The Wild Geese

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXIII

  BEHIND THE YEWS

  Under the sky the pale softness of dawn had yielded place to the sunin his strength--in more poetical words, Aurora had given way toPhoebus--but within, the passages were still grey and chill, andsilent as though night's ghostly sentinels still walked them, when oneof the bedchamber doors opened and a face peeped out. The face wasFlavia's. The girl was too young, too full of life and vigour, to bealtered by a single sleepless night, but the cold reflection of thewhitewashed walls did that which watching had failed to do. It robbedher eyes of their brightness, her face of its colour, her hair of itslustre. She stood an instant, and gazed, frowning, at the doors that,in a row and all alike, hid nevertheless one a hope, and another afear, and a third perhaps a tragedy. But drab, silent, closed, eachwithin a shadow of its own, they told nothing. Presently the girlstepped forward--paused, scared by a board that creaked under her nakedfoot--then went on again. She stood now at one of the doors, andscratched on it with her nail.

  No one answered the summons, and she pushed the door open and went in.And, as she had feared, enlightened by Asgill's hint and by what shehad seen of her brother's conduct earlier in the day, she found. Jameswas awake--wide awake--and sitting up in his bed, his arms claspedabout his knees. His eyes met hers as she entered, and in his eyes, andin his form, huddled together as in sheer physical pain, she readbeyond all doubt, beyond all mistake--fear. Why she had felt certain,courageous herself, that this was what she would find, she did notknow. But there it was, as Asgill had foretold it, and as she hadforeseen it, through the long, restless, torturing hours; as she hadseen it, and now denied it, now, with a sick heart, owned its reality.

  James tried to utter the oath that, deceiving her, might rid him of herpresence. But his nerves, shaken by his overnight drink, could notcommand his voice even for that. His eyes dropped in shame, themuttered "What the plague will you be wanting at this hour?" was nomore than a querulous whisper.

  "I couldn't sleep," she said, avoiding his eyes.

  "I, no more," he muttered. "Curse him! Curse him! Curse you, too! Whywere you getting in his way? You've as good as murdered me with yourtricks and your poses!"

  "God forbid!" she exclaimed.

  "Ah, you have!" he answered, rocking himself to and fro in hisexcitement. "If it were any one else, I'm as ready to fight as another!And why not? But he's killed four men, and he'll kill me! Oh, thediffer, if I'd not come up at that minute! If I'd not come up at thatminute!"

  The picture of what he would have escaped had he mounted the stairs aminute later, of what he had brought on himself by mounting a momentearlier, was too much for him. Not a thought did he give to what mighthave happened to her had he come on the scene later; but, with all hiscowardly soul laid bare, he rocked himself to and fro in a paroxysm ofself-pity.

  Yet he did not suffer more sorely, he did not wince more tenderly underthe lash of his own terrors, than Flavia suffered; than she winced,seeing him thus, seeing at last her idol as he was--the braggadociostripped from him, and the poor, cringing creature displayed. If herpride of race--and the fabled Wicklow kings, of whom she came, wereoften in her mind--if that pride needed correction, she had it here. Ifshe had thought too much of her descent--and the more in proportion asfortune had straitened the line, and only in this corner of adowntrodden land was its greatness even a memory--she was chastened forit now! She suffered for it now! She could have wept tears of shame.And yet, so plain was the collapse of the man before her, and so futilewords, that she did not think of reproach; even had she found heart tochide him, knowing that her words might send him to his death.

  All her thought was, could she hide the blot? Could she mask the shame?Could she, at any rate, so veil it that this insolent Englishman, thisbully of the conquering race, might not perceive it? That were worth somuch that her own life, on this summer morning, seemed a small price topay for it.

  But, alas! she could not purchase it with her life. Only in fairy talescan the woman pass for the man, and Doris receive in her tender bosomthe thrust intended for the sterner breast. Then how? How could theyshun at least open disgrace, open dishonour? For it needed but a glanceat her brother's pallid face and wandering eye to assure her that,brought to the test, he would flinch; that, brought to the field, hewould prove unequal even to the task of cloaking his fears.

  She sickened at the thought, and her eyes grew hard. Was this the manin whom she had believed? And when, presently, he turned on his sideand hid his face in the pillow and groaned, she had small pity to sparefor him. "Are you not well?" she asked.

  "Can't you be seeing?" he answered fractiously; but for very shame hecould not face her eyes. "Cannot you be seeing I am not fit to get up,let alone be meeting that devil? See how my hand shakes!"

  "What is to be done, then?"

  He cursed Payton thrice in a frenzy of rage. He beat the pillow withhis fist.

  "That does no good," she said.

  "I believe you want to kill me!" he retorted, with childish passion. "Ibelieve you want to see me dead! Why can't you be managing your ownaffairs, without--without----Oh, my God!" And then, in a dreadfulvoice, "My God, I shall be dead to-night! I shall be dead to-night! Andyou care nothing!"

  He hid unmanly tears on his pillow, while she looked at the wall, paleto the lips and cut to the heart. Her worst misgivings, even thosenightmare fears which haunt the dawn, had not pictured a thing so meanas this, a heart so low, a spirit so poor. And this was her brother,her idol, the last of the McMurroughs of Morristown, he to whom she hadfondly looked to revive the glories of the race! Truly she had notunderstood him, or others. She had been blind indeed, blind, blind!

  She had spoken to Luke Asgill the night before. He guessed, if he didnot know the worst, and he would help her, she believed. But for thatshe would have turned, as her thoughts did turn, to Colonel John. Buthe lay prostrate, and, if she could have brought herself to go to him,he was in no state to give aid. The O'Beirnes were out of the question;she could not tell them. Youth has no pity, makes no allowance, expectsthe utmost, and a hundred times they had heard James brag and brawl.They would not understand, they would not believe. And Uncle Ulick wasaway.

  There remained only Luke Asgill, who had offered his help.

  "If you are not well," she said, in the same hard voice, "shall I betelling Mr. Asgill? He may contrive something."

  The man cringing in the bed leapt at the hope, as he would have leaptat any hope. Nor was he so bemused by fear as not to reflect that,whatever Flavia asked, Asgill would do. "Ah, tell him," he cried,raising himself on his elbow. "Do you be telling him! He can makehim--wait, may be."

  At that moment she came near to hating her brother. "I will send him toyou," she said.

  "No!" he cried anxiously. "No! Do you be telling him! You tell him! Doyou hear? I'm not so well to see him."

  She shivered, seeing plainly the cowardice, the unmixed selfishness ofthe course he urged. But she had not the heart to answer him. She wentfrom the room without another word, and, going back to her own chamber,she dressed. By this time it wanted not much of seven. The house wasastir, the June sunshine was pouring with the songs of birds throughthe windows, she heard one of the O'Beirnes stumble downstairs. NextAsgill opened his door and passed down. In a twinkling she slipped outand followed him. At the bottom of the staircase he turned, hearing herfootstep behind him, but she made a sign to him to go on, and led himinto the open air. Nor when they were outside did she speak until shehad put the courtyard between herself and the house.

  For she would have hidden their shame from all if she could! Even tosay what she had to say to one, and though he already guessed thetruth, cost her in pain and humiliation more than her brother had paidfor aught in his selfish life. But it had to be said, and, after apause, and with eyes averted, "My brother is ill," she faltered. "Hecannot meet--that man, this morning. It is--as you feared. And--whatcan we do?"

  In another case Luke Asgill would have blessed the chance that linkedh
im with her, that wrought a tie between them, and cast her on hishelp. But he had guessed, before she opened her mouth, what she had tosay--nay, for hours he had lain sleepless on his bed, with eyes staringinto the darkness, anticipating it. He had been certain of theissue--he knew James McMurrough; and, being a man who loved Flaviaindeed, but loved life also, he had foreseen, with the cold sweat onhis brow, what he would be driven to do.

  He made no haste to answer, therefore, and his tone, when he didanswer, was dull and lifeless. "Is it ill he is?" he said. "It's a badmorning to be ill, and a meeting on hand."

  She did not answer.

  "Is he too bad to stand?" he continued. He made no attempt to hide hiscomprehension or his scorn.

  "I don't say that," she faltered.

  "Perhaps he told you," Asgill said--and there was nothing of the loverin his tone--"to speak to me?"

  She nodded.

  "It is I am to--put it off, I suppose?"

  "If it be possible," she cried. "Oh, if it be possible! Is it?"

  He stood, thinking, with a gloomy face. From the first he had seen thatthere were two ways only of extricating The McMurrough. The one by amild explanation, which would leave his honour in the mud. The other byan explanation after a different fashion, _vi et armis, vehementer_,with the word "liar" ready to answer to the word "coward." But he whogave this last explanation must be willing and able to back the wordwith the deed, and stop cavilling with the sword-point.

  Now, Asgill knew the Major's skill with the sword; none better. Andunder other circumstances the Justice--cold, selfish, scheming--wouldhave gone many a mile about before he entered upon a quarrel with him.None the less, love and much night-thinking had drawn him tocontemplate this very thing. For surely, if he did this and lived,Flavia would smile on him. Surely, if he saved her brother's honour, orcame as near to saving it as driving the foul word down his opponent'sthroat could bring him, she would be won. It was a forlorn, it was adesperate expedient. For no worldly fortune, for no other advantage,would Luke Asgill have faced the Major's sword-point. But, whatever hewas, he loved. He loved! And for the face and the form beside him, andfor the quality of soul within them that shone from the girl's eyes,and made her what she was, and to him different from all other women,he had made up his mind to run the risk.

  It went for something in his decision that he believed that Flavia, ifhe failed her, would go to the one person in the house who had no causeto fear Payton--to Colonel Sullivan. If she did that, Asgill was surethat his own chance was at an end. This was his chance. It lay with himnow, to-day, at this moment--to dare or to retire, to win her favour atthe risk of his life, or to yield her to another. In the chill morninghour he had discovered that the choice lay before him, that he mustrisk all or lose all: and he had decided. That decision he nowannounced.

  "I will make it possible," he said slowly, questioning in his mindwhether he could make terms with her--whether he dared make terms withher. "I will make it possible," he repeated, still more slowly, andwith his eyes fixed on her face.

  "If you could!" she cried, clasping her hands.

  "I will!" he said, a sullen undertone in his voice. His eyes stilldwelt darkly on her. "If he raises an objection, I will fighthim--myself!"

  She shrank from him. "Ah, but I can't ask that!" she cried, trembling.

  "It is that or nothing."

  "That or----"

  "There is no other way," he said. He spoke with the sameungraciousness; for, try as he would, and though the habit and theeducation of a life cried to him to treat with her and make conditions,he could not; and he was enraged that he could not.

  The more as her quivering lips, her wet eyes, her quick mountingcolour, told of her gratitude. In another moment she might, almostcertainly she would, have said a word fit to unlock his lips. And hewould have spoken; and she would have pledged herself. But fate, in theperson of old Darby, intervened. Timely or untimely, the butlerappeared in the distant doorway, cried "Hist!" and, by a backwardgesture, warned them of some approaching peril.

  "I fear----" she began.

  "Yes, go!" Asgill replied, almost roughly. "He is coming, and he mustnot find us together."

  She fled swiftly, but the garden gate had barely closed on her skirtsbefore Payton issued from the courtyard. The Englishman paused aninstant in the gateway, his sword under his arm and a handkerchief inhis hand. Thence he looked up and down the road with an air of scornfulconfidence that provoked Asgill beyond measure. The sun did not seembright enough for him, nor the air scented to his liking. Finally heapproached the Irishman, who, affecting to be engaged with his ownthoughts, had kept his distance.

  "Is he ready?" he asked, with a sneer.

  With an effort Asgill controlled himself. "He is not," he said.

  "At his prayers, is he? Well, he'll need them."

  "He is not, to my knowledge," Asgill replied. "But he is ill."

  Payton's face lightened with a joy not pleasant to see. "A coward!" hesaid coolly. "I am not surprised! Ill is he? Ay, I know that illness.It's not the first time I've met it."

  Asgill had no wish to precipitate a quarrel. On the contrary, he hadmade up his mind to gain time if he could; at any rate, to put off the_ultima ratio_ until evening, or until the next morning. Only inthe last resort had he determined to fling off the mask. But at thatword "coward," though he knew it to be well deserved, his temper,sapped by the knowledge that love was forcing him into a position whichreason repudiated, gave way, and he spoke his true thoughts.

  "What a d--d bully you are, Payton!" he said, in his slowest tone."Sure, and you insult the man's sister in your drink----"

  "What's that to you?"

  "You insult the man's sister," Asgill persisted coolly, "and because hetreats you like the tipsy creature you are, you'd kill him like a dog."

  Payton turned white. "And you, too," he said, "if you say another word!What in Heaven's name is amiss with you, man, this morning? Are youmad?"

  "I'll not hear the word 'coward' used of the family--I'll soon be oneof!" Asgill returned, speaking on the spur of the moment, and wonderingat himself the moment he had made the statement. "That's what I'mmeaning! Do you see? And if you are for repeating the word, more bytoken, it'll be all the breakfast you'll have, for I'll cram it downyour ugly throat!"

  Payton stared dumbfounded, divided between rage and astonishment. Butthe former was not slow to get the upper hand, and "Enough said," hereplied, in a voice that trembled, but not with fear. "If you arewilling to make it good, you'll be coming this way."

  "Willingly!" Asgill answered.

  "I'll have one of my men for witness. Ay, that I will! I don't trustyou, Mr. Asgill, and that's flat. Get you whom you please! In fiveminutes, in the garden, then?"

  Asgill nodded. The Englishman looked once more at him to make sure thathe was sober; then he turned on his heel and went back through thecourtyard. Asgill remained alone.

  He had taken the step there was no retracing. He had cast the dice, andthe next few minutes would decide whether it was for life or death. Hehad done it deliberately; yet at the last he had been so carried awayby impulse that, as he stood there, looking after the man he hadinsulted, looking on the placid water glittering in the early sunshine,looking along the lake-side road, by which he had come, he could hardlycredit what had happened, or that in a moment he had thrown for a stakeso stupendous, that in a moment he had changed all. The sunshine lostits warmth and grew pale, the hills lost their colour and their beauty,as he reflected that he might never see the one or the other again,might never return by that lake-side road by which he had come; as heremembered that all his plans for his aggrandisement, and they weremany and clever, might end this day, this morning, this hour! Life! Itwas that, it was all, it was the future, with its pleasures, hopes,ambitions, that he had staked. And the stake was down. He could not nowtake it up. It might well be, for the odds were great against him, thatit was to this day that all his life had led up; that life by which menwould by-and-by judge him, re
calling this and that, this chicane andthat extortion, thanking God that he was dead, or perhaps one here andthere shrugging his shoulders in good-natured regret.

  From the hedge-school in which he had first grasped the clue-line ofhis life, to the day when his father had encouraged him to "turnProtestant," that he might the better exploit his Papist neighbours,ay, and forward to this day on which, at the bidding of a woman, he hadgiven the lie to his instincts, his training, and his education--fromthe one to the other he saw his life stretched out before him! And hecould have cried upon his folly. Yet for that woman----"

  "Faith, Mr. Asgill," cried a voice in his ear, "it's if you're ill, theMajor's asking. And, by the power, it's not very well you're lookingthis day!"

  Asgill eyed the interrupter--it was Morty O'Beirne--with a sternnesswhich his pallor made more striking. "I am coming," he said, "I amgoing to fight him."

  "The devil you are!" the young man answered. "Now, are you meaning?This morning that ever is?"

  "Ay, now. Where is----"

  He stopped on the word, and was silent. Instead, he looked across thecourtyard in the direction of the house. If he might see her again. Ifhe might speak to her. But, no. Yet--was it certain that she knew? Thatshe understood? And if she understood, would she know that he had goneto the meeting well-nigh without hope, aware against what skill hepitted himself, and how large, how very large were the odds againsthim?

  "But, faith, and it's no jest fighting him, if the least bit in life ofwhat I've heard be true!" Morty said, a cloud on his face. He lookeduncertainly from Asgill to the house and back. "Is it to be doinganything you want me?"

  "I want you to come with me and see it out," Asgill said. He wheeledbrusquely to the garden gate, but when he was within a pace of it hepaused and turned his head. "Mr. O'Beirne," he said, "I'm going in bythis gate, and it's not much to be expected I'll come out any way butfeet first. Will you be telling her, if you please, that I knew thatsame?"

  "I will," Morty answered, genuinely distressed. "But I'm asking, isthere no other way?"

  "There is none," Asgill said. And he opened the gate.

  Payton was waiting for him on the path under the yew-trees, with two ofhis troopers on guard in the background. He had removed his coat andvest, and stood, a not ungraceful figure, in the sunshine, bending hisrapier and feeling its point with his thumb. He was doing this when hiseyes surprised his opponent's entrance, and, without desisting from hisemployment, he smiled.

  If the other's courage had begun to wane--but, with all his faults,Asgill was brave--that smile would have restored it. For it roused inhim a stronger passion than fear--the passion of hatred. He saw in theman before him, the man with the cruel smile, who handled his weaponwith a scornful ease, a demon--a demon who, in pure malice, withoutreason and without cause, would take his life, would rob him of joy andlove and sunshine, and hurl him into the blackness of the gulf. And hewas seized with a rage at once fierce and deliberate. This man, whowould kill him, and whom he saw smiling before him, he would kill! Hethirsted to set his foot upon his throat and squeeze, and squeeze thelife out of him! These were the thoughts that passed through his mindas he paused an instant at the gate to throw off the encumbering coat.Then he advanced, drawing his weapon as he moved, and fixing his eyeson Payton; who, for his part, reading the other's thoughts in hisface--for more than once he had seen that look--put himself on hisguard without a word.

  Asgill had no more than the rudimentary knowledge of the sword whichwas possessed in that day by all who wore it. He knew that, given timeand the decent observances of the fencing-school, he would be a merechild in Payton's hands; that it would matter nothing whether the sunwere on this side or that, or his sword the longer or the shorter by aninch. The moment he was within reach therefore, and his blade touchedthe other's he rushed in, lunging fiercely at his opponent's breast andtrusting to the vigour of his attack and the circular sweep of hispoint to protect himself. Not seldom has a man skilled in thesubtleties of the art found himself confused and overcome by this modeof attack. But Payton had met his man too often on the green to betaken by surprise. He parried the first thrust, the second he evaded bystepping adroitly aside. By the same movement he put the sun inAsgill's eyes.

  Again the latter rushed in, striving to get within his opponent'sguard; and again Payton stepped aside, and allowed the random thrust topass wasted under his arm. Once more the same thing happened--Asgillrushed in, Payton parried or evaded with the ease and coolness oflong-tried skill. By this time Asgill, forced to keep his blade inmotion, was beginning to breathe quickly. The sweat stood on his brow,he struck more and more wildly, and with less and less strength or aim.He was aware--it could be read in the glare of his eyes--that he wasbeing reduced to the defensive; and he knew that to be fatal. An oathbroke from his panting lips and he rushed in again, even morerecklessly, more at random than before, his sole object now to kill theother, to stab him at close quarters, no matter what happened tohimself.

  Again Payton avoided the full force of the rush, but this time after adifferent fashion. He retreated a step. Then, with a flicker and agirding of steel on steel, Asgill's sword flew from his hand, and atthe same instant--or so nearly at the same instant that the disarmingand the thrust might have seemed to an untrained eye one motion--Paytonturned his wrist and his sword buried itself in Asgill's body. Theunfortunate man recoiled with a gasping cry, staggered and sanksideways to the ground.

  "By the powers," O'Beirne exclaimed, springing forward, "a foul stroke!By G--d, a foul stroke! He was disarmed. I----"

  "Have a care what you say!" Payton answered slowly, and in a terribletone. "You'd do better to look to your friend--for he'll need it."

  "It's you that struck him after he was disarmed!" Morty cried, almostweeping with rage. "Devil a bit of a chance did you give him! You----"

  "Silence, I say!" Payton answered, in a fierce tone of authority. "Iknow my duty; and if you know yours you'll look to him."

  He turned aside with that, and thrust the point of his sword twice andthrice into the sod before he sheathed the weapon. Meanwhile Morty hadcast himself down beside the fallen man, who, speechless, and with hishead hanging, continued to support himself on his hand. A patch ofblood, bright-coloured, was growing slowly on his vest: and there wasblood on his lips.

  "Oh, whirra, whirra, what'll I do?" the Irishman exclaimed, helplesslywringing his hands. "What'll I do for him? He's murdered entirely!"

  Payton, aided by one of the troopers, was putting on his coat and vest.He paused to bid the other help the gentleman. Then, with a cold lookat the fallen man, for whom, though they had been friends, as friendsgo in the world, he seemed to have no feeling except one of contempt,he walked away in the direction of the rear of the house.

  By the time he reached the back door the alarm was abroad, the maidswere running to and fro and screaming, and on the threshold heencountered Flavia. Pale as the stricken man, she looked on Payton withan eye of horror, and, as he stood aside to let her pass, shedrew--unconscious what she did--her skirts away, that they might nottouch him.

  He went on, with rage in his heart. "Very good, my lady," he muttered,"very good! But I've not done with you yet. I know a way to pull yourpride down. And I'll go about it!"

  He might have moved less at ease, he might have spoken lessconfidently, had he, before he retired from the scene of the fight,cast one upward glance in the direction of the house, had he marked anopening high up in the wall of yew, and noticed through that opening awindow, so placed that it alone of all the windows in the housecommanded the scene of action. For then he would have discovered atthat casement a face he knew, and a pair of stern eyes that hadfollowed the course of the struggle throughout, noted each separateattack, and judged the issue--and the man.

  And he might have taken warning.