CHAPTER XIX
PEINE FORTE ET DURE
For many minutes, fifteen, twenty perhaps, Colonel John sat motionlessin the chair into which he had sunk, his eyes fixed on the flames ofthe candles that, so still was the night, burned steadily upwards. Hisunwinking gaze created about each tongue of flame strange effects ofvapour, halo-like circles that widened and again contracted, coloursthat came and went. But he saw these things with his eyes withoutseeing them with his mind. It was not of them, it was not of thedeath-cold room about him, in which the table and chairs formed alighted oasis out of character with the earthen floor, the rough walls,and the vaulted roof--it was not of anything within sight he wasthinking; but of Flavia!
Of Flavia, who had deceived him, duped him, cajoled him. Who, for allhe knew--and he thought it likely--had got rid of Uncle Ulick. Who hadcertainly 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 himthither, had laughed--had laughed! Deep sighs broke at long intervalsfrom Colonel John's breast as he thought of her treachery. It cut himto 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 bywhich he had entered was the only outlet, and it was of stout oak,clamped with iron, and locked. For windows, a pair of loopholes, slitsso narrow that on the brightest day the room must be twilit, piercedthe wall towards the lake. If the room had not been used of old as aprison, it made an admirable one; for the ancient walls were two feetthick, and the groined roof was out of reach, and of stone, hard as theweathering of centuries had left it. But not so hard, not so cruel asher 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 triedto shake off the depression which weighed on him, and to think. Hiseyes fell on the table; he reflected that the answer would doubtless befound among the papers that lay on it. He sat down in the chair whichwas set before it, and he took up the first sheet that came to hand, anote 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 underthe will of the late Sir Michael McMurrough to and for the sole use ofConstantine Hussey, Esquire, of Duppa. But annexed to the deed was aseparate scroll, illegal but not unusual in Ireland at that day,stating that the true meaning was that the lands should be held byConstantine Hussey for the use of The McMurrough, who, as a RomanCatholic, was not capable of taking in his own name.
Fully, only too fully, enlightened by Flavia's letter, Colonel Johnbarely glanced at the parchments; for, largely as these, with theirwaxen discs, prepared to receive the impress of the signet on hisfinger, bulked on the table, the gist of all lay in the letter. He hadfallen into a trap--a trap as cold, cruel, heartless as the bosom ofher who had decoyed him hither. Without food or water! And already thechill of the earthen floor was eating into his bones, already the dampof a hundred years was creeping over him.
For the moment he lacked the spirit to rise and contend by movementagainst the one or the other. He sat gazing at the paper with dulleyes. For, after all, whose interests had he upheld? Whose cause had hesupported against James McMurrough and his friends? For whose sake hadhe declared himself master at Morristown, with no intention, nothought, as Heaven was his witness, of deriving one jot or one tittleof advantage for himself? Flavia's! Always Flavia's! And she had pennedthis! she had planned this! She had consigned him to this, playing toits crafty end the farce that had blinded him!
His mind, as he sat brooding, travelled back to the beginning of itall; 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 quartersbeside the East Gate, in one of those Hanse houses with the tall narrowfronts 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 vividrecollections of his home, his boyhood, his father, which the old man'swriting had evoked, and the firmness with which, touched by the deadman's confidence, a confidence based wholly on report, he had resolvedto protect the girl's interests. Sir Michael had spoken so plainly ofJames as to leave the reader under no delusion about him. Nevertheless,Colonel John had conceived some pity for him; in a vague way he hadhoped that he might soften things for him when the time came. But thatthe old man's confidence should be justified, the young girl'sinheritance secured to her--this had been the purpose in his mind fromfirst to last.
And this was his reward!
True, that purpose would not have embroiled him with her, strong as washer love for her brother, if it had not become entwined under thestress of events with another--with the resolve to pluck her and hersfrom the abyss into which they were bent on flinging themselves. It wasthat resolution which had done the mischief, and made her his enemy tothis point. But he could not regret that. He could not repent ofthat--he who had seen war in all its cruel phases, and fiercerebellions, and more cruel repressions. Perish--though he perishedhimself in this cold prison--perish the thought! For even now somewarmth awoke at his heart, some heat was kindled in him by thereflection that, whatever befell him, he had saved scores and hundredsfrom misery, a countryside from devastation, women and children fromthe worst of fates. Many and many a one who cursed his name to-day hadcause, did he know it, to remember him in his prayers. And though henever saw the sun again, though the grim walls about him proved indeedhis grave, though he never lived to return to the cold lands where hehad made a name and a place for himself, he would at least pass beyondwith full hands, and with the knowledge that for every life he, thesoldier of fortune, had taken, he had saved ten.
He sat an hour, two hours, thinking of this, and of her; and towardsthe end less bitterly. For he was just, and could picture the wild,untutored heart of the girl, bred in solitude, dwelling on the presentwrongs and the past greatness of her race, taking dreams for realities,and that which lay in cloudland for the possible. Her rough awakeningfrom those dreams, her disappointment, the fall from the heaven offancy to the world as it was, might--he owned it--have driven even agenerous spirit to cruel and heartless lengths. And still he sighed--hesighed.
At the end of two hours he roused himself perforce. For he was verycold, and that could only be mended by such exercise as the size of hisprison permitted. He set himself to walk briskly up and down. When hehad 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 atime. He extinguished three. The deed? He might burn it, and so put thetemptation, which he was too wise to despise, out of reach. But he hadnoticed in one corner a few half-charred fragments of wood, dampindeed, but such as might be kindled by coaxing. He would preserve thedeed for the purpose of kindling the wood; and the fire, as his onlyluxury, he would postpone until he needed it more sorely. In the endthe table and the chairs--or all but one--should eke out his fuel, andhe would sleep. But not yet.
For he had no desire to die; and with war
mth he knew that he could putup for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which hehad the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased hischances; 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 mightrelent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stoutheart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not lethim perish.
That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If ithad, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and hisinability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For theycould put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so faras to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in hismind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, hemust eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appetite;after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through whichhe had passed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among abarbarous people, this was a small thing.
Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, thatsadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had notstill sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head uponhis breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger andcold and physical privation--no more! But when it was overpast, and hehad suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospectstretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middleage, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of hisfriend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little whilehe would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: ifhe had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Alreadyshadowy plans rose before him.
Yet for the time--for he was human--he drew small comfort from suchplans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sinkinto his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when thecold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and paceagain from wall to wall.
His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which--for howmany years rolled between him and the girl, and how many things done,suffered, seen--he should have known the outcome. But, taking its risein the instinct to protect, which their relations justified, it hadmastered him slowly, not so much against his will as without hisknowledge; until he had awakened one day to find himself possessed by afancy--a madness, if the term were fitter--the more powerful because hewas no longer young, and in his youth had known passion but once, andthen to his sorrow. By-and-by, for a certainty, the man's sense ofduty, the principles that had ruled him so long--and ruled more menthen than now, for faith was stronger--would assert themselves. And hewould go back to the Baltic lands, the barren, snow-bitten lands of hisprime, a greyer, older, more sombre man--but not an unhappy man.
Something of this he told himself as he paced up and down the gloomychamber, while the flame of the candle crept steadily downward, and hisshadow in the vault above grew taller and more grotesque. It must bemidnight; it must be two; it must be three in the morning. Theloopholes, when he stood between them and the candle, were growinggrey; the birds were beginning to chirp. Presently the sun would rise,and through the narrow windows he would see its beams flashing on thedistant water. But the windows looked north-west, and many hours mustpass before a ray would strike into his dungeon. The candle wasbeginning to burn low, and it seemed a pity to light another, with thedaylight peering in. But if he did not, he would lack the means tolight his fire. And he was eager to do without the fire as long aspossible, though already he shivered in the keen morning air. He wascold now, but he would be colder, he knew, much colder by-and-by, andhis need of the fire would be greater.
From that the time wore wearily on--he was feeling the reaction--to thebreakfast hour. The sun was high now; the birds were singing sweetly inthe rough brakes and brambles about the Tower; far away on the shininglake, of which only the farther end lay within his sight, three menwere fishing from a boat. He watched them; now and again he caught thetiny splash as they flung the bait far out. And, so watching, with nothought or expectation of it, he fell asleep, and slept, for five orsix hours, the sleep of which excitement had cheated him through thenight. In warmth, morning and evening, night and day differed little inthat sunken room. Still the air in it profited a little by the highsun; and he awoke, not only less weary, but warmer. But, alas! he awokealso hungry.
He stood up and stretched himself: and, seeing that two-thirds of thesecond candle had burned away while he slept, he was thankful that hehad 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, thisevening--and to-morrow. He wondered ruefully how far they would carryit: and, on that, mind got the better of body, and he forgot hisappetite in a thought more engrossing.
Would she come? Every twenty-four hours, her letter said, a personwould visit him, to learn if his will had yielded to theirs. Would shebe the person? Would she who had so wronged him have the courage toconfront him? And, if she did, how would she carry it off? It waswonderful with what interest, nay, with what agitation, he dwelt onthis. How would she look? how would she bear herself? how would shemeet his eye? Would the shame she ought to feel make itself seen in hercarriage, or would her looks and her mien match the arrogance of herletter? Would she shun his gaze, or would she face it withoutflinching, with a steady colour and a smiling lip? And, if the latterwere the case, would it be the same when hours and days of fasting hadhollowed his cheeks, and given to his eyes the glare which he had seenin many a wretched peasant's eyes in those distant lands? Would shestill be able to face that sight without flinching, to view hissufferings without a qualm, and turn, firm in her cruel purpose, fromthe dumb pleading of his hunger?
"God forbid!" he cried. "Ah! God forbid!"
And he prayed that, rather than that, rather than have that last proofof the hardness of the heart that dwelt in that fair shape, he mightnot see her at all. He prayed that, rather than that, she might notcome; though--so weak are men--that she might come, and he might seehow she bore herself, and how she carried off his knowledge of hertreason--was now the one interest he had, the one thought, prospect,hope that had power to lighten the time, and keep at bay--though noonwas long past, and he had fasted twenty-four hours--the attacks ofhunger!
The thought possessed him to an extraordinary extent. Would she come?And would he see her? Or, having lured him by that Judas letter intohis enemies' power, would she leave him to be treated as they chose,while she lay warm and safe in the house which his interference hadsaved for her?
Oh! cruel!
Then--for no man was more just than this man, though many surpassed himin tact--the very barbarity of an action so false and so unwomanlysuggested that, viewed from her side, it must wear another shape. Foreven Delilah was a Philistine, and by her perfidy served her country.What was this girl gaining? Revenge, yes; yet, if they kept faith withhim, 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 meantfor her passed by it to her brother. To lend herself to strippingherself was not the part of a selfish woman. Even in her falsenessthere was something magnanimous.
He sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and thinking of it. Shehad 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 thetable roused him. He lifted his eyes to the nearest loophole, throughwhich the setting sun had been darting its rays a moment before. MortyO'Beirne bending almost double--for outside, the arrow-slit was notmore than two feet from the ground--was peering in.
"Ye'll not have changed your quarters, Colonel," he said, in a tone ofraillery which was assumed perhaps to hide a real feeling of shame."Sure, you're there, Colonel, safe enough?"
"And as much at home as a mole in a hill," Morty continued. "And, likethat same blessed little fellow in black velvet that I take my hat offto, with lashings of time for thinking."
"So much," Colonel John answered, with the same severe look, "that I amloth to think ill of any. Are you alone, Mr. O'Beirne?"
"Faith, and who'd there be with me?" Morty answered in true Irishfashion.
"I cannot say. I ask only, Are you alone?"
"Then I am, and that's God's truth," Morty replied, peeringinquisitively into the corners of the gloomy chamber. "More by token Iwish you no worse than just to be doing as you're bid--and faith, it'sbut what's right!--and go your way. 'Tis a cold, damp, unchancy placeyou've chosen, Colonel," he continued, with a grin; "like nothing inall the wide world so much as that same molehill. Well, glory be toGod, it can't be said I'm one for talking; but, if you're asking myadvice, you'll be wiser acting first than last, and full than empty!"
"I'm not of that opinion, sir," Colonel John replied, looking at himwith the same stern eyes.
"Then I'm thinking you're not as hungry as I'd be! And not the leasttaste 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 quotefrom 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 isworse than a blister. "Sure, ye'll not be so hard-hearted, Colonel, asto 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, andwith 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 famishedman has, come to an end.
"Sir," he said, "if this is all you have to say to me, I have yourmessage, 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 roomthrough the narrow window, dimming the candle's rays. The Colonel heardhim laugh as he strode away across the platform, and down the hill. Amoment and the sounds ceased. He was gone. The Colonel was alone.
Until this time to-morrow! Twenty-four hours. Yes, he must tighten hisbelt.
* * * * *
Morty, poking his head this way and that, peering into the chamber ashe had peered yesterday, wished he could see Colonel John's face. ButColonel John, bending resolutely over the handful of embers that glowedin an inner angle of the room, showed only his back. Even that Mortycould not see plainly; for the last of the candles had burned out, andin the chamber, dark in comparison with the open air, the crouchingfigure was no more than a shapeless mass obscuring the glow of thefuel.
Morty shaded his eyes and peered more closely. He was not a sensitiveperson, and he was obeying orders. But he was not quite comfortable.
"And that's your last word?" he said slowly. "Come, Colonel dear, ye'llsay something more to that."
"That's my last word to-day," Colonel John answered as slowly, andwithout 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 nogreat liking for the part he was playing; but why couldn't the man bereasonable? "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 sufferedthe light to fall again through the aperture, the Colonel heard himspeak--in a lower and a different tone. At the same moment, or his eyesdeceived him, a shadow that was not Morty O'Beirne's fell for onesecond on the splayed wall inside the window. It was gone as soon asseen; 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 theopening. His face, which had been pinched and haggard a moment before,was now flushed by the sunset. Then "Flavia!" he repeated, keen appealin his voice. "Flavia!"
She did not answer. She was gone. And perhaps it was as well. Helistened for a long time, but in vain; and he told himself again thatit 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 inthe old attitude over the embers. But his lip quivered.
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