtly. "Things are by way of
being changed, I'd have you know. And I'm not going to forgo a good
ship----"
"No, no, a bet's a bet," Uncle Ulick interposed hurriedly. "Mr. Asgill
was here, and----"
"I'm with you," Asgill said. "Colonel Sullivan's won the right to have
his way, and it's better so too, and safer. Faith and I'm glad," he
continued cordially, "for there might have been trouble, and now
there'll be none!"
"Well, it's not I'll tell O'Sullivan Og," James McMurrough retorted.
"It's little he'll like to give up the stuff, and, in my opinion," he
added sullenly, "there's more than us will have a word to say to it
before it's given up. But you can judge of that for yourselves."
"Mr. Crosby, of Castlemaine----"
"Oh, d--n! It's little he'll count in a week from this!"
"Still, I've no doubt Colonel Sullivan will arrange it," Asgill
answered smoothly. It was evident that he thought The McMurrough was
saying too much. "Sure he's managed a harder thing."
There was a gleam in his eye and a something sinister in the tone as he
said it; but the words were hearty, and Colonel John made no demur. And
Darby, entering at that moment with a pair of lights in tall
candlesticks--which were silver, but might have been copper--caused a
welcome interruption. A couple of footboys, with slipshod feet and bare
ankles, bore in the meats after him and slapped them down on the table;
at the same moment the O'Beirnes and two or three more of the "family"
entered from the back. Their coming lightened the air. They had to hear
the news, and pass their opinion upon it. Questions were asked: Where'd
the Colonel light on the cratur, and how'd he persuaded the Protestant
rogues--ah, be jabbers, begging his honour's pardon entirely!--how'd he
persuaded the rogues to give her up? Colonel John refused to say, but
laughingly. The O'Beirnes and the others were in a good humour, pleased
that the young mistress had recovered her favourite, and inclined to
look more leniently on the Colonel. "Faith, and it's clear that you're
a Sullivan!" quoth one. "There's none like them to put the comether on
man and beast!"
This was not much to the taste of The McMurrough or of Asgill, who,
inwardly raging, saw the interloper founding a reputation on the ruse
which they had devised for another end. It was abruptly and with an ill
grace that the master of the house cut short the scene and bade all sit
down if they wanted their meat.
"What are we waiting for?" he continued querulously. "Where's the girl?
Stop your jabbering, Martin! And Phelim----"
"Sure, I believe the mare's got from her," Uncle Ulick cried. "I heard
a horse, no farther back than this moment."
"I'm wishing all horses in Purgatory," The McMurrough replied angrily.
"And fools too! Where's the wench gone? Anyway, I'm beginning. You can
bide her time if you like!"
And begin he did. The others, after looking expectantly at the
door--for none dared treat Flavia as her brother treated her--and after
Asgill had said something about waiting for her, fell to also, one by
one. Presently the younger of the slipshod footboys let fall a
dish--fortunately the whole service was of pewter, so no harm was
done--and was cursed for awkwardness. Where was Darby? He also had
vanished.
The claret began to go round in the old Spanish silver jug--for no
house in the west lacked Bordeaux in those days; it was called in
London coffee-houses Irish wine. Still, neither Flavia nor the butler
returned, and many were the glances cast at the door. By-and-by the
Colonel--who felt that a cloud hung over the board, as over his own
spirits--saw, or fancied that he saw, an odd thing. The door--that
which led to the back of the house--opened, as if the draught moved it;
it remained open a space, then in a silent, ghostly fashion it fell-to
again. The Colonel laid down his knife, and Uncle Ulick, whose eyes had
followed his, crossed himself. "That's not lucky," the big man said,
his face troubled. "The saints send it's not the white horse of the
O'Donoghues has whisked her off!"
"Don't be for saying such unchancy things, Mr. Sullivan!" Phelim
answered, with a shiver. And he, too, crossed himself. "What was it, at
all, at all?"
"The door opened without a hand," Uncle Ulick explained. "I'm fearing
there's something amiss."
"Not with this salmon," James McMurrough struck in contemptuously. "Eat
your supper and leave those tales to the women!"
Uncle Ulick made no reply, and a moment later Darby entered, slid round
the table to Uncle Ulick's side, and touched his shoulder. Whether he
whispered a word or not Colonel John did not observe, but forthwith the
big man rose and went out.
This time it was James McMurrough who laid down his knife. "What in the
name of the Evil One is it?" he cried, in a temper. "Can't a man eat
his meat in peace, but all the world must be tramping the floor?"
"Oh, whisht! whisht!" Darby muttered, in a peculiar tone.
James leapt up. He was too angry to take a hint. "You old fool!" he
cried, heedless of Asgill's hand, which was plucking at his skirts.
"What is it? What do you mean with your 'whishts' and your nods?
What----"
But the old butler had turned his back on his master, and gone out in a
panic. Fortunately at this moment Flavia showed at the door. "The
fault's mine, James," she said, in a clear, loud tone. And the Colonel
saw that her colour was high and her eyes were dancing. "I couldn't
bear to leave her at once, the darling! That was it; and besides, I
took a fear----"
"The pastern's right enough," Uncle Ulick struck in, entering behind
her and closing the door with the air of a big man who does not mean to
be trifled with. "Sound as your own light foot, my jewel, and sounder
than James's head! Be easy, be easy, lad," he continued, with a trifle
of sternness. "Sure, you're spoiling other men's meat, and forgetting
the Colonel's present, not to speak of Mr. Asgill, that, being a
Justice, is not used to our Kerry tantrums!"
Possibly this last was a hint, cunningly veiled. At any rate, The
McMurrough took his seat again with a better grace than usual, and
Asgill made haste to take up the talk. The Colonel reflected; nor did
he find it the least odd thing that Flavia, who had been so full of
distress at the loss of her mare, said little of the rescuer's
adventures, nor much of the mare herself. Yet the girl's eyes sparkled,
and her whole aspect was changed in the last hour. She seemed, as far
as he could judge, to be in a state of the utmost excitement; she had
shaken off the timidity which her brother's temper too often imposed on
her, and with it her reticence and her shyness before strangers. All
the Irish humour in her fluttered to the surface, and her tongue ran
with an incredible gaiety. Uncle Ulick, the O'Beirnes, the buckeens,
laughed frank admiration--sometimes at remarks which the Colonel could
not understand, sometimes at more obvious witticisms. Asgill was her
slave. Darby, with the familiarity of the old servant, chuckled openly
and rubbed his hands at her sallies; the footboys guffawed in corners,
and more than one dish rolled on the floor without drawing down a
rebuke. Even her brother regarded her with unwilling amusement, and did
not always refrain from applause.
Could all this, could the change in her spring from the recovery of the
mare, of which she said scarce a word? Colonel John could hardly
believe it; and, indeed, if such were the case, she was ungrateful.
For, for the recoverer of her favourite she had no words, and scarce a
look. Rather, it seemed to him that there must be two Flavias: the one
shy, modest, and, where her country was not assailed, of a reserve
beyond reproach; the other Flavia, a shoot of the old tree, a hoyden, a
castback to Sir Michael's wild youth and the gay days of the
Restoration Court.
He listened to her drollery, her ringing laugh, her arch sayings with
some blame, but more admiration. After all, what had he a right to
expect in this remote corner of the land, cut off by twenty leagues of
bog and mountain from modern refinement, culture, thought, in this old
tribal house, the last refuge of a proscribed faith and a hated race?
Surely, no more than he found--nay, not a tithe of that he found. For,
listening with a kindlier heart--even he, hurt by her neglect, had
judged her for a while too harshly--he discerned that at her wildest
and loudest, in the act of bandying cryptic jests with the buckeens,
and uttering much that was thoughtless--Flavia did not suffer one light
or unmaidenly word to pass her lips.
He gave her credit for that; and in the act he learned, with a
reflection on his stupidity, that there was method in her madness; ay,
and meaning--but he had not hitherto held the key to it--in her jests.
On a sudden--he saw now that this was the climax to which she had been
leading up--she sprang to her feet, carried away by her excitement.
Erect, defiant--nay, triumphant--she flung her handkerchief into the
middle of the table, strewn as it was with a medley of glasses and
flasks and disordered dishes.
"Who loves me, follows me!" she cried, a queer exultation in her
tone--"across the water!"
They pounced on the kerchief, like dogs let loose from the leash--every
man but the astonished Colonel. For an instant the place was a
pandemonium, a Babel. In a twinkling the kerchief was torn, amid cries
of the wildest enthusiasm, into as many fragments as there were men
round the table.
"All!--all!" she cried, still standing erect, and hounding them on with
the magic of her voice, while her beautiful face blazed with
excitement. "All--but you?"--with which, for the briefest space, she
turned to Colonel John. Her eyes met his. They asked him a defiant
question: they challenged the answer.
"I do not understand," he replied, taken by surprise. But indeed he did
understand only too well. "Is it a game?"
The men were pinning the white shreds on their coats above their
hearts--even her brother, obedient for once. But at that word they
turned as one man to him, turned flushed, frowning faces and passionate
eyes on him. But Flavia was before them; excitement had carried her
farther than she had meant to go, yet prudence had not quite left her.
"Yes, a game!" she cried, laughing, a note too high. "Don't you know
the Lady's Kerchief?"
"No," he said soberly; he was even a little out of countenance.
"Then no more of it," Uncle Ulick cried, interposing, with a ring of
authority in his voice. "For my part, I'm for bed. Bed! We're all
children, bedad, and as fond of a frolic! And I'm thinking I'm the
worst. The lights, Darby, the lights, and pleasant dreams to you! After
all--
The spoke that is to-day on top,
To-morrow's on the ground.
Sure, and I'll swear that's true!"
"And no treason!" The McMurrough answered him, with a grin. "Eh,
Asgill?"
And so between them they removed Colonel John's last doubt--if he had
one.