A COUNTERPLOT
Luke Asgill rode slowly from the gates, not without a backward glance
that raked the house. The McMurrough walked by his stirrup, talking
rapidly--he, too, with furtive backward glances. In five minutes he had
explained the situation and the Colonel's vantage ground. At the end of
those minutes, and when they were at some distance from the house, "I
see," Asgill said thoughtfully. "Easy to put him under the sod! But
you're thinking him worse dead than alive."
"Sorra a doubt of it!"
"Yet the bogs are deep," Asgill returned, his tone smacking faintly of
raillery. "You might deal with him first, and his heir when the time
came. Why not?"
"God knows!" James answered. "And I've no taste to make the trial." He
did not name the oath he had taken to attempt nothing against Colonel
John, nor to be a party to any attempt. He had slurred over that
episode. He had dwelt in preference on the fact of the will and the
dilemma in which it placed him.
Asgill looked for some moments between his horse's ears, flicking his
foot the while with his switch. When he spoke he proved in three or
four sentences that if his will was the stronger, his cunning was also
the more subtle. "A will is revocable," he said. "Eh?"
"It is."
"And the man that's made one may make another?"
"Who's doubting it?"
"But you're doubting," Asgill rejoined--and he laughed as he
spoke--"that it would not be in your favour, my lad."
"Devil a bit do I doubt it!" James said.
"No, but in a minute you will," Asgill answered. And stooping from his
saddle--after he had assured himself that his groom was out of
earshot--he talked for some minutes in a low tone. When he raised his
head again he clapped The McMurrough on the shoulder. "There!" he said,
"now won't that be doing the trick for you?"
"It's clever," James answered, with a cruel gleam in his eyes. "It is
d--d clever! The old devil himself couldn't be beating it by the length
of his hoof! But----"
"What's amiss with it?"
"A will's revocable," James said, with a cunning look. "And what he can
do once he can do twice."
"Sorrow a doubt of that, too, if you're innocent enough to let him make
one! But you're not, my lad. No; the will first, and then----" Luke
Asgill did not finish the sentence, but he grinned. "Anything else
amiss with it?" he asked.
"No. But the devil a bit do I see why you bring Flavvy into it?"
"Don't you?"
"I do not."
Asgill drew rein, and by a gesture bade his groom ride on. "No?" he
said. "Well, I'll be telling you. He's an obstinate dog; faith, and
I'll be saying it, as obstinate a dog as ever walked on two legs! And
left to himself, he'd, maybe, take more time and trouble to come to
where we want him than we can spare. But, I'm thinking, James
McMurrough, that he's sweet on your sister!"
The McMurrough stared. The notion had never crossed his mind. "It's
jesting you are?" he said.
"It's the last thing I'd jest about," Asgill answered sombrely. "It is
so; whether she knows it or not, I know it! And so d'you see, my lad,
if she's in this, 'twill do more--take my word for it that know--to
break him down and draw the heart out of him, so that he'll care little
one way or the other, than anything you can do yourself!"
James McMurrough's face, turned upwards to the rider, reflected his
admiration. "If you're in the right," he said, "I'll say it for you,
Asgill, you're the match of the old one for cleverness. But do you
think she'll come to it, the jewel?"
"She will."
James shook his head. "I'm not thinking it," he said.
"Are you not?" Asgill answered, and his face fell and his voice was
anxious. "And why?"
"Sure and why? I'll tell you. It was but a day or two ago I'd a plan of
my own. It was just to swear the plot upon him; swear he'd come off the
Spanish ship, and the rest, d' you see, and get him clapped in Tralee
gaol in my place. More by token, I was coming to you to help in it. But
I thought I'd need the girl to swear to it, and when I up and told her
she was like a hen you'd take the chickens from!"
Asgill was silent for a moment. Then, "You asked her to do that?" he
said, in an odd tone.
"Just so."
"And you're wondering she didn't do it?"
"I am."
"And I'm thanking God she'd not be doing it!" Asgill retorted.
"Oh!" James exclaimed. "You're mighty particular all in a minute, Mr.
Asgill. But if not that, why this. Eh? Why this?"
"For a reason you'd not be understanding," Asgill answered coolly. "But
I know it myself in my bones. She'll do this if she's handled. But
there's a man that'll not be doing it at all, at all, and that's Ulick
Sullivan. You'll have to be rid of him for a time, and how I'm not
saying."
"I'll be planning that."
"Well, make no mistake about it. He must not get wind of this."
"Ain't I knowing it?" James returned restively. He had been snubbed,
and he was sore.
"Well, there was a thing you were not knowing," Asgill retorted, with a
look which it was fortunate that the other did not see. "And still
there's a thing you've not thought of, my lad. It's only to a
Protestant he can leave it, and you must have one ready. Now if I----"
"No!" James cried, with sudden energy. And he drew back a step, and
looked the other in the face. "No, Mr. Asgill," he continued; "if it is
to that you've been working, I'd as soon him as you! Ay, by G----d, I
would! I'd sooner turn myself!"
"I can believe that."
"A hundred times sooner!" James repeated. "And what for not? What's to
prevent me? Eh? What's to prevent me?"
"Your sister," Asgill answered.
James's face, which had flamed with passion, lost its colour.
"Your sister," Asgill repeated with gusto. "I'd like fine to see you
asking her to help you turn Protestant! Faith, and, for a mere word of
that same, I'll warrant she'd treat you as the old gentleman treated
you!"
"Anyway, I'll not trust you," James replied, with venom. "Sooner than
that I'll have--ay, that will do finely--I'll have Constantine Hussey
of Duppa. He's holder for three or four already, and the whole country
calls him honest! I'll have him and be safe."
"You'll do as you please about that," Asgill answered equably. If he
felt any chagrin, he hid it well. "And that being settled, I wish you
luck. Only, mind you, I don't use my wits for nothing. If the estate's
to be yours, Flavia's to be mine--if she's willing."
"Willing or unwilling for what I care!" James answered brutally.
Asgill did not hide his scorn. "An excellent brother!" he said. "And
so, good-day to you. But have a care of old Ulick."
"Do you think I'm a fool?" James shouted after him.
It was well, perhaps, that the wind carried Asgill's answer across the
water and wasted it on the dusk, which presently swallowed his
retreating form. The McMurrough stood awhile where the other had left
him. He watched the rider go, and twice he shook his fist after him.
"Marry my sister, you dog," he muttered. "Ay, if it will give me my
place again! But for helping you to the land first and to her
afterwards, as you'd have me, you schemer, you bog-trotter, it would
make Tophet's dog sick! You d----d dirty son of an upstart! You'd marry
my sister, would you? It will be odd"--he paused--"if I don't jink you
yet, when I've made my use of you! I'm a schemer too, Mister Asgill,
only--one at a time, one at a time! The Colonel first, and you
afterwards! Ay, you afterwards, brother-in-law!"
With a last gesture of defiance--Asgill had long passed out of
sight--he returned to the house.
It was two or three days after this interview that Colonel Sullivan,
descending at the breakfast hour, found Flavia in the room. He saw her
with surprise; with greater surprise he saw that she remained, for
during those three days the girl had not sat at meals with him. Once or
twice his entrance had surprised her, but it had been the signal for
her departure; and he had seen no more of her than the back of her head
or the tail of her gown. More often he had found the men alone and had
sat down with them. Far from resenting this avoidance, he had found it
natural and even proper; and suffering it patiently, he had hoped,
though almost against hope, that steering a steady course he would
gradually force her to change her opinion of him. He, on his part, must
not give way. He had saved the house from a great peril; he had cleared
it of--vermin. As he had begun he must continue, and hug, for comfort,
the old proverb, _Femme souvent varie_.
That she was already beginning to change he could scarcely hope; yet,
when he saw on this morning that she meant to abide his coming, he was
elated--secretly and absurdly elated.
She was at the window, but she turned on hearing his step. "I am
wishing to speak to you," she said. But her unforgiving eyes looked out
of a hard-cut face, and her figure was stiff as a sergeant's cane.
After that he did not try to compass a commonplace greeting. He bowed
gravely. "I am ready to listen," he answered.
"I am wanting to give you a warning," she said. "Your man Bale--I have
no reason to wish him ill. But he does not share the immunity which you
have secured, and if you'll be taking my advice you will send him away.
My uncle is riding as far as Mallow; he will be absent ten days. If you
think fit, you will allow your man to go with him. The interval
may"--she halted as if in search of a word, but her eyes did not leave
his--"I do not say it will, but it may mend matters."
"I am obliged to you," he answered. Then he was silent, reflecting.
"You are not wishing," she said, with a touch of contempt, "to expose
the man to a risk you do not run yourself?"
"Heaven forbid!" he answered. "But----"
"If you think he is a protection to you," she continued in the same
tone, "do not send him."
"He is not that," he replied, unmoved by her taunt. "But I am alone,
and he is a comfort to me."
"As you please," she answered.
"Nevertheless he shall go," he continued. "It may be for the best." He
was thinking that if he rejected this overture, she might make no
other: and, hard as it would prove to persuade Bale to leave him, he
must undertake it. "In any case," he added, "I thank you."
She did not deign to answer, but she turned on her heel and went out.
On the threshold she met a serving-boy and she paused an instant, and
the Colonel caught a momentary glimpse of her face. It wore a strange
look, of disgust or of horror--he was not sure which--that appalled
him; so that when the door closed upon her, he remained gazing at it.
Had he misread the look? Or--what was its meaning? Could it be that she
hated him to that degree! At once the elation which the interview and
her thoughtfulness for Bale had roused in him sank; and he was in a
brown study when Uncle Ulick, the only person, Bale excepted, to whom
he could look for support or sympathy, came in and confirmed the story
of his journey.
"You had better come with me," he said, with a meaning look at James
and the O'Beirnes, who talked with averted faces, turned their
shoulders on their elders and flouted the Colonel as far as they dared.
"I shall lie at Tralee one night, and at Ross Castle one night, and at
Mallow the third."
But Colonel John had set his course, and was resolved to abide by it.
After breakfast he saw Bale, and he had the trouble with him which he
had foreseen. But in the end military obedience prevailed and the man
consented to go--with forebodings at which his master affected to
smile.
"None the less I misdoubt them," the man said, sticking to his point
with the east-country doggedness, which is the antipodes of the Irish
character. "I misdoubt them, your honour. They were never so careful
for me," he added grimly, "when they were for piking me in the bog!"
"The young lady had naught to do with that," Colonel John replied.
"D----n me if I know!"
"Nonsense, man!" the Colonel said sharply. "I'll not hear such words."
"But why separate us, your honour?" Bale pleaded. "Not for good, I
swear. No, not for good!"
"For your greater safety, I hope."
"Oh, ay, I understand that! But what of your honour's?"
"I have explained to you," the Colonel said patiently, "why I am safe
here."
"For my part, and that's flat, I hate their soft sawder!" the man burst
out. "It's everything to please you while they sharpen the pike to
stick in your back. If old Oliver, that was a countryman of my own, and
bred not so far off, had dealt with a few more of the rogues----"
"Hush!" Colonel John cried sternly. "And, for my sake, keep your tongue
between your teeth. Have done with such talk, or you'll not be safe, go
or stay; Be more prudent, man!"
"It's my belief I'll never see your honour again!" the man cried, with
passion. "That's my belief! That's my belief and you'll not stir it."
"We've parted before in worse hap," Colonel John answered, "and come
together again. And, please God, we'll do the same this time."
The man did not answer, but he shook his head obstinately. For the rest
of the day he clung to his master like a burr, and it was with an
unusual sinking of the heart that Colonel John saw him ride away on the
morrow. With him went Uncle Ulick, the Colonel's other friend in the
house; and certainly the departure of these two seemed unlucky, if it
was nothing worse. But the man who was left behind was not one to give
way to vain fears. He thrust down the rising doubt, and chid himself
for a presentiment that belittled Providence. Perhaps in the depths of
his heart, he welcomed a change, finding cheer in the thought that the
smaller the household at Morristown, the more prominently, and
therefore the more fairly, he must stand in Flavia's view.
Be that as it might, he saw nothing of her on that day or the following
day. But though she shunned him, others did not. He began to remark
that he was seldom alone, even in the house. James and the O'Beirnes
were always at his elbow--watching, watching, watching, it seemed to
him. They said little, and what they said they whispered to one another
in corners; but if he came out of his chamber, he found one in the
passage, and if he mounted to it, one forewent him! This dogging, these
whisperings, this endless watching, would have got on the nerves of a
more timid man; it began to disturb him. He began to fancy that even
Darby and the serving-boys looked askance at him and kept him in view.
Once he took a notion that the butler, who had been friendly within
limits--for the sake of that father who had met his man in Tralee
churchyard--wished to say something to him. But at the critical moment
Morty O'Beirne popped up from somewhere, and Darby sneaked off in
silence.
The Colonel disdained to ask what was afoot, but he thought that he
would give Morty a chance of speaking. "Are you looking for your
brother?" he asked suavely.
"I am not," Morty answered, with a gloomy look.
"Nor for The McMurrough?"
"I am not. I am thinking," he added, with a grin, "that he has his
hands full with the young lady."
Colonel John was somewhat startled. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"Oh, two minds in a house. Sorrow a bit more than that. It's no very
new thing in a family," Morty added. And he went out whistling "'Twas
a' for our rightful King." But he went, as the Colonel noted, no
farther than the courtyard, whence he could command the room through
the window. He lounged there, whistling, and now and again peeping.
Suddenly, on the upper floor, Colonel John heard a door open, and the
clamour of a voice raised in anger. It was James's voice. "Tell him?
Curse me if you shall!" Colonel John heard him say. The next moment the
door was sharply closed and he caught no more.
But he had heard enough to quicken his pulses. What was it she wished
to tell him? _Souvent femme varie?_ Was she already seeking to follow
up the hint which she had given him on Bale's behalf? And was the
special surveillance to which he had been subjected for the last two
days aimed at keeping them apart, that she might have no opportunity of
telling him--something?
Colonel John suspected that this might be so. And his heart beat, as
has been hinted, more quickly. At the evening meal he was early in the
room, on the chance that she might appear before the others. But she
did not descend, and the meal proved unpleasant beyond the ordinary,
James drinking more than was good for him, and taking a tone, brutal
and churlish, if not positively hostile. For some reason, the Colonel
reflected, the young man was beginning to lose his fears. Why? What was
he planning? How was he, even if he had no respect for his oath,
thinking to evade that dilemma which ensured his guest's safety?
"Secure as I seem, I must look to myself," Colonel John thought. And he
slept that night with his door bolted and a loaded pistol under his
pillow. Next morning he took care to descend early, on the chance of
seeing Flavia before the others appeared. She was not down: he waited,
and she did not come. But neither did his watchers; and when he had
been in the room five minutes a serving-girl slipped in at the back,
showed him a scared face, held out a scrap of paper and, when he had
taken it, fled in a panic and without a spoken word.
He hid the paper about him and read it later. The message was in
Flavia's hand; he had seen her write more than once. But if he had not,
he knew that neither James nor the O'Beirnes were capable of penning a
grammatical sentence. Colonel John's spirits rose as he read the note.
"_Be at the old Tower an hour after sunset. You must not be
followed._"
"That is more easily said than done," he commented.
Nor, if he were followed through the day as closely as on previous
days, did he see how it was to be done. He stood, cudgelling his brains
to evolve a plan that would enable him to give the slip to the three
men and to the servants who replaced them when they were called away.
But he found none that might not, by awakening James's suspicions, make
matters worse; indeed, it seemed to him that James was already
suspicious. He had at last to let things take their course, in the hope
that when the time came they would shape themselves favourably.
They did. For before noon he gathered that James wanted to go fishing.
The O'Beirnes also wanted to go fishing, and for the general
convenience it became him to go with them. He said neither No nor Yes;
but he dallied with the idea until it was time to start and they had
made up their minds that he was coming. Then he declined.
James swore, the O'Beirnes scowled at him and grumbled. Presently the
three went outside and held a conference. His hopes rose as he sat
smiling to himself, for their next step was to call Darby. Evidently
they gave him orders and left him in charge, for a few minutes later
they went off, spending their anger on one another, and on the barefoot
gossoons who carried the tackle.
Late in the afternoon Colonel John took up his position on the
horse-block by the entrance-gates, where the June sun fell on him;
there he affected to be busy plaiting horse-hair lines. Every two or
three minutes Darby showed himself at the door: once in a quarter of an
hour the old man found occasion to cross the court to count the ducks
or rout a trespassing beggar. Towards sunset, however, he came less
often, having to busy himself with the evening meal. The Colonel smiled
and waited, and presently the butler came again, found him still seated
there, and withdrew--this time with an air of finality. "He's
satisfied," the Colonel muttered, and the next moment--for the sun had
already set a full hour--he was gone also. The light was waning fast,
night was falling in the valley. Before he had travelled a hundred
yards he was lost to view.
The fishing-party had started the contrary way, so that he had nothing
to fear from them. But that he might omit no precaution, when he had
gone a quarter of a mile he halted and listened, with his ear near the
ground, for the beat of pursuing footsteps. He heard none, nor any
sounds but the low of a cow whose calf was being weaned, the "Whoo!
hoo! hoo!" of owls beginning to mouse beside the lake, and the creak of
oars in a boat which darkness already hid. He straightened himself with
a sigh of relief, and hastened at speed in the direction of the
waterfall.
He gave Flavia credit for all the virtues, if for some of the faults of
a proud, untamed nature. Therefore he believed her to be fearless.
Nevertheless, before he stood on the platform and made out the shape of
the Tower looming dark and huge above him, he had come to the
conclusion that the need which forced her to such a place at such an
hour must be great. The moon would not rise before eleven o'clock, the
last shimmer of the water had faded into unfathomable blackness beneath
him; he had to tread softly and with care to avoid the brink.
He peered about him, hoping to see her figure emerge beside him. He did
not, and, disappointed, he coughed. Finally, in a subdued voice, he
called her by name, once and twice. Alas! only the wind, softly
stirring the grass and whispering in the ivy, answered him. He was
beginning to think--with a chill of disappointment, excessive at his
age and in the circumstances--that she had failed to come, when, at no
great distance before him, he fancied some one moved. He groped his way
forward half a dozen paces, found a light break on his view, and stood
in astonishment.
The movement had carried him beyond the face of the Tower, and so
revealed the light, which issued from a doorway situate in the flank of
the building. He paused; but second thoughts, treading on the heels of
surprise, reassured him. He saw that in that position the light was not
visible from the lake or the house; and he moved quickly to the open
door, expecting to see Flavia. Three steps led down to the basement
room of the Tower; great was his surprise when he saw below him in this
remote, abandoned building--in this room three feet below the level of
the soil--a table set handsomely with four lighted candles in tall
sticks, and furnished besides with a silver inkhorn, pens, and paper.
Beside the table stood a couple of chairs and a stool. Doubtless there
was other furniture in the room, but in his astonishment he saw only
these.
He uttered an exclamation, and descended the steps. "Flavia!" he cried.
"Flavia!" He did not see her, and he moved a pace towards that part of
the room which the door hid from him.
Crash! The door fell to, dragged by an unseen hand. Colonel John sprang
towards it; but too late. He heard the grating of a rusty key turned in
the lock; he heard through one of the loopholes the sound of an inhuman
laugh; and he knew that he was a prisoner. In that moment the cold air
of the vault struck a chill to his bones; but it struck not so cold nor
so death-like as the knowledge struck to his heart that Flavia had
duped him. Yes, on the instant, before the crash of the closing door
had ceased to echo in the stone vaulting above him, he knew that, he
felt that! She had tricked him. She had deceived him. He let his chin
sink on his breast. Oh, the pity of it!