PEACE
Uncle Ulick, with the mud of the road still undried on his boots, and
the curls still stiff in the wig which the town barber at Mallow had
dressed for him, rubbed his chin with his hand and, covertly looking
round the room, owned himself puzzled. He had returned a week later to
the day than he had arranged to return. But had his absence run into
months instead of weeks the lapse of time had not sufficed to explain
the change which he felt, but could not define, in his surroundings.
Certainly old Darby looked a thought more trim, and the room a trifle
better ordered than he had left them. But he was sensible, though
vaguely, that the change did not stop there--perhaps did not begin
there. Full of news of the outer world as he was, he caught himself
pausing in mid-career to question himself. And more than once his
furtive eyes scanned his companions' faces for the answer his mind
refused to give.
An insolent Englishman had come, and given reins to the _'ubris_ that
was in him, and, after running Luke Asgill through the body, had paid
the penalty--in fight so fair that the very troopers who had witnessed
it could make no complaint nor raise trouble. So much Uncle Ulick had
learned. But he had not known Payton, and, exciting as the episode
sounded, it did not explain the difference in the atmosphere of the
house. Where he had left enmity and suspicion, lowering brows and a
silent table, he found smiles, and easiness, and a cheerful sense of
well-being.
Again he looked about him. "And where will James be?" he asked, for the
first time missing his nephew.
"He has left us," Flavia said slowly, with her eyes on Colonel
Sullivan.
"It's away to Galway City he is," Morty O'Beirne explained with a
chuckle.
"The saints be between us and harm!" Uncle Ulick exclaimed in
astonishment. "And why's he there?"
"The story is long," said Colonel Sullivan.
"But I can tell it in a few words," Flavia continued with dignity. "And
the sooner it is told the better. He has not behaved well, Uncle Ulick.
And at his request and with--the legal owner's consent--it's I have
agreed to pay him one-half of the value of the property."
"The devil you have!" Uncle Ulick exclaimed, in greater astonishment.
And, pushing back his seat and rubbing his huge thigh with his hand, he
looked from one to another. "By the powers! if I may take the liberty
of saying so, young lady, you've done a vast deal in a very little
time-faith, in no time at all, at all!" he added.
"It was done at his request," Flavia answered gravely.
Uncle Ulick continued to rub his thigh and to stare. These things were
very surprising. "And they're telling me," he said, "that Luke Asgill's
in bed upstairs?"
"He is."
"And recovering?"
"He is, glory be to God!"
"Nor that same's not the best news of him," Morty said with a grin.
"Nor the last."
"True for you!" Phelim cried. "If it was the last word you spoke!"
"What are you meaning?" Uncle Ulick asked.
"He's turned," said Morty. "No less! Turned! He's what his father was
before him, Mr. Sullivan--come back to Holy Church, and not a morning
but Father O'Hara's with him making his soul and what not!"
"Turned!" Uncle Ulick cried. "Luke Asgill, the Justice? Boys, you're
making fun of me!" And, unable to believe what the O'Beirnes told him,
he looked to Flavia for confirmation.
"It is true," she said.
"Bedad, it is?" Uncle Ulick replied. "Then I'll not be surprised in all
my life again! More by token, there's only one thing left to hope for,
my jewel, and that's certain. Cannot you do the same to the man that's
beside you?"
Flavia glanced quickly at Colonel John, then, with a heightened colour,
she looked again at Uncle Ulick. "That's what I cannot do," she said.
But the blush, and the smile that accompanied it, and something perhaps
in the way she hung towards her neighbour as she turned to him, told
Uncle Ulick all. The big man smacked the table with his hand till the
platters leapt from the board. "Holy poker!" he cried, "is it that
you're meaning? And I felt it, and I didn't feel it, and you sitting
there forenent me, and prating as if butter wouldn't melt in your
mouth! It is so, is it? But there, the red of your cheek is answer
enough!"
For Flavia was blushing more brightly than before, and Colonel John was
smiling, and the two young men were laughing openly.
"You must get Flavia alone," Colonel John said, "and perhaps she'll
tell you."
"Bedad, it's true, and I felt it in the air," Ulick Sullivan answered,
smiling all over his face. "Ho, ho! Ho, ho! Indeed you've not been idle
while I've been away. But what does Father O'Hara say, eh?"
"The Father----" Flavia began in a small voice.
"Ay, what does the Father say?"
"He says," Flavia continued, looking down demurely, "that it's a rare
stick that's no bend in it, and--and 'tis very little use looking for
it on a dark night. Besides, he----" she glanced at her neighbour, "he
said he'd be master, you know, and what could I do?"
"Then it's the very wrong way he's gone about it!" Uncle Ulick cried,
with a chuckle. "For there's no married man that I know that's master!
It's you, my jewel, have put the comether on him, and I'll trust you to
keep it there!"
But into that we need not go. Our task is done. Whether Flavia's high
spirit and her husband's gravity, her youth and his experience
travelled the road together in unbroken amity, or with no more than the
jars which the accidents of life occasion, however close the link, it
does not fall within this story to tell. Nor need we say whether Father
O'Hara proved as discreet in the long run as he had been liberal in the
beginning. Probably the two had their bickerings which did not sever
love. But one thing may be taken for granted; in that part of Kerry the
King over the Water, if his health was sometimes drunk of an evening,
stirred up no second trouble. Nor, when the '45 convulsed Scotland, and
shook England to its centre, did one man at Morristown raise his hand
or lose his life. For so much at least that windswept corner of Kerry,
beaten year in and year out by the Atlantic rollers, had to thank
Colonel Sullivan.
Nor for that only. In many unnamed ways his knowledge of the world
blessed those about him. The small improvements, the little advances in
civilisation which the English intruders were introducing into those
parts, he adopted: a more orderly house, an increased neatness, a few
more acres brought under the plough or the spade, whole roofs and few
beggars--these things were to be seen at Morristown, and in few other
places thereabouts. And, above all, his neighbours owned the influence
of one who, with a reputation gained at the sword's point, stood
resolutely, unflinchingly, abroad as at home, at fairs and cockfights
as on his own hearth, for peace. More than a century was to elapse
before private war ceased to be the amusement of the Irish gentry. But
in that part of Kerry, and during a score of years, the name and weight
of Colonel Sullivan of Morristown availed to quiet many a brawl and
avert many a meeting.
To follow the mean and the poor of spirit beyond the point where their
fortunes cease to be entwined with those of better men is a profitless
task. James McMurrough, tried and found wanting, where all favoured
him, was not likely to rise above his nature where the odds were equal,
and all men his rivals. What he did in Galway City, that bizarre,
half-foreign town of the west, how long he tarried there, and whither
he went afterwards, in the vain search for a place where a man could
swagger without courage and ruffle it without consequences, it matters
not to inquire. A time came when his kin knew not whether he lived or
was dead.
Luke Asgill, who could rise as much above The McMurrough as he had it
in him to fall below him, who was as wicked as James was weak, was
redeemed, one may believe, by the good that lurked in him. He lay many
weeks on a sick-bed, and returned to everyday life another man. For,
whereas he had succumbed, a passionate lover of Flavia, he rose wholly
cured of that passion. It had ebbed from him with his blood, or waned
with his fever. And whereas he had before sought both gain and power,
restrained by as few scruples as the worst men of a bad age, he rose a
pursuer of both, but within bounds; so that, though he was still hard
and grasping and oppressive, it was possible to say of him that he was
no worse than his class. Close-fisted, at Father O'Hara's instance he
could open his hand. Hard, at the Father's prayer he would at times
remit a rent or extend a bond. Ambitious, he gave up, for his soul's
sake and the sake of the Faith that had been his fathers', the office
which endowed him with power to oppress.
There were some who scoffed behind his back, and said that Luke Asgill
had had enough of carrying a sword and now wished no better than to be
rid of it. But, in truth, as far as the man's reformation went, it was
real. The devil was well, but he was not the devil he had been. The
hours he had passed in the presence of death, the thoughts he had had
while life was low in him, were not forgotten in his health. The strong
nature, slow to take an impression, was stiff to retain it. A moody,
silent man, going about his business with a face to match the sullen
bogs of his native land, he lived to a great age, and paid one tribute
only to the woman he had loved and forgotten--he died a bachelor.
THE END
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