Part 5 (1/2)
”When the time is ripe.”
CHAPTER IV
”STOP THIEF!”
A candid Englishman must own, and deplore the fact, that Flavia McMurrough's tears were due to the wrongs of her country. Broken by three great wars waged by three successive generations, defeated in the last of three desperate struggles for liberty, Ireland at this period lay like a woman swooning at the feet of her captors. Nor were these minded that she should rise again quickly, or in her natural force. The mastery which they had won by the sword the English were resolved to keep by the law.
They were determined that the Irishman of the old faith should cease to exist; or if he endured, should be _nemo_, no one. Confined to h.e.l.l or Connaught, he must not even in the latter possess the ordinary rights. He must not will his own lands or buy new lands. If his son, more sensible than he, ”_went over_,” the father sank into a mere life-tenant, bound to furnish a handsome allowance, and to leave all to the Protestant heir. He might not marry a Protestant, he might not keep a school, nor follow the liberal professions. The priest who confessed him was banished if known, and hanged if he returned. In a country of sportsmen he might not own a fowling-piece, nor a horse worth more than five pounds; and in days when every gentleman carried a sword at his side, he must not wear one. Finally, his country grew but one article of great value--wool: and that he must not make into cloth, but he must sell it to England at England's price--which was one-fifth of the continental price. Was it wonderful that, such being Ireland's status, every Roman Catholic of spirit sought fortune abroad; that the wild geese, as they were called, went and came unchecked; or that every inlet in Galway, Clare, and Kerry swarmed with smugglers, who ran in under the green flag with brandy and claret, and, running out again with wool, laughed to scorn England's boast that she ruled the waves?
Nor was it surprising that, spent and helpless as the land lay, some sanguine spirits still clung to visions of a change and of revenge. A few men, living in the vague remotenesses beyond the bridling Shannon and its long string of lakes, or on the western sh.o.r.e where the long rollers broke in spume and the French and Spanish tongues were spoken more freely than English, still hoped for the impossible. Pa.s.sing their lives far from the Castle and the Four Courts, far even from the provincial capitals, they shut their eyes to facts and dreamed of triumph. The Sullivans of Morristown and Skull were of these; as were some of their neighbours. And Flavia was especially of these. As she looked from her window a day or two after the Colonel's arrival, as she sniffed the peat reek and plumbed the soft distances beyond the lake, she was lost in such a dream; until her eyes fell on a man seated cross-legged under a tree between herself and the sh.o.r.e. And she frowned. The man sorted ill with her dream.
It was Bale, Colonel John's servant. He was mending some article taken from his master's wardrobe. His elbow went busily to and fro as he plied the needle, while sprawling on the sod about him half a dozen gossoons watched him inquisitively.
Perhaps it was the suggestive contrast between his diligence and their idleness which irritated Flavia; but she set down her annoyance to another cause. The man was an Englishman, and therefore an enemy: and what did he there? Had the Colonel left him on guard?
Flavia's heart swelled at the thought. Here, at least, she and hers were masters. Here, three hours west of Tralee--and G.o.d help the horse on that road that was not a ”lepper”--they brooked no rival. Colonel John had awakened mixed feelings in her. At times she admired him. But, admirable or not, he should rue his insolence, if he had it in his mind to push his authority, or interfere with her plans.
In the meantime she stood watching William Bale, and a desire to know more of the man, and through him of the master, rose within her. The house was quiet. The McMurrough and his following had gone to a c.o.c.king-match and race-meeting at Joyce's Corner. She went down the stairs, took her hood, and crossed the courtyard. Bale did not look up at her approach, but he saw her out of the corner of his eye, and when she paused before him he laid down his work and made as if he would rise.
She looked at him with a superciliousness not natural to her. ”Are all the men tailors where you come from?” she asked. ”There, you need not rise.”
”Where I came from last,” he replied, ”we were all trades, my lady.”
”Where was that?”
”In the camp,” he answered.
”In Sweden?”
”G.o.d knows,” he replied. ”They raise no landmarks there, between country and country, or it might be all their work to move them.”
For a moment she was silent. Then, ”Have you been a soldier long?” she asked, feeling herself rebuffed.
”Twenty-one years, my lady.”
”And now you have done with it.”
”It is as his honour pleases.”
She frowned. He had a way of speaking that sounded uncivil to ears attuned to the soft Irish accent and the wheedling tone. Yet the man interested her, and after a moment's silence she fixed her eyes more intently on his work. ”Did you lose your fingers in battle?” she asked.
His right hand was maimed.
”No,” he answered--grudgingly, as he seemed to answer all her questions--”in prison.”
”In prison?” she repeated; ”where?”
He cast an upward look at his questioner. ”In the Grand Turk's land,”
he said. ”Nearer than that, I can't say. I'm no scholar, my lady.”