Part 17 (1/2)

Uncle Ulick groaned. ”You'll not be bidden?” he said.

”Not by an angel,” Colonel John answered steadfastly. ”And I've seen none this morning, but only a good man whose one fault in life is to answer to all men 'Sure, and I will!'”

Uncle Ulick started as if the words stung him. ”You make a jest of it!”

he said. ”Heaven send we do not sorrow for your wilfulness. For my part, I've small hope of that same.” He opened the door, and, turning his back upon his companion, went heavily, and without any attempt at concealment, past the pantry and up the stairs to his room. Colonel John heard him slip the bolt, and, bearing a heavy heart himself, he knew that the big man was gone to his prayers.

To answer ”Yes” to all comers and all demands is doubtless, in the language of Uncle Ulick, a mighty convenience, and a great softener of the angles of life. But a time comes to the most easy when he must answer ”No,” or go open-eyed to ruin. Then he finds that from long disuse the word will not shape itself; or if uttered, it is taken for naught. That time had come for Uncle Ulick. Years ago his age and experience had sufficed to curb the hot blood about him. But he had been too easy to dictate while he might; he had let the reins fall from his hands; and to-day he must go the young folks' way--ay, go, seeing all too plainly the end of it.

It was not his fate only. Many good men in the '15 and the '45, ay, and in the war of La Vendee, went out against their better judgment, borne along by the energy of more vehement spirits--went out, aware, as they rode down the avenue, and looked back at the old house, that they would see it no more; that never again except in dreams would they mount from the horse-block which their grandsires' feet had hollowed, walk through the coverts which their fathers had planted, or see the faces of the aged serving-men who had taught their childish fingers to hold the reins and level the fowling-piece!

But Colonel John was of another kind and another mind. Often in the Swedish wars had he seen a fair country-side changed in one day into a waste, from the recesses of which naked creatures with wolfish eyes stole out at night, maddened by their wrongs, to wreak a horrid vengeance on the pa.s.sing soldier. He knew that the fairest parts of Ireland had undergone such a fate within living memory; and how often before, G.o.d and her dark annals alone could tell! Therefore he was firmly minded, as firmly minded as one man could be, that not again should the corner of Kerry under his eyes, the corner he loved, the corner entrusted to him, suffer that fate.

Yet when he descended to breakfast, his face told no tale of his thoughts, and he greeted with a smile the unusual brightness of the morning. As he stood at the door, that looked on the courtyard, he had a laughing word for the beggars--never were beggars lacking at the door of Morristown. Nor as he sunned himself and inhaled with enjoyment the freshness of the air did any sign escape him that he marked a change.

But he was not blind. Among the cripples and vagrants who lounged about the entrance he detected six or eight ragged fellows whose sunburnt faces were new to him and who certainly were not cripples. In the doorway of one of the two towers that fronted him across the court stood O'Sullivan Og, whittling a stick and chatting with a st.u.r.dy idler in seafaring clothes. The Colonel could not give his reason, but he had not looked twice at these two before he got a notion that there was more in that tower this morning than the old ploughs and the broken boat which commonly filled the ground floor, or the grain which was stored above. Powder? Treasure? He could not say which or what; but he felt that the open door was a mask that deceived no one.

And there was a stir, there was a bustle in the court; a sparkle in the eyes of some as they glanced slyly and under their lashes at the house, a lilt in the tread of others as they stepped to and fro. He divined that hands would fly to caubeens and knees seek the ground if a certain face showed at a window: moreover, that that at which he merely guessed was no secret to the barefooted colleens who fed the pigs, or the barelegged urchins who carried the potatoes. Some strange change had fallen upon Morristown, and imbued it with life and hope and movement.

He was weighing this when he caught the sound of voices in the house, and he turned about and entered. The priest and Captain Machin had descended and were standing with Uncle Ulick warming themselves before the wood fire. The McMurrough, the O'Beirnes, and two or three strangers--grim-looking men who had followed, a glance told him, the trade he had followed--formed a group a little apart, yet near enough to be addressed. Asgill was not present, nor Flavia.

”Good-morning, again,” Colonel John said. And he bowed.

”With all my heart, Colonel Sullivan,” the priest answered cordially.

And Colonel John saw that he had guessed aright: the speaker no longer took the trouble to hide his episcopal cross and chain, or the ring on his finger. There was an increase of dignity, too, in his manner. His very cordiality seemed a condescension.

Captain Machin bowed silently, while The McMurrough and the O'Beirnes looked darkly at the Colonel. They did not understand: it was plain that they were not in the secret of the morning encounter.

”I see O'Sullivan Og is here,” the Colonel said, addressing Uncle Ulick. ”That will be very convenient.”

”Convenient?” Uncle Ulick repeated, looking blank.

”We can give him the orders as to the Frenchman's cargo,” the Colonel said calmly.

Uncle Ulick winced. ”Ay, to be sure! To be sure, lad,” he answered. But he rubbed his head, like a man in a difficulty.

The Bishop seemed to be going to ask a question. Before he could speak, however, Flavia came tripping down the stairs, a gay song on her lips.

Half way down, the song, light and sweet as a bird's, came to a sudden end.

”I am afraid I am late!” she said. And then--as the Colonel supposed--she saw that more than the family party were a.s.sembled: that the Bishop and Captain Machin were there also, and the strangers--and, above all, that he was there. She descended the last three stairs silently, but with a heightened colour, moved proudly into the middle of the group, and curtsied before the ecclesiastic till her knee touched the floor.

He gave her his hand to kiss, with a smile and a murmured blessing. She rose with sparkling eyes.

”It is a good morning!” she said, as one who having done her duty could be cheerful.

”It is a very fine morning,” the Bishop answered in the same spirit.

”The sun s.h.i.+nes on us, as we would have him s.h.i.+ne. And after breakfast, with your leave, my daughter, and your brother's leave, we will hold a little council. What say you, Colonel Sullivan?” he continued, turning to the Colonel. ”A family council? Will you join us?”