The Wild Geese

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE PITCHER AT THE WELL

  The surgeon of that day was better skilled in letting blood than instaunching it, in cupping than in curing. It was well for Luke Asgill,therefore, that none lived nearer than distant Tralee. It was stillmore fortunate for him that there was one in the house to whom thetreatment of such a wound as his was an everyday matter, and who wasguided in his practice less by the rules of the faculty than by thoseof 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 theold phrase, would not raise a feather, and those about his beddespaired of detaining the spirit fluttering to be free. The servantswere ready to raise the "keen," the cook sought the salt for thedeath-plate. But Colonel John, mindful of many a man found living onthe field hours after he should, by all the rules, have died, did notdespair; and little by little, though the patient knew nothing of thebattle which was maintained for his life, the Colonel's skill andpatience prevailed. The breathing grew stronger and more regular; and,though it seemed likely that fever would follow and the end must remainuncertain, death, for the moment, was repelled.

  Now, he who possesses the habit of command in emergencies, who, whenothers are distraught and wring their hands, knows both what to do andhow to do it, cannot fail to impress the imagination. Unsupported byFlavia, unaided by her deft fingers, Colonel John might have done less:yet she who seconded him the most ably, who fetched and carried forhim, and shrank from no sight of blood or wound, was also the one whoyielded him the fullest meed, and succumbed the most completely to hisascendancy. Flavia's feelings towards her cousin had been altering hourby hour; and this experience of him hastened her tacit surrender. Shehad seen him in many parts. It had been hers to witness, by turns, hisdefeat and his triumph. She had felt aversion, born of his unwelcomeappearance in the character of her guardian, yield to a buddinginterest, which his opposition to her plans, and his success in foilingthem, had converted anew into disdain and hatred.

  But in all strong passions lurk the seeds of the opposite. The objectof hatred is the object of interest. So it had been in her case. Thevery lengths to which she had allowed herself to be carried against himhad revolted her, and pity had taken the place of hatred. Nor pityalone. For, having seen how high he could rise in adversity, whatcourage, what patience, what firmness he could exert--for her sake whopersecuted him--she now saw also how naturally he took the lead ofothers, how completely he dominated the crowd. And while she no longermarvelled at the skill with which he had baffled the Admiral andCammock, and thwarted plans which she began to appraise at their value,she found herself relying upon him, as she watched him moving to andfro, 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 himcraven, unworthy of his name and race? Was it only that morning thatshe had sent into peril the man who lay wan and moribund before her;only that morning that she had felt her unhappiness greater than shecould bear, her difficulties insuperable, her loneliness a misery? Forif that were so why did she now feel so different? Why did she now feelinexplicably relieved, inconceivably at ease, almost happy? Why, withthe man whom she had thrust into peril lying _in extremis_ before her,and claiming all her gratitude, did she find her mind straying toanother? Finally, why, with her troubles the same, with her brother noless dishonoured, were her thoughts neither with him nor with herself,but with the man whose movements she watched, whose hands touched hersin the work of tendance, whose voice once chid her sharply--and gaveher an odd pang of pleasure--who, low-toned, ordered her hither andthither, 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, ColonelJohn had taken her roughly by the wrist and forced her to hold thebandage so, while he twisted it. She looked at the wrist now, and,fancying she could see the imprint of his fingers on it, she blushedmore deeply.

  Presently there came, as they sat listening to the fluttering breath, alow scratching at the door. At a sign from Colonel Sullivan, who sat onthe inner side of the bed, she stole to it and found Morty O'Beirne onthe threshold. He beckoned to her, and, closing the door, she followedhim downstairs, to where, in the living-room, she found the otherO'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 isit?" she asked.

  "The fiend's in the man," Morty replied, tapping with his fingers onthe table. "But--it's you will be telling her, Phelim."

  "It's he that's not content," Phelim muttered. "The thief of theworld!"

  "Curse him!" cried his brother.

  "Not content?" she echoed. "Not content? After what he's done?" For aninstant her eyes flashed hot indignation, her very hair seemed to riseabout her head. Then the downcast demeanour of the two, theirembarrassment, their silence, told the story; and she gasped. "He'sfor--fighting my brother?" she whispered.

  "He'll be content with no less," Morty answered, with a groan. "Badcess to him! And The McMurrough--sure it's certain death, and who'sblaming him, but he's no stomach for it. And whirra, whirra, on thatthe man says he'll be telling it in Tralee that he'd not meet him, andas far as Galway City he'll cut his comb for him! Ay, bedad, he saysthat, and that none of his name shall show their face there, night orday, fair or foul, race or cockfight--the bloody-minded villain!"

  She listened, despairing. The house was quiet, as houses in the countryare of an afternoon, and the quieter for the battle with death whichwas joined in the darkened room upstairs. Her thoughts were no longerwith the injured man, however, but in that other room, where herbrother lurked in squalid fear--fear that in a nameless man might havebeen pardoned, but in him, in a McMurrough, head of his race, last ofhis race, never! She came of heroes, to her the strain had descendedpure and untainted, and she would rather have seen him dead. The twomen before her--who knew, alas! who knew!--she was sure that they wouldhave taken up the glove, unwillingly and perforce, perhaps, but theywould have fought! While her brother, The McMurrough---- But even whileshe thought of it, she saw through the open door the figure of a mansaunter slowly past the courtyard gates, his sword under his arm. Itwas the Englishman. She felt the added sting. Her cheek, that had beenpale, burned darkly, her eyes shone.

  "St. Patrick fly away with the toad and the ugly smile of him!" Mortysaid. "I'm thinking it's between the two of us, Phelim, my jewel! Andhe that's killed will help the other."

  "God forbid!" Flavia cried, pale with horror at the thought. "Notanother!"

  "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 sameinsolent, smiling look at the house. They watched him pass, an ominousshadow in the sunshine, and Flavia shuddered.

  "But what will you be doing, then?" Morty asked, rubbing, his chin inperplexity. "He's saying that if The McMurrough'll not meet him by fouro'clock, and it isn't much short of it, he'll be riding this day! Andhim once gone he's a bitter tongue, and 'twill be foul shame on thehouse!"

  Flavia stood silent in thought, but at length she drew in her breathsharply--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 hisscorn of James be seen.

  But she was out of hearing, and when she returned a minute later shewas followed, not by James McMurrough, but by Colonel Sullivan. TheColonel'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 trodfirmly, and his eyes were clear and kind. If he was aware of theO'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 ofthe house than she was--in almost the same words in which they hadbroken the news to her. "And the curse of Cromwell on me, but he'sparading up and down now," Morty continued, "and cocking his eye at thesun-dial whenever he passes, as much as to say, 'Is it coming, youare?' 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 ofall, the ominous shadow passed again before the entrance gates--cameand went. He was so long silent that Flavia turned to him at last, andheld out her hands. "What shall we do?" she cried--and in that cry shebetrayed her new dependence on him. "Tell us!"

  "It is hard to say," Colonel John answered gravely. His face was verygloomy, and to hide it or his thoughts he turned from them and went toone of the windows--that very window through which Uncle Ulick and hehad 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 partof the burden, Flavia with a growing sense of disappointment. She didnot know for what she had hoped, or what she had thought that he woulddo. But she had been confident that he could help; and it seemed thathe could do no more than others. Neither to her, nor to the men, did itseem as strange as it was that they should turn to him, against whoseguidance they had lately revolted so fiercely.

  He came back to them presently, his face sad and depressed. "I willdeal with it," he said--and he sighed. "You can leave it to me. Doyou," he continued, addressing Morty, "come with me, Mr. O'Beirne."

  He was for leaving them with that, but Flavia put herself between himand the door. She fixed her eyes on his face. "What are you going todo?" she asked in a low voice.

  "I will tell you all--later," he replied gently.

  "No, now!" she retorted, controlling herself with difficulty. "Now! Youare 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 issomething under your words," she said jealously. "What is it?"

  "I am not going to fight," he replied gravely, "but to punish. There isa limit." Even while he spoke she remembered in what circumstancesthose 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'sdoor. 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. Godforgive me if I err, for vengeance is His and it is terrible to be Hishand." He turned to Phelim, and, in the same stern tone, "my sword isbroken," he said. "Fetch me the man's sword who lies upstairs."

  Phelim went, awe-stricken, and marvelling. Morty remained, marvellingalso. And Flavia--but, as she tried to speak, Payton's shadow once morecame into sight at the entrance-gates and went slowly by, and sheclapped her hand to her mouth that she might not scream. ColonelSullivan saw the action, understood, and touched her softly on theshoulder. "Pray," he said, "pray!"

  "For you!" she cried in a voice that, to those who had ears, betrayedher 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 facein her hands. And almost at once she knew that they were gone, and thatshe was alone in the room.

  Then, whether she prayed most or listened most, or the very intensityof her listening was itself prayer--prayer in its highest form--shenever knew; but only that, whenever in the agony of her suspense sheraised her head from the chair to hear if there was news, the commonsounds of afternoon life in the house and without lashed her with adreadful irony. The low whirr of a spinning-wheel, a girl's distantchatter, the cluck of a hen in the courtyard, the satisfied grunt of aroving pig, all bore home to her heart the bitter message that,whatever happened, and though nightfall found her lonely in adishonoured home, life would proceed as usual, the men and the womenabout her would eat and drink, and the smallest things would standwhere they stood now--unchanged, unmoved.

  What was that? Only the fall of a spit in the kitchen, or the clatterof a pot-lid. Would they never come? Would she never know? At thismoment--what was that? That surely was something. They were returning!In a moment she would know. She rose to her feet and stared with stonyeyes at the door. But when she had listened long--it was nothing.Nothing! And then--ah, that surely was something--was news--was theend! They were coming now. In a moment she would know. Yes, they werecoming. In a moment she would know. She pressed her hands to herbreast.

  She might have known already, for, had she gone to the door, she wouldhave 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 thethreshold to the hearth, and--strange coincidence--he set theunsheathed blade he carried in the self-same angle, beside thefire-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 incoherentthanksgiving, did not tell him, the clinging of her arms, as she hungon him, conveyed.