PEINE FORTE ET DURE
For many minutes, fifteen, twenty perhaps, Colonel John sat motionless
in the chair into which he had sunk, his eyes fixed on the flames of
the candles that, so still was the night, burned steadily upwards. His
unwinking gaze created about each tongue of flame strange effects of
vapour, halo-like circles that widened and again contracted, colours
that came and went. But he saw these things with his eyes without
seeing them with his mind. It was not of them, it was not of the
death-cold room about him, in which the table and chairs formed a
lighted oasis out of character with the earthen floor, the rough walls,
and the vaulted roof--it was not of anything within sight he was
thinking; but of Flavia!
Of Flavia, who had deceived him, duped him, cajoled him. Who, for all
he knew--and he thought it likely--had got rid of Uncle Ulick. Who had
certainly got rid of Bale by playing on his feeling for the man. Who,
by affecting a quarrel with her brother, had thrown him off his guard,
and won his confidence, only to betray it. Who, having lured him
thither, had laughed--had laughed! Deep sighs broke at long intervals
from Colonel John's breast as he thought of her treachery. It cut him
to the heart. He looked years older as he sat and pondered.
At length, with a sigh drawn from his very soul, he roused himself,
and, taking a candle, he made the round of the chamber. The door by
which he had entered was the only outlet, and it was of stout oak,
clamped with iron, and locked. For windows, a pair of loopholes, slits
so narrow that on the brightest day the room must be twilit, pierced
the wall towards the lake. If the room had not been used of old as a
prison, it made an admirable one; for the ancient walls were two feet
thick, and the groined roof was out of reach, and of stone, hard as the
weathering of centuries had left it. But not so hard, not so cruel as
her heart! Flavia! The word almost came from his lips in a cry of pain.
Yet what was her purpose? He had been lured hither; but why? He tried
to shake off the depression which weighed on him, and to think. His
eyes fell on the table; he reflected that the answer would doubtless be
found among the papers that lay on it. He sat down in the chair which
was set before it, and he took up the first sheet that came to hand, a
note of a dozen lines in her handwriting--alas! in her handwriting.
"SIR," so it ran,--
"You have betrayed us; and, were that all, I'd still be finding it
in my heart to forgive you. But you have betrayed also our Country,
our King, and our Faith; and for this it's not with me it lies to
pardon. Over and above, you have thought to hold us in a web that
would make you safe at once in your life and your person; but you
are meshed in your turn, and will fare as you can, without water,
food, or fire, until you have signed and sealed the grant which
lies beside this paper. We're not unmerciful; and one will visit
you once in twenty-four hours until he has it under your hand, when
he will witness it. That done, you will go where you please; and
Heaven forgive you. I, who write this, am, though unjustly, the
owner of that you grant, and you do no wrong.
"FLAVIA MCMURROUGH."
He read the letter with a mixture of emotions. Beside it lay a deed,
engrossed on parchment, which purported to grant all that he held under
the will of the late Sir Michael McMurrough to and for the sole use of
Constantine Hussey, Esquire, of Duppa. But annexed to the deed was a
separate scroll, illegal but not unusual in Ireland at that day,
stating that the true meaning was that the lands should be held by
Constantine Hussey for the use of The McMurrough, who, as a Roman
Catholic, was not capable of taking in his own name.
Fully, only too fully, enlightened by Flavia's letter, Colonel John
barely glanced at the parchments; for, largely as these, with their
waxen discs, prepared to receive the impress of the signet on his
finger, bulked on the table, the gist of all lay in the letter. He had
fallen into a trap--a trap as cold, cruel, heartless as the bosom of
her who had decoyed him hither. Without food or water! And already the
chill of the earthen floor was eating into his bones, already the damp
of a hundred years was creeping over him.
For the moment he lacked the spirit to rise and contend by movement
against the one or the other. He sat gazing at the paper with dull
eyes. For, after all, whose interests had he upheld? Whose cause had he
supported against James McMurrough and his friends? For whose sake had
he declared himself master at Morristown, with no intention, no
thought, as Heaven was his witness, of deriving one jot or one tittle
of advantage for himself? Flavia's! Always Flavia's! And she had penned
this! she had planned this! She had consigned him to this, playing to
its crafty end the farce that had blinded him!
His mind, as he sat brooding, travelled back to the beginning of it
all; to the day on which Sir Michael's letter, with a copy of his will,
had reached his hands, at Stralsund on the Baltic, in his quarters
beside the East Gate, in one of those Hanse houses with the tall narrow
fronts which look like nothing so much as the gable-ends of churches.
The cast of his thoughts at the reading rose up before him; the vivid
recollections of his home, his boyhood, his father, which the old man's
writing had evoked, and the firmness with which, touched by the dead
man's confidence, a confidence based wholly on report, he had resolved
to protect the girl's interests. Sir Michael had spoken so plainly of
James as to leave the reader under no delusion about him. Nevertheless,
Colonel John had conceived some pity for him; in a vague way he had
hoped that he might soften things for him when the time came. But that
the old man's confidence should be justified, the young girl's
inheritance secured to her--this had been the purpose in his mind from
first to last.
And this was his reward!
True, that purpose would not have embroiled him with her, strong as was
her love for her brother, if it had not become entwined under the
stress of events with another--with the resolve to pluck her and hers
from the abyss into which they were bent on flinging themselves. It was
that resolution which had done the mischief, and made her his enemy to
this point. But he could not regret that. He could not repent of
that--he who had seen war in all its cruel phases, and fierce
rebellions, and more cruel repressions. Perish--though he perished
himself in this cold prison--perish the thought! For even now some
warmth awoke at his heart, some heat was kindled in him by the
reflection that, whatever befell him, he had saved scores and hundreds
from misery, a countryside from devastation, women and children from
the worst of fates. Many and many a one who cursed his name to-day had
cause, did he know it, to remember him in his prayers. And though he
never saw the sun again, though the grim walls about him proved indeed
his grave, though he never lived to return to the cold lands where he
had made a name and a place for himself, he would at least pass beyond
with full hands, and with the knowledge that for every life he, the
soldier of fortune, had taken, he had saved ten.
He sat an hour, two hours, thinking of this, and of her; and towards
the end less bitterly. For he was just, and could picture the wild,
untutored heart of the girl, bred in solitude, dwelling on the present
wrongs and the past greatness of her race, taking dreams for realities,
and that which lay in cloudland for the possible. Her rough awakening
from those dreams, her disappointment, the fall from the heaven of
fancy to the world as it was, might--he owned it--have driven even a
generous spirit to cruel and heartless lengths. And still he sighed--he
sighed.
At the end of two hours he roused himself perforce. For he was very
cold, and that could only be mended by such exercise as the size of his
prison permitted. He set himself to walk briskly up and down. When he
had taken a few turns, however, he paused with his eyes on the table.
The candles? They would serve him the longer if he burned but one at a
time. He extinguished three. The deed? He might burn it, and so put the
temptation, which he was too wise to despise, out of reach. But he had
noticed in one corner a few half-charred fragments of wood, damp
indeed, but such as might be kindled by coaxing. He would preserve the
deed for the purpose of kindling the wood; and the fire, as his only
luxury, he would postpone until he needed it more sorely. In the end
the table and the chairs--or all but one--should eke out his fuel, and
he would sleep. But not yet.
For he had no desire to die; and with warmth he knew that he could put
up for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which he
had the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased his
chances; it was impossible to say what might not happen with time.
Uncle Ulick was due to return in a week--and Bale. Or his gaolers might
relent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stout
heart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not let
him perish.
That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If it
had, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and his
inability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For they
could put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so far
as to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in his
mind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, he
must eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appetite;
after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through which
he had passed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among a
barbarous people, this was a small thing.
Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, that
sadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had not
still sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head upon
his breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger and
cold and physical privation--no more! But when it was overpast, and he
had suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospect
stretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middle
age, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of his
friend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little while
he would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: if
he had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Already
shadowy plans rose before him.
Yet for the time--for he was human--he drew small comfort from such
plans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sink
into his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when the
cold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and pace
again from wall to wall.
His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which--for how
many years rolled between him and the girl, and how many things done,
suffered, seen--he should have known the outcome. But, taking its rise
in the instinct to protect, which their relations justified, it had
mastered him slowly, not so much against his will as without his
knowledge; until he had awakened one day to find himself possessed by a
fancy--a madness, if the term were fitter--the more powerful because he
was no longer young, and in his youth had known passion but once, and
then to his sorrow. By-and-by, for a certainty, the man's sense of
duty, the principles that had ruled him so long--and ruled more men
then than now, for faith was stronger--would assert themselves. And he
would go back to the Baltic lands, the barren, snow-bitten lands of his
prime, a greyer, older, more sombre man--but not an unhappy man.
Something of this he told himself as he paced up and down the gloomy
chamber, while the flame of the candle crept steadily downward, and his
shadow in the vault above grew taller and more grotesque. It must be
midnight; it must be two; it must be three in the morning. The
loopholes, when he stood between them and the candle, were growing
grey; the birds were beginning to chirp. Presently the sun would rise,
and through the narrow windows he would see its beams flashing on the
distant water. But the windows looked north-west, and many hours must
pass before a ray would strike into his dungeon. The candle was
beginning to burn low, and it seemed a pity to light another, with the
daylight peering in. But if he did not, he would lack the means to
light his fire. And he was eager to do without the fire as long as
possible, though already he shivered in the keen morning air. He was
cold now, but he would be colder, he knew, much colder by-and-by, and
his need of the fire would be greater.
From that the time wore wearily on--he was feeling the reaction--to the
breakfast hour. The sun was high now; the birds were singing sweetly in
the rough brakes and brambles about the Tower; far away on the shining
lake, of which only the farther end lay within his sight, three men
were fishing from a boat. He watched them; now and again he caught the
tiny splash as they flung the bait far out. And, so watching, with no
thought or expectation of it, he fell asleep, and slept, for five or
six hours, the sleep of which excitement had cheated him through the
night. In warmth, morning and evening, night and day differed little in
that sunken room. Still the air in it profited a little by the high
sun; and he awoke, not only less weary, but warmer. But, alas! he awoke
also hungry.
He stood up and stretched himself: and, seeing that two-thirds of the
second candle had burned away while he slept, he was thankful that he
had lit it. He tried to put away the visions of hot bacon, cold round,
and sweet brown bread that rose before him; he smiled, indeed,
considering how much more hungry he would be by-and-by, this
evening--and to-morrow. He wondered ruefully how far they would carry
it: and, on that, mind got the better of body, and he forgot his
appetite in a thought more engrossing.
Would she come? Every twenty-four hours, her letter said, a person
would visit him, to learn if his will had yielded to theirs. Would she
be the person? Would she who had so wronged him have the courage to
confront him? And, if she did, how would she carry it off? It was
wonderful with what interest, nay, with what agitation, he dwelt on
this. How would she look? how would she bear herself? how would she
meet his eye? Would the shame she ought to feel make itself seen in her
carriage, or would her looks and her mien match the arrogance of her
letter? Would she shun his gaze, or would she face it without
flinching, with a steady colour and a smiling lip? And, if the latter
were the case, would it be the same when hours and days of fasting had
hollowed his cheeks, and given to his eyes the glare which he had seen
in many a wretched peasant's eyes in those distant lands? Would she
still be able to face that sight without flinching, to view his
sufferings without a qualm, and turn, firm in her cruel purpose, from
the dumb pleading of his hunger?
"God forbid!" he cried. "Ah! God forbid!"
And he prayed that, rather than that, rather than have that last proof
of the hardness of the heart that dwelt in that fair shape, he might
not see her at all. He prayed that, rather than that, she might not
come; though--so weak are men--that she might come, and he might see
how she bore herself, and how she carried off his knowledge of her
treason--was now the one interest he had, the one thought, prospect,
hope that had power to lighten the time, and keep at bay--though noon
was long past, and he had fasted twenty-four hours--the attacks of
hunger!
The thought possessed him to an extraordinary extent. Would she come?
And would he see her? Or, having lured him by that Judas letter into
his enemies' power, would she leave him to be treated as they chose,
while she lay warm and safe in the house which his interference had
saved for her?
Oh! cruel!
Then--for no man was more just than this man, though many surpassed him
in tact--the very barbarity of an action so false and so unwomanly
suggested that, viewed from her side, it must wear another shape. For
even Delilah was a Philistine, and by her perfidy served her country.
What was this girl gaining? Revenge, yes; yet, if they kept faith with
him, and, the deed signed, let him go free, she had not even revenge.
For the rest, she lost by the deed. All that her grandfather had meant
for her passed by it to her brother. To lend herself to stripping
herself was not the part of a selfish woman. Even in her falseness
there was something magnanimous.
He sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and thinking of it. She
had been false to him, treacherous, cruel! But not for her own sake,
not for her private advantage; rather to her hurt. Viewed on that side,
there was something to be said for her.
He was still staring dreamily at the table when a shadow falling on the
table roused him. He lifted his eyes to the nearest loophole, through
which the setting sun had been darting its rays a moment before. Morty
O'Beirne bending almost double--for outside, the arrow-slit was not
more than two feet from the ground--was peering in.
"Ye'll not have changed your quarters, Colonel," he said, in a tone of
raillery which was assumed perhaps to hide a real feeling of shame.
"Sure, you're there, Colonel, safe enough?"
"Yes, I am here," Colonel John answered austerely. He did not leave his
seat at the table.
"And as much at home as a mole in a hill," Morty continued. "And, like
that same blessed little fellow in black velvet that I take my hat off
to, with lashings of time for thinking."
"So much," Colonel John answered, with the same severe look, "that I am
loth to think ill of any. Are you alone, Mr. O'Beirne?"
"Faith, and who'd there be with me?" Morty answered in true Irish
fashion.
"I cannot say. I ask only, Are you alone?"
"Then I am, and that's God's truth," Morty replied, peering
inquisitively into the corners of the gloomy chamber. "More by token I
wish you no worse than just to be doing as you're bid--and faith, it's
but what's right!--and go your way. 'Tis a cold, damp, unchancy place
you've chosen, Colonel," he continued, with a grin; "like nothing in
all the wide world so much as that same molehill. Well, glory be to
God, it can't be said I'm one for talking; but, if you're asking my
advice, you'll be wiser acting first than last, and full than empty!"
"I'm not of that opinion, sir," Colonel John replied, looking at him
with the same stern eyes.
"Then I'm thinking you're not as hungry as I'd be! And not the least
taste in life to stay my stomach for twenty-four hours!"
"It has happened to me before," Colonel John answered.
"You're not for signing, then?"
"I am not."
"Don't be saying that, Colonel!" Morty rejoined. "It's not yet awhile,
you're meaning?"
"Neither now nor ever, God willing," Colonel John answered. "I quote
from yourself, sir. As well say it first as last, and full as empty!"
"Sure, and ye'll be thinking better of it by-and-by, Colonel."
"No."
"Ah, you will," Morty retorted, in that tone which to a mind made up is
worse than a blister. "Sure, ye'll not be so hard-hearted, Colonel, as
to refuse a lady! It's not Kerry-born you are, and say the word 'No'
that easy!"
"Do not deceive yourself, sir," Colonel John answered severely, and
with a darker look. "I shall not give way either to-day or to-morrow."
"Nor the next day?"
"Nor the next day, God willing."
"Not if the lady asks you herself? Come, Colonel."
Colonel John rose sharply from his seat; such patience, as a famished
man has, come to an end.
"Sir," he said, "if this is all you have to say to me, I have your
message, and I prefer to be alone."
Morty grinned at him a moment, then, with an Irish shrug, he gave way.
"As you will," he said.
He withdrew himself suddenly, and the sunset light darted into the room
through the narrow window, dimming the candle's rays. The Colonel heard
him laugh as he strode away across the platform, and down the hill. A
moment and the sounds ceased. He was gone. The Colonel was alone.
Until this time to-morrow! Twenty-four hours. Yes, he must tighten his
belt.
* * * * *
Morty, poking his head this way and that, peering into the chamber as
he had peered yesterday, wished he could see Colonel John's face. But
Colonel John, bending resolutely over the handful of embers that glowed
in an inner angle of the room, showed only his back. Even that Morty
could not see plainly; for the last of the candles had burned out, and
in the chamber, dark in comparison with the open air, the crouching
figure was no more than a shapeless mass obscuring the glow of the
fuel.
Morty shaded his eyes and peered more closely. He was not a sensitive
person, and he was obeying orders. But he was not quite comfortable.
"And that's your last word?" he said slowly. "Come, Colonel dear, ye'll
say something more to that."
"That's my last word to-day," Colonel John answered as slowly, and
without turning his head.
"Honour bright? Won't ye think better of it before I go?"
"I will not."
Morty paused, to tell the truth, in extreme exasperation. He had no
great liking for the part he was playing; but why couldn't the man be
reasonable? "You're sure of it, Colonel," he said.
Colonel John did not answer.
"And I'm to tell her so?" Morty concluded.
Colonel John rose sharply, as if at last the other tried him too far.
"Yes," he said, "tell her that! Or," lowering his voice and his hand,
"do not tell her, as you please. That is my last word, sir! Let me be."
But it was not his last word. For as Morty turned to go, and suffered
the light to fall again through the aperture, the Colonel heard him
speak--in a lower and a different tone. At the same moment, or his eyes
deceived him, a shadow that was not Morty O'Beirne's fell for one
second on the splayed wall inside the window. It was gone as soon as
seen; but Colonel John had seen it, and he sprang to the window.
"Flavia!" he cried. "Flavia!"
He paused to listen, his hand on the wall on either side of the
opening. His face, which had been pinched and haggard a moment before,
was now flushed by the sunset. Then "Flavia!" he repeated, keen appeal
in his voice. "Flavia!"
She did not answer. She was gone. And perhaps it was as well. He
listened for a long time, but in vain; and he told himself again that
it was as well. Why, after all, appeal to her? How, could it avail him?
What good could it do? Slowly he went back to his chair and sat down in
the old attitude over the embers. But his lip quivered.