The Quiet Man and Other Stories

by Maurice Walsh

  Chapter IV

  I

  KATE O’BRIEN and Betty Caverley, the gloaming before them and the light from the french window shining on white shoulders, leaned on the veranda rail and looked out across the silver of Lough Aonach at the big dim bulk of Leaccamore, where scattered points of light were beginning to gleam in cottage windows. They were silent, and when Art O’Connor came out from the lounge, pulling the window shut behind him, the silence still held.

  In the lounge old Kelly Cuthbert sipped his whisky-and-soda and remarked softly to the ceiling, “Our friend has not been so insistent this last day or two?”

  “No reason to regret that, have you?” inquired Caverley above his paper.

  “Why not? A good chap to argue with—and as patient a fisherman as ever I met.”

  Major MacDonald paced back and forth on the rug, hands deep in pockets, and looked under brows at the retired soldier.

  “Getting to like him?”

  “Well, dammit! He’s an outdoor man and nobody’s fool.”

  “He says he has seen her twice—this Red Girl.”

  “Pulling our leg, probably—or some latent Irish superstition.”

  “Don’t you believe in her?”

  “I have not seen her.”

  “He says he has. You know the legend—?”

  “You would suggest he is spying on Mickeen Oge? I never could stomach spies.”

  “Spying on Mickeen Oge he would be on your side, wouldn’t he?”

  “Like hell!” snapped the soldier. “Mickeen Oge may be a dashed young fool playing with fire, but he is a gentleman.”

  “Scratch an Irishman, and you’ll find a rebel,” said Caverley, laughing.

  “Begad!” cried the General. “You fellows make me tired!” And he buried his bristling mustache in his tumbler.

  Outside on the veranda, Betty Caverley pulled her white scarf on her shoulders and slipped down to the gravel drive. She was in a disconsolate humor this night. Her friend, young Michael, had been holding aloof from her of late, and she was disturbed about him. He had even given up the habit of drifting lazily across the gravel of nights and saying a few pleasant words as she leaned on the veranda rail; and she now realized how she used to look forward to those few minutes. She felt dimly irritable against him, and, particularly, against his uncle, Big Michael, who wanted to marry him off to a wife chosen—she said bluntly to herself—like a milch cow at a fair.

  She went out through the hotel gates to the main road, and found Big Michael sitting on a stone stile overlooking the lake. His great head was bare, and he was peacefully smoking. A cheerful man, Big Michael, but a lonely man, too, and mostly satisfied with his own company.

  “Goodnight to you, colleen dheas!” he saluted. “Where’re you off your lonesome?” He had seen this girl put on womanhood, but, on occasion, he still treated her as a friendly small girl.

  “I have arrived,” she said. “I think I should be scolding you, Michael Big.”

  “I would like to be hearing you. Go on now!”

  “You keep the only order there is in this place, and bad order it is often.”

  “Bad and worse, surely.”

  “But I am worried.”

  “So you should be—and me with you. And what puts the fret on you, small darling?”

  “I am worried about Art O’Connor—and about young Michael.”

  “Look now, my heart! You need not be one bit bothered about the Yankee lad—not one bit; but ’tis about Michael Oge I’m worried myself.”

  “I know. There is something strange going on all about here, and Michael is playing dangerous enough already.”

  “Not that at all. I am worried because he is a cowardly man.”

  “You are either joking—or lying, Big Michael Flynn.”

  “Neither one nor yet the other. Whisper! That fellow is afraid of a woman—a girsha—and she no warrior like Maeve or Helen.”

  “Oh! is that it?” With that enlightenment came an increased touch of irritation.

  “Yes, so!” said Big Michael firmly. “And ’tis not me you should be scolding, but the young lad himself; for if there is bad order kept in the house above, the man to blame is the young and the strong man, who is leaving it without the caring hands of a woman and a wife—and a mother, by the grace o’ God.”

  She came close and peered into his eyes. “Is it really true that you are urging him—that he would leave the choosing of a wife to you?”

  “And, girl dear! wouldn’t it be myself would choose him the bonniest brownest cluster o’ nuts ever grew on a hazel tree?”

  “So you say—but what does he think of her?”

  “That she is the topmost spray of blossom on a wild apple tree, lovely and pure and up above his reach.”

  She drew back, and a little cold wave of desolateness flowed over her. It was true, then, that young Michael held a dream in his heart.

  “Colleen,” said the big man softly, “how did you know that I was coaxing him, and that if I had the choosing and knew the girl’s heart—as indeed I do not—I would soon have young voices in this place?”

  “Young Michael told me.”

  He slapped his knee. “And I after calling him a cowardly man! And was that the way he began? Cute fellow! What else did he tell you, and him whispering?”

  “Oh!” Her heart had come leaping into her throat.

  “Well, girleen?”

  “That is all he said,” she whispered.

  “Ah, well!” said Big Michael resignedly. “A bit of the coward was sticking on his gullet, but sure—”

  “I do—do not understand you, Big Michael.” She turned and walked quickly towards the gate of the drive.

  “How could you, indeed?” he called after her.

  “You have no sense, Big Uncle,” she called back.

  “And less I’d have and me twenty years younger, my bundle o’ nuts.” And to himself he muttered, “And I hope to God I haven’t put my awkward foot in it this time.”

  II

  When Betty Caverley got back below the veranda, Kate O’Brien and Art O’Connor were still leaning on the rail, but they were now talking in unusually quiet tones. She slipped by on the gravel and up the steps of the porch, and never halted till she reached her own room.

  Kate O’Brien and Art O’Connor went on talking.

  “You are afraid of her, then?”

  “She haunts me even asleep—her beauty—”

  “And her wickedness?”

  “She must be wicked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she will not forgive.”

  “How could she forgive?”

  “She might know—now, with the dross of living got rid of so long ago—that an Irishman might be loyal to another cause and yet be no traitor.”

  “I do not understand you.”

  “As the niece of a British major-general you might.”

  “Ah! Irishman, did you say?”

  “Irishman, why not? There are two Irish parties in this island. Well? Is one traitorous?”

  Her voice was not raised, but it grew bleakly cold.

  “You need not be afraid of the Red Girl, Art O’Connor, but, if you are what you hint at, there is a man in this place that you should fear like Judgment.”

  “Young Flynn? I don’t fear him or any man.”

  “No? Yet I advise you to take the first train out of Castletown tomorrow.”

  “Next day, perhaps. I hold Mickeen Oge in the hollow of my hand, and I can lay the other on one of his caches any time I want to—and not so far from here. Goodnight, dear lady, and don’t worry!”

  He turned carelessly on his heel and went through the door of the lounge.

  She did not follow. She stood for a long time queerly still, her eyes staring out at the shining lough, and her hands grasping the veranda rail. Then, and suddenly, she turned, went through the main door and down a long passage to the private bar. There she found Mickeen Oge, a-lean on the counter, readin
g.

  “What will it be, lady?” he inquired smilingly. “A short one or a long one?—and I’ll tell your uncle.”

  She ignored his facetiousness, leaning so close across the counter to him that he straightened up and looked with surprise at her serious face and troubled eyes.

  “There is something we must do at once, Mickeen Oge. That dump we have at Castle Aonach—move it at once—tonight.”

  He looked at her steadily, his face grave.

  “Who is it?”

  “You know. Tomorrow may be too late.”

  “Do you think I did not take precautions, with the Red Girl showing herself—and to him?”

  She threw up her head and laughed bitterly. “The Red Girl! If she did not show herself, her spirit, her inspiration, moved in one of her blood. He fooled us all, but not her. Is the dump safe, then?”

  “The dump is still there,” said Mickeen Oge, “but the man you have in your mind will never touch it.”

  She slapped the counter with forceful hands. “There is no need for—anything. He may be going tomorrow.”

  Mickeen Oge smiled a little sadly, a little grimly. “He is not leaving this place tomorrow—or next day—or—”

  “Mickeen Oge,” she cried dangerously. “If you—if anything happens to him, I will break my oath.”

  “Things don’t happen except they have to, Kate O’Brien,” he said. “There will be no need to break your oath.” He gently touched the back of her hand with one finger. “Leave it to me, girl.”

  Without another word she turned and left him.

  “Maybe we’re damned fools, at that,” said Mickeen Oge doubtfully.

  III

  “I’ll tell you what, General,” said Big Michael Flynn, “ ’tis going to rain in two days.”

  “You cute old dog fox!” said the General. “You guessed that I have a damned good mind to pack up and clear out.”

  “I’m telling you. In two days—I feel it in my bones. And no use at all for you to go lashing the water till then, and less the use for you and me and others to be sparring with each other about the house day and dark. Two days—and what about that little bit of a picnic down at Aonach Well that we used to be having when we were all younger, glory be to God?”

  “To the devil with you and your picnics!” cursed the soldier. “Ask the ladies.”

  So the picnic it was, down at Aonach Well.

  “And that’s that!” said Big Michael to himself. “Though why them two fellows put me up to it you couldn’t be knowing: they have some devilment in their heads—but, sure, some good might come of it, with the help o’ God.” He was thinking of his nephew and the dear English colleen.

  Aonach Well was not within the bailly of the old castle, but in a corner of the field some two hundred paces from the ruined walls. A spring of limpid fresh water with worn steps leading down to a small rock basin, surrounded by a few ancient oaks, it had once been a holy well; before that a druidic well; and many generations had made prayers about it—not always Christian prayers for things commendable.

  Early in the afternoon Mickeen Oge led a pannier-loaded pony down there; and later the party followed leisurely, the men carrying fishing-rods and tackle—in case a cloud came over the sun, or a miracle of a shower rippled the water, or a gamesome grilse showed the curl of a tail. And they had lunch—with champagne cider, and iced lager, and a bottle of Paddy Flaherty.

  Immediately after lunch Mickeen led the pony across the field and through the arch to the bailly yard. Before leaving he caught Kate O’Brien’s eye, and touched the empty panniers with his hand. So he was thinking of clearing the dump, after all. She looked towards the castle arch and pointed to herself with a fingertip, but he shook his head and glanced at Art O’Connor. She was to stay behind and watch.

  A little later, Art O’Connor went off by himself, but in the opposite direction: over the drystone wall to the river. And then Kate O’Brien of the still poise was smitten with restlessness: she could not sit still, and her anxious eyes went wandering to the black gape of the arch and round to the low wall above the river.

  The three men left were lazily smoking, peacefully digesting their lunch, wondering whether they would have a snooze or set up their rods. And Betty Caverley was wrapped in a silence where some secret thought of her own brought the blood slowly to her cheeks. She was wondering whether she might not make a flank movement round by the small glen, and come into the bailly through the gap in the rear wall. But no! If Mickeen Oge held himself aloof she would do likewise—until he found sense. But the temptation stayed.

  Ten minutes later Art O’Connor’s head appeared over the wall. It stayed there, moveless and watching, till Kate O’Brien’s restless eyes came round to it, when it hurriedly ducked out of sight as if to escape notice. Ten seconds later his head again appeared for a moment and disappeared, but this time twenty yards nearer the castle.

  Kate O’Brien was to her feet in a moment, and her uncle swore.

  “Dammit, girl! Can’t you be easy for once?” He was comfortably on his back, his head on an upturned basket, and an infernal black cheroot at mouth-corner. The dark ash was ready to fall down his neck, and he hoped to hold sleep at bay till he finished his smoke.

  “That thing will choke you,” warned his niece and strode away.

  Something in her voice made her uncle turn his head and watch her. She did not go across towards where Art O’Connor’s head had disappeared, but skirted along the other edge of the field towards the castle.

  She moved quickly, almost at a run, yet Art O’Connor suddenly jumped the shelter-wall well ahead of her and made straight for the arch. He was within ten strides of it when Mickeen Oge stepped out of the gloom and halted in the middle of the gap.

  “Begad!” exclaimed the Major-General and propped himself on an elbow. Next minute he was scrambling to his feet. “It’s a show-down!” he cried. “The Yankee is armed. Come on, MacDonald! We mustn’t let him hurt Mickeen Oge!”

  For all his years the old soldier made good time, Caverley flustering behind him, with Archibald MacDonald well in the rear, in no great hurry, rubbing his long chin, wondering a little. Betty Caverley came up to the Major-General’s shoulder. Her heart was in her throat and her knees trembling. What she had feared had come at last: two men down to essentials, not concerned with her or with Kate O’Brien, not even concerned with right or wrong, ready to go any length each for his own side. All illusions of romance and glory receded before that stark reality.

  Art O’Connor was poised on his feet, his right hand, at shoulder level, holding a wicked flat automatic. A dozen yards away Mickeen Oge Flynn faced him in the middle of the arch, his hands on his hips, his head forward, eyes unwinkingly watchful.

  The old soldier came on pantingly, and O’Connor pivoted a little, his arm stiff as a bar.

  “Halt!” his voice whipped. “You are on the dead-line.”

  Kelly Cuthbert halted, the others behind him. He was no coward, but he knew that this western devil would jump into any game with desperate readiness.

  “What damned folly is this?” he demanded.

  “You are a fine judge of folly.” The other was flatly scornful. He threw his armed hand wide, embracing them all in that scorn. “You are only people of illusion living idle days in a make-believe world. Flynn and I are the only real people—because we live for something that may break us—working in the dark, set against each other from the beginning. And you would play tricks with us, you and your Red Girl!”

  “Leave the Red Girl out of it,” said Kate O’Brien bitterly. She was standing very still to one side, her eyes intent, but no fear in her face.

  “I will not,” he cried to her. “To whom did she point? What ghost will she today add to the many ghosts that haunt this place?”

  He swung on Mickeen Oge.

  “I’m coming through, Flynn,” he said.

  “Private ground this,” said Mickeen Oge, and a sardonic humor added, “and trespassers will
be prosecuted.”

  “Don’t be a fool! I am going to make sure that nothing leaves this place—and I’m coming through.”

  Mickeen Oge’s right hand resting on his hip moved an inch towards his back pocket.

  “Heeled!” said O’Connor. “But I have the drop on you—and I’m coming through.”

  “Move a step!” warned Mickeen Oge.

  “Take your dare!” His arm poised, and he was in the very act of taking that fatal step.

  And there Betty Caverley surprised them all. She darted forward needle-quick as a flash between the two men, and faced O’Connor, her arms thrown wide.

  “Get your gun, Michael!” she cried over her shoulder. “Get your gun!”

  She held herself to her slender height, her arms still wide, a flare in her eyes; and she moved backwards pace after pace towards Mickeen Oge. Five paces she went and then a strong arm flung round her, and she was lifted and whirled through the arch and out into the bailly.

  Mickeen Oge looked down at the white face against his arm. There was a flare still in the big gray eyes staring at him.

  “It’s all right, bough o’ blossom!” he comforted her gently. “Only a foolish play on Kate O’Brien. She was masquerading as the Red Girl, and we planned to give her a fright. Girl, girl! don’t be frightened of me!”

  She blinked eyes rapidly. She stirred in his arms.

  “I am not frightened—now. Oh! but I am ashamed. Please let me down—I can walk—”

  “I will not,” said Mickeen Oge firmly. “You will have to get used to this place where you are now—you darling little fire-eater.”

  The color came warmly to her face before she turned it against his arm.

  “That’s it,” said he and kissed her soft hair.

  She turned her face up then.

  “That’s better,” said Mickeen Oge.

  Art O’Connor, blank surprise holding his mouth open, stared at the empty arch. “Well, I’m hanged!” he said, and drew a long breath. Then his face cleared and went into a pleasant grin as he turned to the dumbfounded group.