“There are some grouse, but we ought to let them alone for the next few years. As for the pheasants, they’re everywhere now, in the brake, silver-grass, and weeds, peeping, scurrying, creeping — cunning little beggars and growing wild as quail.
“The horses are all right. The crops promise well. Labour is devilish scarce, and unsatisfactory when induced to accept preposterous wages. What we need are coolies, if these lazy, native slackers continue to handicap the farmers who have to employ them. The American ‘hired man’! He makes me sick. With few exceptions, he is incredibly stupid, ignorant, unwilling, lazy.
“He’s sometimes a crook, too; he takes pay for what he doesn’t do; he steals your time; he cares absolutely nothing about your interests or convenience; he will leave you stranded in harvest time, without any notice at all; decent treatment he does not appreciate; he’ll go without a warning even, leaving your horses unfed, your cattle unwatered, your crops rotting!
“He’s a degenerate relic of those real men who broke up the primæval wilderness. He is the reason for high prices, the cause of agricultural and industrial distress, the inert, sodden, fermenting, indigestible mass in the belly of the body-politic!
“The American hired man! If the country doesn’t spew him up, he’ll kill it!
“Perhaps you’ve heard me before on this subject, Garret. I’m likely to air my views, you know.
“Well, my son, I look forward to your arrival. I am glad that Westmore is coming with you. As for your other guests, they are welcome, of course.
“Your father,
“REGINALD BARRES.”
He laughed; this letter so perfectly revealed his father.
“Dad and his trout and his birds and his pines and his eternally accursed hired help,” he said to himself, “Dad and his monocle and his immaculate attire — the finest man who ever fussed!” And he laughed tenderly to himself as he broke the seal of his sister’s brief note:
“Garry dear, I’ve been so busy schooling horses and dancing that I’ve had no time for letter writing. So glad you’re coming at last. Bring along any good novels you see. My best to Jim. Your guests can be well mounted, if they ride. Father is wild because there are more foxes than usual, but he’s promised not to treat them as vermin, and the Northbrook pack is to hunt our territory this season, after all. Poor Dad! He is a brick, isn’t he?”
“Affectionately,
“LEE.”
Barres pocketed his sheaf of letters and began to stroll about the studio, whistling the air of some recent musical atrocity.
Westmore, in his own room, composing verses — a secret vice unsuspected by Barres — bade him “Shut up!” — the whistling no doubt ruining his metre.
But Barres, with politest intentions, forgot himself so many times that the other man locked up his “Lines to Thessalie when she was sewing on a button for me,” and came into the studio.
“Where is she?” he inquired naïvely.
“Where’s who?” demanded Barres, still sensitive over the increasing intimacy of this headlong young man and Thessalie Dunois.
“Thessa.”
“In there fussing with Dulcie’s togs. Go ahead in, if you care to.”
“Is your stuff packed up?”
Barres nodded:
“Is yours?”
“Most of it. How many trunks is Thessa taking?”
“How do I know?” said Barres, with a trace of irritation. “She’s at liberty to take as many as she likes.”
Westmore didn’t notice the irritation; his mind was entirely occupied by Thessalie — an intellectual condition which had recently become rather painfully apparent to Barres, and, doubtless, equally if not painfully apparent to Thessalie herself.
Probably Dulcie noticed it, too, but gave no sign, except when the serious grey eyes stole toward Barres at times, as though vaguely apprehensive that he might not be entirely in sympathy with Westmore’s enchanted state of mind.
As for Thessalie, though Westmore’s naïve and increasing devotion could scarcely escape her notice, it was utterly impossible to tell how it affected her — whether, indeed, it made any impression at all.
For there seemed to be no difference in her attitude toward these two men; it was plain enough that she liked them both — that she believed in them implicitly, was happy with them, tranquil now in her new security, and deeply penetrated with gratitude for their kindness to her in her hour of need.
* * * * *
“Come on in,” coaxed Westmore, linking his arm in Barres’, and counting on the latter to give him countenance.
The arm of Barres remained rigid and unresponsive, but his legs were reluctantly obliging and carried him along with Westmore to what had been his own room before Thessalie had installed herself there.
And there she was on her knees, amid a riot of lingerie and feminine effects, while Dulcie lovingly smoothed out and folded object after object which Selinda placed between layers of pale blue tissue paper in the trunks.
“How are things going, Thessa?” inquired Westmore, in the hearty, cheerful voice of the intruder who hopes to be made welcome. But her attitude was discouraging.
“You know you are only in the way,” she said. “Drive him out, Dulcie!”
Dulcie laughed and looked at them both with shyly friendly eyes:
“Is my trousseau not beautiful?” she asked. “If you’ll step outside I’ll put on a hat and gown for you — —”
“Oh, Dulcie!” protested Thessalie, “I want you to dawn upon them, and a dress rehearsal would spoil it all!”
Westmore tiptoed around amid lovely, frail mounds of fabrics, until ordered to an empty chair and forbidden further motion. It was all the same to him, so long as his fascinated gaze could rest on Thessalie.
Which further annoyed Barres, and he backed out and walked to the studio, considerably disturbed in his mind.
“That man,” he thought, “is making an ass of himself, hanging around Thessa like a half-witted child. She can’t help noticing it, but she doesn’t seem to do anything about it. I don’t know why she doesn’t squelch him — unless she likes it — —” But the idea was so unpleasant to Barres that he instantly abandoned that train of thought and prepared for himself a comfortable nest on the lounge, a pipe, and an uncut volume of flimsy summer fiction.
In the middle of these somewhat sullen preparations, there came a ring at his studio door. Only the superintendent or strangers rang that bell as a rule, and Barres went to his desk, slipped his loaded pistol into his coat pocket, then walked to the door and opened it.
Soane stood there, his face a shiny-red from drink, his legs steady enough. As usual when drunk, he was inclined to be garrulous.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Barres in a low voice.
“Wisha, Misther Barres, sorr, av ye’re not too busy f’r to — —”
“S-h-h! Don’t bellow at the top of your voice. Wait a moment!”
He picked up his hat and came out into the corridor, closing the studio door behind him so that Dulcie, if she appeared on the scene, should not be humiliated before the others.
Soane began again, but the other cut him short:
“Don’t start talking here,” he said. “Come down to your own quarters if you’re going to yell your head off!” And he led the way, impatiently, down the stairs, past the desk where Miss Kurtz sat stolid and mottled-faced as a lump of uncooked sausage, and into Soane’s quarters.
“Now, you listen to me first!” he said when Soane had entered and he had closed the door behind them. “You keep out of my apartment and out of Dulcie’s way, too, when you’re drunk! You’re not going to last very long on this job; I can see that plainly — —”
“Faith, sorr, you’re right! I’m fired out entirely this blessed minute!”
“You’ve been discharged?”
“I have that, sorr!”
“What for? Drunkenness?”
“Th’ divil do I know phwat for! Wisha, then, Misther Barres
, is there anny harrm av a man — —”
“Yes, there is! I told you Grogan’s would do the trick for you. Now you’re discharged without a reference, I suppose.”
Soane smiled airily:
“Misther Barres, dear, don’t lave that worrit ye! I want no riference from anny landlord. Sure, landlords is tyrants, too! An’ phwat the divil should I be wantin’ — —”
“What are you going to do then?”
Soane hooked both thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and swaggered about the room:
“God bless yer kind heart, sorr, I’ve a-plenty to do and more for good measure!” He came up to confront Barres, and laid a mysterious finger alongside his over-red nose and began to brag:
“There’s thim in high places as looks afther the likes o’ me, sorr. There’s thim that thrusts me, thim that depinds on me — —”
“Have you another job?”
Soane’s scorn was superb:
“A job is ut? Misther Barres, dear, I was injuced f’r to accept a position of grave importance!”
“Here in town?”
“Somewhere around tin thousand miles away or thereabouts,” remarked Soane airily.
“Do you mean to take Dulcie with you?”
“Musha, then, Misther Barres, ’tis why I come to ye above f’r to ax ye will ye look afther Dulcie av I go away on me thravels?”
“Yes, I will!... Where are you going? What is all this stuff you’re talking, anyway — —”
“Shtuff? God be good to you, it’s no shtuff I talk, Misther Barres! Sure, can’t a decent man thravel f’r to see the wurruld as God made it an’ no harrm in — —”
“Be careful what company you travel in,” said Barres, looking at him intently. “You have been travelling around New York in very suspicious company, Soane. I know more about it than you think I do. And it wouldn’t surprise me if you have a run-in with the police some day.”
“The po-lice, sorr! Arrah, then, me fut in me hand an’ me tongue in me cheek to the likes o’ thim! An’ lave them go hoppin’ afther me av they like. The po-lice is ut! Open y’r two ears, asthore, an’ listen here! — there’ll be nary po-lice, no nor constabulary, nor excise, nor landlords the day that Ireland flies her flag on Dublin Castle! Sure, that will be the grand sight, with all the rats a-runnin’, an’ all the hurryin’ and scurryin’ an’ the futther and mutther — —”
“What are you gabbling about, Soane? What’s all this boasting about?”
“Gabble is ut? Is it boastin’ I am? Sorra the day! An’ there do be grand gintlemen and gay ladies to-day that shall look for a roof an’ a sup o’ tay this day three weeks, when th’ fut o’ the tyrant is lifted from the neck of Ireland an’ the landlords is runnin’ for their lives — —”
“I thought so!” exclaimed Barres, disgusted.
“An’ phwat was ye thinkin’, sorr?”
“That your German friends at Grogan’s are stirring up trouble among the Irish. What’s all this nonsense, anyway? Are they trying to persuade you to follow the old Fenian tactics and raid Canada? Or is it an armed expedition to the Irish coast? You’d better be careful; they’ll only lock you up here, but it’s a hanging matter over there!”
“Is it so?” grinned Soane.
“It surely is.”
“Well, then, be aisy, Misther Barres, dear. Av there’s hangin’ to be done this time, ‘twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!”
Barres slowly shook his head:
“This is German work. You’re sticking your neck into the noose.”
“Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an’ ‘twill shqueeze no Irish neck!”
“You’re a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting such men as you. Where’s your common sense? Can’t you see you’re playing a German game? What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?”
Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.
But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin’s wrongs. And this tragic inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him the memory of the personal and pathetic.
The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged. And now he meant to make the world disgorge — pay up the living that it owed him.
Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly became a torrent.
Nobody knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked them for its own. As for himself — once a broth of a boy — he had been torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a loveless, unhappy marriage.
Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane became vague at that point. Veiled references to being “thrampled on,” to “th’ big house,” to “thim that was high an’ shtiff-necked,” abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a servant at the fireside of his own wife — a footstool on the hearth of his own home — other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.
Then Barres said:
“Who is Dulcie, Soane?”
The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage as though he had not comprehended.
“Is Dulcie your daughter?” demanded Barres.
Soane’s blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:
“Did I say she was not, sorr?” he faltered. “Av I told ye that, may the saints forgive me — —”
“Is it true?”
“Ah, what was I afther sayin’, Misther — —”
“Never mind what you said or left unsaid! I want to ask you another question. Who was Eileen Fane?”
Soane bounded to his feet, his blue eyes ablaze:
“Holy Mother o’ God! What have I said!”
“Was Eileen Fane your wife?”
“Did I say her blessed name!” shouted Soane. “Sorra the sup I tuk that loosed the tongue o’ me this cursed day! ’Twas the dommed whishkey inside o’ me that told ye that — not me — not Larry Soane! Wurra the day I said it! An’ listen, now, f’r the love o’ God! Take pride to yourself, sorr, for all the goodness ye done to Dulcie.
“An’ av I go, and I come no more to vex her, I thank God ’tis in a gintleman’s hands the child do be — —” He choked; his marred hands dropped by his side, and he stared dumbly at Barres for a moment. Then:
“Av I come no more, will ye guard her?”
“Yes.”
“Will ye do fair by her, Misther Barres?”
“Yes.”
“Call God to hear ye say ut!”
“So — help me — God.”
Soane dropped on to the bed and took his battered face and curly head between his hands.
“I’ll say no more,” he said thickly. “Nor you nor she shall know no more. An’ av ye have guessed it out, kape it locked in. I’ll say no more.... I was good to her — in me own way. But ye cud see — anny wan with half a cock-eye cud see.... I was — honest — with her mother.... She made the bargain.... I tuk me pay an’ held me tongue.... ’Tis whishkey talks, not me.... I tuk me pay an’ I kept to the bargain.... Wan year.... Then — she was dead of it — like a flower, sorr — like the rose ye pull an’ lave lyin’ in the sun.... Like that, sorr — in a year.... An’ I done me best be Dulcie.... I done me best. An’ held to the bargain.... An’ done me best be Dulcie — little Dulcie — the wee baby that had come at last — her baby — Dulcie Fane!...”
CHAPTER XIX
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
A single shaded lamp illuminated the studio, mak
ing the shapes of things vague where outline and colour were lost in the golden dusk. Dulcie, alone at the piano, accompanied her own voice with soft, scarcely heard harmonies, as she hummed, one after another, old melodies she had learned from the Sisters so long ago— “The Harp,” “Shandon Bells,” “The Exile,” “Shannon Water” — songs of that sort and period:
“The Bells of Shandon, Then sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee.”
Thessalie sat by the open window and Westmore squatted at her feet on the sill of the little balcony, doing, as usual, all the talking while she lay deep in her armchair waving her fan, listening, responding with a low-voiced laugh or word now and again.
Dulcie sang:
“On the banks of the Shannon When Mary was nigh.”
From that she changed to a haunting, poignant little song; and Barres looked up from his desk under the lamp. Then he sealed and stamped the three letters which he had written to his Foreland kinfolk, and, holding them in one hand, took his hat from the table with the other, as though preparing to rise. Dulcie half turned her head, her hands still idling over the shadowy keys:
“Are you going out?”
“Just to the corner.”
“Why don’t you mail your letters down stairs?”
“I’ll step around to the branch post office; they’ll go quicker.... What was that air you were playing just now?”
“It is called ‘Mea Culpa.’”
“Play it again.”
She turned to the keys, recommenced the Celtic air, and sang in a clear, childish voice:
“Wake, little maid!
Red dawns the morn,
The last stars fade,
The day is born;
Now the first lark wings high in air,
And sings the Virgin’s praises there!
“I am afraid
To see the morn;
I lie dismayed
Beside the thorn.
Gazing at God with frightened eyes,
Where larks are singing in the skies.
II
“Why, mourn, dear maid,
Alone, forlorn,
White and afraid
Beside the thorn,
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 878