The barman came to the counter, and, as the stranger ordered a British beer, the Highlandman looked him over. He was no Jew, though he was very dark, and his nose was not so much fleshily hooked as shoved slightly flat; good-looking in a smooth-faced, big-jawed way; not tall, but very well-built, beginning to put on flesh, and with the set of shoulders of a man who had gone in for severe physical training.
MacDonald put down his pot of lager.
“What did you want to know, sir?” he inquired.
“You know that lady?”
“She knew me?” suggested the Scot equably.
“Please do not misunderstand me, sir.” He was still smiling, but there was a certain coldness in his eye. “I do not accuse you of importuning the lady.”
“I know.”
“I am aware that Nance—Miss O’Carroll—has acquaintances in Dublin, but there is one thing I would like to point out: she is no longer interested in Irish affairs. She is here on her own business—and on mine, I might add—and she and I want to have nothing more to do with—all that past nonsense. You understand, I hope?”
“You followed me in here to impart that information?”
“Exactly.”
“You speak for the lady too—explicitly?”
“I do, sir. She is my fiancée.”
“You do not fear the lady’s Irish friends, I hope?”
“Fear has nothing to do with it. Just a matter of choice.” His voice had remained diplomatically cool, but his eye gave warning. The man was certainly not afraid.
MacDonald looked through the amber of his beer, and there was tranquillity in his eye and in his voice.
“I have been told—I don’t know myself—but good men have told me that one should hold the reins not too tightly before marriage—and a little looser thereafter. Might I assume that the lady’s Irish friends might object to you as her husband?”
“The lady’s Irish friends can go to hell, sir!” said the other warmly.
“A risk every Irishman runs—closely,” said the Scot.
The swing-door again swished behind them, and a brown-faced, dark, wiry man came through.
“The hall porter told me where I might find you, you thirsty devil,” said Sean Glynn, and stopped.
He had glanced at the Englishman, and his eyes had concentrated for a moment. Only for a moment; then he frowned, turned his shoulder, and shook hands with his friend.
“What’s that you’re drinking, Archie? Oh, thin lager! Order me a pint of Guinness—and how are you keeping, my poor fellow?”
“Having quite a pleasant time,” said Archie.
The Englishman drank his beer, but not too quickly, laid down his glass, and walked to the door without looking at the two friends. Dublin was a sinister town still; for a flash there had been menace in the newcomer’s eye. Pity they had come to Dublin at all. . . . He had tried to persuade Nance not to, but she would come—“for the last time,” she had said. . . . Only three days more, and then on to loyal Belfast and royal Edinburgh—and damn Ireland!
Sean Glynn looked frowningly at the swing-door swaying behind the man.
“Cool nerve that fellow has to be seen in Dublin,” he growled. “But, of course, he is safe enough now.”
“He might not be,” said MacDonald. “You know him?”
“I do, but he does not know me.” Sean was serious, almost gloomy. “Six—let me see—seven years ago, he and I played a life and death game here in Dublin and he lost—and I am not sure that I won. His name is Hanley—Sir Henry Hanley, Bart.—and he was a British secret-service agent during the Tan war. He’s half Irish.”
“I was unfair to the English half,” said the Scot.
“You were, whatever you mean. If the truce of ’twenty-one had been delayed another week, Hanley would have left Ireland like my mother’s black hen. You’ve heard of my mother’s black hen?”
“No.”
“It walked in the door dead to her one fine day. But let him be—he leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I may be at liberty to tell you about it some day—you know some of it already.”
He imbibed deeply from his polished tankard. But the Scot would not let Hanley be just yet.
“What does he do now?” he asked.
“Hanley—Sir Henry Hanley! Surely you’ve heard the name? No? You’ve been abroad of course. He keeps pretty well in the public eye in these islands. Racing motorist, speed merchant, fined half a dozen times and his license suspended; first-class amateur middle-weight when I saw him first—putting on weight now. He’s a well-plucked one too: D.S.O. in the War, and took his life in his hands over here in the ‘bad times,’ out of sheer devilry and nothing else. He has plenty of money, and loves to ride on the narrow edge of things. I believe he is interested in some theatrical company at present.”
“A theatrical company?” said MacDonald musingly, and tapped the counter softly with a finger.
“Yes! And last year he divorced Eleanor Carluke, the well-known music-hall artiste.”
“He divorced her?”
“Yes. In his way he is rather particular about his women—I know that much.”
“He is thinking of getting married again,” said MacDonald.
Sean opened his eyes. “How the devil—?”
“I’ll tell you later. And, speaking of theaters, we are going to the Gaiety tonight.”
“Like hell we are! We are going to talk all night and take in the Curragh Races on the way down tomorrow.”
“We’ll do that, but we’ll go to the Gaiety too. I’ve booked two seats, and if you think a Scot is going to waste two seats you are jolly well mistaken. The play will astonish you, I lay odds.”
“Very well so! Time is long.” Sean knocked on the counter. “The same again, or will you try something stronger? Damn Hanley!”
Chapter III
I
ARCHIBALD MACDONALD and Sean Glynn came to their box rather late in the first act. Sean had so much to talk about before, during, and after dinner that they did not trouble to dress. They sat well back in the box, not caring, not much interested in the play. The man in evening-dress, already in possession, looked over his shoulder, and stilled in that attitude. He was the man of the afternoon, Sir Henry Hanley. He frowned, made as if to rise from his seat, thought better of it, and faced round to the stage. One could see that he pulled his hardihood together.
Sean Glynn said “Damn!” under his breath, but the Scot only grinned to himself. This mere coincidence of occupying the same box would, almost certainly, look sinister to the man, who, as a one-time British agent, had no reason to feel secure in Dublin town.
The play was a popular English one, and, like the English play, started slowly. The friends had not missed a great deal, and, at best, they were only mildly interested.
But near the end of the act Sean Glynn got the shock of his life.
The woman that Archibald MacDonald had talked to that afternoon walked on to the stage. She had only a secondary part, and she acted it efficiently, adequately, not brilliantly.
“Great God!” Sean was leaning forward suddenly.
“Steady, son!” warned his friend, shoulder against him.
Sean caught his arm in a tight grip. “That is Nuala Kierley,” he whispered, and shook the held arm. “You know? Nuala Kierley.”
“I know.”
“But Nuala Kierley! My God, Archie!”
“Leave it now, Sean—leave it!” And he nodded towards the man in front.
Sean fixed his eyes on the man’s back, and there was real menace in them this time. He was beginning to grasp things.
And then the curtain came down.
Hanley had sat still, taking no notice of the whispering behind him. Now he rose quickly to his feet and brushed by them out of the box without a glance.
Sean was on his feet too. “Nuala Kierley!” he said excitedly. “Her eyes, her voice, just the same! A miracle, I tell you! I have been looking for her for six years.”
“I
met her this afternoon,” said Archibald MacDonald calmly, leaning back in his chair.
“You what?”
“We talked. That man who was here, Sir Henry Hanley—she calls him Harry—speaks of marrying her.”
Whatever Sean Glynn’s impulse was, this astounding information did not inflame it. He was a resolute man at bottom, and he was at bottom now. He sat down slowly.
“You had better tell me about it, Archie,” he suggested quietly.
And MacDonald told him, baldly, clearly, with no sententious philosophizing. And at the end, all that Sean said was, “I must see her.”
“After the play?”
“It must be after the play—I must talk to her. She cannot marry Hanley. I tell you, he is the one man she must not marry.”
Archibald MacDonald sat back in his chair, and laughed with an odd bitterness.
“Don’t be dramatic, Sean. I am saying that to myself too. You know, that woman has been in my mind since I got a glimpse of her that night when you brought her to Lough Aonach—that time I was a prisoner.”
“And on mine,” said Sean. “The thought of her nearly drove me mad once, as you know.”
“Because we dramatized her—from the very beginning. That was why I did not recognize her at once this afternoon. She was the wandering woman, Erin—wandering, forlorn, defeated, but never lost. And she is only a minor actress in a second-rate English play. What else?”
“She is Nuala Kierley,” said Sean steadily. “I will see her.”
The orchestra was tuning up and the audience drifting back from foyer and bar. But Hanley did not come back to the box. He did not come back at all.
Sean Glynn could never tell what that popular play was about. Neither could Archibald MacDonald. They were interested only in Nuala Kierley, and her part was not important enough to give a meaning to the play. And, between long intervals of silence, Sean spoke in whispers half to himself, half to his friend. “No change in her, hair or eyes, or that voice. The stage does not suit her style. She is too static—cannot lose herself in her part—but doesn’t she make the leading lady look tawdry when they are on together? Six years—and here she is—and here I am—and here Hanley is—and the old hellish game is beginning again. . . . But she can’t marry him. . . .”
In the interval before the last act they went out to the bar, and there Sean had a revulsion of feeling. He laid a hand on MacDonald’s arm.
“You’re right, Archie! I see your point of view. Here am I, a douce married man happy to carry on as a staid householder and farmer, and there are you, a tough bachelor keen on your sport and the vagaries of wind and wing and weather. We don’t want trouble—”
“What have I got to do with it?”
“Begad, that’s right! A queer thing—I never thought of that. Somehow, I felt that you were mixed up in it too. But of course not. This is my pidgin. You know, Archie, a thing once done will never let you go. Nuala and I once did a thing together, and it holds us still—here tonight its claws are in us.”
“In you only, perhaps?”
“Even so. I must see her and talk to her. Must see her alone. We were a good team, and she would always listen to me. We liked each other.”
He seemed to clamp his teeth close down on the need for that interview, and MacDonald knew that there was bound to be trouble with Hanley.
Well on in the third act, after Nuala Kierley had made an exit, a thought struck the Scot. He touched Sean’s knee.
“She may not have any more lines—and Hanley will want to slip her away as soon as he can?”
Sean was at once on his feet.
“You’ll go to the hotel, Archie, and secure a table. I’ll try and get her to come to supper.”
“I am coming with you,” said his friend.
Sean looked at him and nodded. “I suppose you will. But leave it to me, old man. Don’t you go looking for trouble.”
“I’ll leave it to you, all right, my son,” said the prudent Scot.
II
They were only just in time. There was a taxi at the stage door.
“Engaged?” Sean inquired.
“A gentleman in there, sir.”
“You might be needed,” said Sean.
At that moment the gentleman came out: Hanley. Nuala Kierley was with him, wearing a light wrap and her hair bare—bound for supper somewhere. Sean Glynn went straight to her.
“Nuala, you darling!”
“Sean!” she said, a little breathlessly.
He caught her hand from her side, held it in both of his, squeezed it.
“It is good to see you again. You are having supper with us.”
She shook her head, not smiling, but Sean, holding her hand, tried to dominate the situation.
“You must, Nuala, you must!”
Then she smiled that faint serious small smile, and answered what was in his mind.
“No use, Sean—no use at all.”
“Look, Nuala—an hour—”
“I’m having supper with Sir Henry Hanley.”
“I’ll never let you go,” said Sean desperately in his teeth.
Hanley’s hand came on his shoulder powerfully.
“What do you mean?”
Sean wrenched his shoulder free.
“Hanley, if you want a rough house you can have it.”
Archibald MacDonald was a law-abiding citizen after the fashion of his country men, but at a pinch he could shed his law-abidingness as quickly as any Irishman—and retain his head. He saw that a rough house was inevitable, a rough house that would lead nowhere, and that he was the only man that might turn it to his friend’s purpose. He was very prompt for a man who had proposed to leave it alone.
“Gentlemen!” His voice was shocked. “Sean, I’m surprised at you.”
He caught his friend’s arm and pressed it. “Have sense, man, and show the lady to her taxi.”
“All right,” said Sean.
MacDonald held the door open and the lady entered, Sean letting her hand go at the last moment.
“To the hotel,” MacDonald whispered in his friend’s ear. “I’ll hold him. Go on, blast you—if you must have it so!” The shove he gave Sean sent him a-sprawl on the floor of the taxi. The door slammed. “Go on,” he roared to the driver.
He did not see the taxi go. He had more than enough on his hands for the next minute or two.
As Hanley tried to thrust him aside, he got a grip of the white evening-vest. Whereupon the other gave him a straight hard lunge on the breast-bone, and the buttons of the white vest tore away. Hanley dived for the taxi as it moved, but MacDonald snatched the flying tails of a light dust-coat, brought the wearer sitting on the pavement, and stumbled on top of him.
The man was astonishingly strong and energetic. He heaved himself to his feet in spite of all that MacDonald could do, and threw him off savagely. The taxi was gone.
“Now then!” said MacDonald.
“I’ll smash you, you smooth hound!” said the other.
The moment Hanley put up his hands the Scot knew that he was in for it. He might do his part in ordinary rough-and-tumble, but against a trained boxer he was bound to get the worst of it. His only assets were his fitness, his toughness, and some skill in Scots wrestling; his only hope was to get close in and stay there. He dived for Hanley’s hips, and the other hooked him with both hands to the side of the head as he came, and chopped him painfully on the back of the neck as the long tough arms got a purchase. Then they were on the pavement and the Scot on top. But not for long. The other rolled him over with frenzied vigor, and MacDonald could do nothing but cling tight. . . .
The taxi should be clear away now—no taxi man could gainsay Sean Glynn in a hurry. A nice business this . . . street brawling . . . a respectable half-pay soldier. . . . Why in thunder did he intervene? . . . A hell of a town Dublin. . . . A five-pound fine . . . but maybe Sean had a pull somewhere . . . cling on, lad. . . .
There was a shouting, and a big voice spoke above th
em.
“Now then—now then?”
Hanley was wrenched to his feet. MacDonald scrambled to his, and saw a towering Dublin policeman grasping his antagonist by the back of the neck. They were the center of a jostling crowd—newspaper boys, loiterers, and the disemboguing audience from the parterre. The play was over.
Hanley had gone berserk, and small wonder; he had been badly used. Now he wrenched free from the policeman and launched a furious right hand at MacDonald, who jerked his head back so nearly in time that the blow landed but lightly on his cheekbone. But the policeman was active for his size and secured a fresh grip. And then Hanley made his fatal mistake. He struck the policeman: a sound swinging punch that made him grunt.
Sir Henry Hanley was unlucky—had always been unlucky in Dublin town. He had always done his best as he saw it, and always had the worst of luck. And his luck was at its very worst now. For that policeman happened to be one of the world-famous heavyweight boxing team of the Dublin Civic Guard. And a warm-tempered man besides. . . . It was as good a little bout while it lasted as any gay Dublin crowd could wish to see.
Archibald MacDonald only saw the bare beginning of it. Someone thrust his hat into his hand, and a rough voice urged him: “Get out while the goin’ is good.” The Dublin crowd, bred to years of feud with the old British police, had not yet learned to take the side of law and order. He was jostled into the crowd. He saw where two others of the Dublin Guard were plowing towards their colleague—who did not need any help—and he edged away. It was the only thing to do. The crowd of theatergoers swallowed him.
He got out of King Street, down Grafton Street, across into Anne Street, and so round again into Stephen’s Green. As he went his wind returned to him; he pulled down his vest, straightened his tie, got the dust off his knees. One eye felt hot. But out in Stephen’s Green he was no worse than a reasonably respectable loiterer, hat pulled down, Irish-fashion, over the doubtful eye, and the dust not showing on the shoulders of his gray homespun. Lucky thing he had not changed into blacks. And as he went he was wondering how Nuala Kierley would take her abduction. It was abduction, and a heinous offense. . . .
The Quiet Man and Other Stories Page 23