THE PITCHER AT THE WELL
The surgeon of that day was better skilled in letting blood than in
staunching it, in cupping than in curing. It was well for Luke Asgill,
therefore, that none lived nearer than distant Tralee. It was still
more fortunate for him that there was one in the house to whom the
treatment of such a wound as his was an everyday matter, and who was
guided in his practice less by the rules of the faculty than by those
of experience and common sense.
Even under his care Asgill's life hung for many hours in the balance.
There was a time, when he was at his weakest, when his breath, in the
old phrase, would not raise a feather, and those about his bed
despaired of detaining the spirit fluttering to be free. The servants
were ready to raise the "keen," the cook sought the salt for the
death-plate. But Colonel John, mindful of many a man found living on
the field hours after he should, by all the rules, have died, did not
despair; and little by little, though the patient knew nothing of the
battle which was maintained for his life, the Colonel's skill and
patience prevailed. The breathing grew stronger and more regular; and,
though it seemed likely that fever would follow and the end must remain
uncertain, death, for the moment, was repelled.
Now, he who possesses the habit of command in emergencies, who, when
others are distraught and wring their hands, knows both what to do and
how to do it, cannot fail to impress the imagination. Unsupported by
Flavia, unaided by her deft fingers, Colonel John might have done less:
yet she who seconded him the most ably, who fetched and carried for
him, and shrank from no sight of blood or wound, was also the one who
yielded him the fullest meed, and succumbed the most completely to his
ascendancy. Flavia's feelings towards her cousin had been altering hour
by hour; and this experience of him hastened her tacit surrender. She
had seen him in many parts. It had been hers to witness, by turns, his
defeat and his triumph. She had felt aversion, born of his unwelcome
appearance in the character of her guardian, yield to a budding
interest, which his opposition to her plans, and his success in foiling
them, had converted anew into disdain and hatred.
But in all strong passions lurk the seeds of the opposite. The object
of hatred is the object of interest. So it had been in her case. The
very lengths to which she had allowed herself to be carried against him
had revolted her, and pity had taken the place of hatred. Nor pity
alone. For, having seen how high he could rise in adversity, what
courage, what patience, what firmness he could exert--for her sake who
persecuted him--she now saw also how naturally he took the lead of
others, how completely he dominated the crowd. And while she no longer
marvelled at the skill with which he had baffled the Admiral and
Cammock, and thwarted plans which she began to appraise at their value,
she found herself relying upon him, as she watched him moving to and
fro, to an extent which startled and frightened her.
Was it only that morning that she had trembled for her brother's life?
Was it only that morning that she had opened her eyes and known him
craven, unworthy of his name and race? Was it only that morning that
she had sent into peril the man who lay wan and moribund before her;
only that morning that she had felt her unhappiness greater than she
could bear, her difficulties insuperable, her loneliness a misery? For
if that were so why did she now feel so different? Why did she now feel
inexplicably relieved, inconceivably at ease, almost happy? Why, with
the man whom she had thrust into peril lying _in extremis_ before her,
and claiming all her gratitude, did she find her mind straying to
another? Finally, why, with her troubles the same, with her brother no
less dishonoured, were her thoughts neither with him nor with herself,
but with the man whose movements she watched, whose hands touched hers
in the work of tendance, whose voice once chid her sharply--and gave
her an odd pang of pleasure--who, low-toned, ordered her hither and
thither, and was obeyed?
She asked herself the question as she sat in the darkened room,
watching. And in the twilight she blushed. Once, at a crisis, Colonel
John had taken her roughly by the wrist and forced her to hold the
bandage so, while he twisted it. She looked at the wrist now, and,
fancying she could see the imprint of his fingers on it, she blushed
more deeply.
Presently there came, as they sat listening to the fluttering breath, a
low scratching at the door. At a sign from Colonel Sullivan, who sat on
the inner side of the bed, she stole to it and found Morty O'Beirne on
the threshold. He beckoned to her, and, closing the door, she followed
him downstairs, to where, in the living-room, she found the other
O'Beirne standing sheepishly beside the table.
"It's not knowing what to do, we are," Morty said.
He did not look at her, nor did his brother. Her heart sank. "What is
it?" she asked.
"The fiend's in the man," Morty replied, tapping with his fingers on
the table. "But--it's you will be telling her, Phelim."
"It's he that's not content," Phelim muttered. "The thief of the
world!"
"Curse him!" cried his brother.
"Not content?" she echoed. "Not content? After what he's done?" For an
instant her eyes flashed hot indignation, her very hair seemed to rise
about her head. Then the downcast demeanour of the two, their
embarrassment, their silence, told the story; and she gasped. "He's
for--fighting my brother?" she whispered.
"He'll be content with no less," Morty answered, with a groan. "Bad
cess to him! And The McMurrough--sure it's certain death, and who's
blaming him, but he's no stomach for it. And whirra, whirra, on that
the man says he'll be telling it in Tralee that he'd not meet him, and
as far as Galway City he'll cut his comb for him! Ay, bedad, he says
that, and that none of his name shall show their face there, night or
day, fair or foul, race or cockfight--the bloody-minded villain!"
She listened, despairing. The house was quiet, as houses in the country
are of an afternoon, and the quieter for the battle with death which
was joined in the darkened room upstairs. Her thoughts were no longer
with the injured man, however, but in that other room, where her
brother lurked in squalid fear--fear that in a nameless man might have
been pardoned, but in him, in a McMurrough, head of his race, last of
his race, never! She came of heroes, to her the strain had descended
pure and untainted, and she would rather have seen him dead. The two
men before her--who knew, alas! who knew!--she was sure that they would
have taken up the glove, unwillingly and perforce, perhaps, but they
would have fought! While her brother, The McMurrough---- But even while
she thought of it, she saw through the open door the figure of a man
saunter slowly past the courtyard gates, his sword under his arm. It
was the Englishman. She felt the added sting. Her cheek, that had been
pale, burned darkly, her eyes shone.
"St. Patrick fly away with the toad and the ugly smile of him!" Morty
said. "I'm thinking it's between the two of us, Phelim, my jewel! And
he that's killed will help the other."
"God forbid!" Flavia cried, pale with horror at the thought. "Not
another!"
"But sure, and I'm not seeing how else we'll be rid of him handsomely,"
Phelim replied.
"No!" she repeated firmly. "No! I forbid it!"
Again the man sauntered by the entrance, and again he cast the same
insolent, smiling look at the house. They watched him pass, an ominous
shadow in the sunshine, and Flavia shuddered.
"But what will you be doing, then?" Morty asked, rubbing, his chin in
perplexity. "He's saying that if The McMurrough'll not meet him by four
o'clock, and it isn't much short of it, he'll be riding this day! And
him once gone he's a bitter tongue, and 'twill be foul shame on the
house!"
Flavia stood silent in thought, but at length she drew in her breath
sharply--she had made up her mind. "I know what I will do," she said.
"I will tell him all." And she turned to go.
"It's not worth the shoe-leather!" Morty cried after her, letting his
scorn of James be seen.
But she was out of hearing, and when she returned a minute later she
was followed, not by James McMurrough, but by Colonel Sullivan. The
Colonel's face, seen in the full light, had lost the brown of health;
it was thin and peaky, and still bore signs of privation. But he trod
firmly, and his eyes were clear and kind. If he was aware of the
O'Beirnes' embarrassment, his greeting did not betray it.
"I am willing to help if I can," he said. "What is your trouble?"
"Tell him," Flavia said, averting her face.
They told him lamely--they were scarcely less jealous of the honour of
the house than she was--in almost the same words in which they had
broken the news to her. "And the curse of Cromwell on me, but he's
parading up and down now," Morty continued, "and cocking his eye at the
sun-dial whenever he passes, as much as to say, 'Is it coming, you
are?' till the heart's fairly melted in me with the rage!"
"And it's shame on us we let him be!" cried Phelim.
Colonel John did not answer. He was silent even when, under the eyes of
all, the ominous shadow passed again before the entrance gates--came
and went. He was so long silent that Flavia turned to him at last, and
held out her hands. "What shall we do?" she cried--and in that cry she
betrayed her new dependence on him. "Tell us!"
"It is hard to say," Colonel John answered gravely. His face was very
gloomy, and to hide it or his thoughts he turned from them and went to
one of the windows--that very window through which Uncle Ulick and he
had looked at his first coming. He gazed out, not that he might see,
but that he might think unwatched.
They waited, the men expecting little, but glad to be rid of some part
of the burden, Flavia with a growing sense of disappointment. She did
not know for what she had hoped, or what she had thought that he would
do. But she had been confident that he could help; and it seemed that
he could do no more than others. Neither to her, nor to the men, did it
seem as strange as it was that they should turn to him, against whose
guidance they had lately revolted so fiercely.
He came back to them presently, his face sad and depressed. "I will
deal with it," he said--and he sighed. "You can leave it to me. Do
you," he continued, addressing Morty, "come with me, Mr. O'Beirne."
He was for leaving them with that, but Flavia put herself between him
and the door. She fixed her eyes on his face. "What are you going to
do?" she asked in a low voice.
"I will tell you all--later," he replied gently.
"No, now!" she retorted, controlling herself with difficulty. "Now! You
are not going--to fight him?"
"I am not going to fight," he answered slowly.
But her heart was not so easily deceived as her ear. "There is
something under your words," she said jealously. "What is it?"
"I am not going to fight," he replied gravely, "but to punish. There is
a limit." Even while he spoke she remembered in what circumstances
those words had been used. "There is a limit," he repeated solemnly.
"He has the blood of four on his head, and another lies at death's
door. And he is not satisfied. He is not satisfied! Once I warned him.
To-day the time for warning is past, the hour for judgment is come. God
forgive me if I err, for vengeance is His and it is terrible to be His
hand." He turned to Phelim, and, in the same stern tone, "my sword is
broken," he said. "Fetch me the man's sword who lies upstairs."
Phelim went, awe-stricken, and marvelling. Morty remained, marvelling
also. And Flavia--but, as she tried to speak, Payton's shadow once more
came into sight at the entrance-gates and went slowly by, and she
clapped her hand to her mouth that she might not scream. Colonel
Sullivan saw the action, understood, and touched her softly on the
shoulder. "Pray," he said, "pray!"
"For you!" she cried in a voice that, to those who had ears, betrayed
her heart. "Ah, I will pray!"
"No, for him," he replied. "For him now. For me when I return."
She dropped on her knees before a chair, and, shuddering, hid her face
in her hands. And almost at once she knew that they were gone, and that
she was alone in the room.
Then, whether she prayed most or listened most, or the very intensity
of her listening was itself prayer--prayer in its highest form--she
never knew; but only that, whenever in the agony of her suspense she
raised her head from the chair to hear if there was news, the common
sounds of afternoon life in the house and without lashed her with a
dreadful irony. The low whirr of a spinning-wheel, a girl's distant
chatter, the cluck of a hen in the courtyard, the satisfied grunt of a
roving pig, all bore home to her heart the bitter message that,
whatever happened, and though nightfall found her lonely in a
dishonoured home, life would proceed as usual, the men and the women
about her would eat and drink, and the smallest things would stand
where they stood now--unchanged, unmoved.
What was that? Only the fall of a spit in the kitchen, or the clatter
of a pot-lid. Would they never come? Would she never know? At this
moment--what was that? That surely was something. They were returning!
In a moment she would know. She rose to her feet and stared with stony
eyes at the door. But when she had listened long--it was nothing.
Nothing! And then--ah, that surely was something--was news--was the
end! They were coming now. In a moment she would know. Yes, they were
coming. In a moment she would know. She pressed her hands to her
breast.
She might have known already, for, had she gone to the door, she would
have seen who came. But she could not go. She could not move.
And he, when he came in, did not look at her. He walked from the
threshold to the hearth, and--strange coincidence--he set the
unsheathed blade he carried in the self-same angle, beside the
fire-back, from which she had once taken a sword to attempt his life.
And still he did not look at her, but stood with bowed head.
At last he turned. "God forgive us all," he said.
She broke into wild weeping. And what her lips, babbling incoherent
thanksgiving, did not tell him, the clinging of her arms, as she hung
on him, conveyed.