← catalogue

The Gambler: A Novel

by Katherine Cecil Thurston · English · Gutenberg #33490 · 742,420 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Gambler: A Novel
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Gambler: A Novel

Author: Katherine Cecil Thurston


        
Release date: August 22, 2010 [eBook #33490]
                Most recently updated: June 19, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33490

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLER: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






[Illustration: He lowered the candles and drew back.]


THE GAMBLER

_A NOVEL_


By

KATHERINE CECIL THURSTON

Author of "The Circle," "The Masquerader," etc.


With Illustrations by JOHN CAMERON


TORONTO
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
1905

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand nine hundred and five, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY, Toronto,
Ontario, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.



TO

THE MEMORY

OF

MY MOTHER




Transcriber's Note: Only the Frontispiece and illustration on page 61
are included in this ebook.




ILLUSTRATIONS


He lowered the candles and drew back               _Frontispiece_

                                                     FACING PAGE

With a fierce gesture he took another step forward            61

The little crowd of curious idlers                           123

The younger ... stared at her                                141

"The End!" she said to Serracauld                            210

Night after night she had sat in the stifling atmosphere     241

The two dogs looked swiftly from her face to their master's  287

She slipped to the door--opened it                           337




THE GAMBLER




_PART I_




CHAPTER I


An eight-mile drive over rain-washed Irish roads in the quick-falling
dusk of autumn is an experience trying to the patience, even to the
temper, of the average Saxon. Yet James Milbanke made neither comment
nor objection as mile after mile of roadway spun away like a ribbon
behind him, as the mud rose in showers from the wheels of the
old-fashioned trap in which he sat, and the half-trained mare between
the shafts swerved now to the right, now to the left--her nervous
glance caught by the spectral shapes of the blackthorn hedges or the
motionless forms of the wayside donkeys, lying asleep in the ditches.
Perhaps this stoicism was the outcome of an innate power to endure;
perhaps it was a merely negative quality, illustrating the lack of that
doubtful blessing, imagination. But whatever its origin, it stood him
in good stead as he covered the long stretch of flat country that links
the south-eastern seaport of Muskeere with the remote fishing village
of Carrigmore and its outlying district of Orristown.

His outlook upon Ireland, like his outlook upon life, was untinged by
humour. He had seen no ground for amusement in the fact that he had
been the only passenger to alight from the train at the Muskeere
terminus, and consequently no ground for loneliness in the sight of the
solitary vehicle, dimly silhouetted against the murky sky, that had
awaited his coming. The ludicrous points of the scene: the primitive
railway station with its insufficient flickering lights, its little
knot of inquisitive idlers, its one porter--slovenly, amiable,
incorrigibly lazy--all contributing the unconscious background to his
own neat, conventional, totally alien personality, had left him
untouched.

The only individual to whom the picture had made its appeal had been
the solitary porter. As he relieved Milbanke of his valise and rug on
the step of the first-class carriage, an undeniable twinkle had gleamed
in his eyes.

"Fine, soft night, sir," he had volunteered. "Tim Burke is outside for
you."

For a second Milbanke had stared at him in a mixture of doubt and
displeasure. A month's pilgrimage to the ancient Celtic landmarks had
left him, as it has left many a Saxon before him, unlearned in that
most interesting and most inscrutable of all survivals--the Celt
himself. He had surveyed the face of the porter cautiously and half
distrustfully; then he had made a guarded reply.

"I am certainly expecting a--a conveyance," he had admitted. "But I
have never heard of Tim Burke."

"Why, thin Tim has heard of _you_!" the other had replied with unruffled
suavity. "Isn't it the English gintlemen that's goin' to stop wid Mr.
Asshlin over at Orristown that you are? Sure, Tim told me all about you;
an' I knew you the minute I sat eyes on you--let alone there was no wan
else in the train."

Without more ado he had hoisted Milbanke's belongings to his shoulder,
and lounged out of the station.

"Here you are, Tim, man!" he had exclaimed as he deposited the articles
one after another under the seat of the trap with a lofty disregard of
their owner. "'Tis a soft night an' a long road you have before you! Is
it cold the mare is?" He had paused to eye the impatient young animal
before him, with the Irishman's unfailing appreciation of horse-flesh.

Here Milbanke, feeling that some veiled reproof had been suggested, had
broken in upon the monologue.

"I hope I haven't injured the horse by the delay," he had said hastily.
"The train was exactly twenty-two minutes behind its time."

Then for the first time the old coachman had bent down from his lofty
position.

"An', sure, what harm if it was, sir?" he had exclaimed, voicing the
hospitality due to his master's guest. "What hurry is there at all--so
long as it brought you safe?"

"True for you, Tim!" the porter had interjected softly; and seizing
Milbanke's arm, he had swung him into the trap, precisely as he had
swung the luggage a few seconds previously.

"Thank you, sir!" he had murmured a moment later. "Good-night to you!
Good-night, Tim! Safe road!" And, drawing back, he had looked on with
admiration while Burke had gathered up the reins and the mare had
plunged forward into the misty, sea-scented night.

That had been Milbanke's first introduction into the district where he
proposed to spend a week with a man he had not seen for nearly thirty
years.

As the trap moved forward, leaving the straggling town with its
scattered lights far behind, his thoughts--temporarily distracted by
the incidents of his arrival--reverted to the channel in which they had
run during the greater part of the day. Again his mind returned to the
period of his college career when, as a quiet student, he had been
drawn by the subtle attraction of contrast into a friendship with Denis
Asshlin--the young Irishman whose spirit, whose enthusiasms, whose
exuberant joy in life had shone in such vivid colours beside his own
neutral-tinted personality. His thoughts passed methodically from those
eager, early days to the more sober ones that had followed Asshlin's
recall to Ireland, and thence onward over the succeeding tale of years.
He reviewed his own calm, if somewhat lonely, manhood; his aimless
delving first into one branch of learning, then into another; his
gradually dawning interest in the study of archaeology--an interest
that, fostered by ample leisure and ample means, had become the
temperate and well-ordered passion of his life. The retrospect was
pleasant. There is always an agreeable sensation to a man of Milbanke's
temperament in looking back upon unruffled times. He became oblivious
of the ruts in the road and of the mare's erratic movements as he
traced the course of events to the point where, two months before, the
discovery of a dozen gold platters and as many drinking vessels,
embedded in a bog in the County Tyrone, had turned the eyes of the
archaeological world upon Ireland; and he, with other students of
antiquity, had been bitten with the desire to see the unique and
priceless objects for himself.

The journey to Tyrone had been a pleasant experience; and it was there,
under the mild exaltation of the genuine find, that it had suddenly
been suggested to his mind that certain ancient ruins, including a
remarkable specimen of the Irish round tower, were to be found on the
south-east coast not three miles from the property of his old college
friend.

Whether it was the archaeological instinct to resurrect the past, or
the merely human wish to re-live his own small portion of it, that had
prompted him to write to Asshlin must remain an open question. It is
sufficient that the letter was written and dispatched and that the
answer came in hot haste.

It had reached him in the form of a telegram running as follows: "Come
at once, and stay for a year. Stagnating to death in this isolation.
Asshlin." An hour later another, and a more voluminous message, had
followed, in which--as if by an after-thought--he had been given the
necessary directions as to the means of reaching Orristown.

It was at the point where his musings reached Asshlin's telegrams that
he awakened from his reverie and looked about him. For the first time a
personal interest in the country through which he was passing stirred
him. He realised that the salt sting of the sea had again begun to
mingle with the night mist, and judged thereby that the road had again
emerged upon the coast. He noticed that the hedges had become sparser;
that wherever a tree loomed out of the dusk it bore the mark of the sea
gales in a certain grotesqueness of shape.

This was the isolation of which Asshlin had spoken!

With an impulse extremely uncommon to him, he turned in his seat and
addressed the silent old coachman beside him.

"Has your master altered much in thirty years?" he asked.

There was silence for a while. Old Burke, with the deliberation of his
class, liked to weigh his words before giving them utterance.

"Is it Mister Dinis changed?" he repeated at last. Then almost
immediately he corrected himself. "Sure, 'tis Mister Asshlin I ought to
be sayin', sir. But the ould name slips out. Though the poor master is
gone these twenty-nine year--the Lord have mercy on him!--I can niver
git it into me head that 'tis to Mister Dinis we ought to be lookin'."

More than once during his brief stay in Ireland, Milbanke had been
confronted with this annihilation of time in the Irish mind, and
Burke's statement aroused no surprise.

"Has he changed?" he asked again in his dry, precise voice.

Burke was silent while the mare pulled hard on the reins. And having
regained his mastery over her, he looked down on his companion.

"Is it changed?" he said. "Sure, why wouldn't he be changed? With the
father gone--an' the wife gone--an' the children growin' up. Sure 'tis
changed we all are, an' goin' down the hill fast--God help us!"

Milbanke glanced up sharply.

"Children?" he said. "Children?"

Burke turned in his seat.

"Sure 'tisn't to have the ould stock die out you'd be wantin'?" he
said. "You'd travel the round of the county before you'd see the like
of Mister Dinis's children--though 'tis girls they are."

"Girls?" Milbanke's mind was disturbed by the thought of children.
Denis Asshlin with children! The idea was incongruous.

"Two of 'em!" said Burke laconically.

"Dear me!--dear me! And yet I suppose it's only natural. How old are
they?"

Burke flicked the mare lightly, and the trap lurched forward.

"Miss Clodagh is turned fifteen," he said, "and the youngster is goin'
on ten. 'Twas ten year back, come next December, that she was born.
Sure I remimber it well. An' six weeks after, Mister Dinis was
followin' her poor mother to the churchyard beyant in Carrigmore. The
Lord keep us all! 'Twas she was the nice, quiet creature, and Miss
Nance is the livin' stamp of her. But God bless us, 'tis Miss Clodagh
that's her father's child." He added this last remark with a force that
at the time conveyed nothing, though it was destined to recur later to
Milbanke's mind.

"But your master?" the stranger repeated. The momentary diversion of
the children had ceased to hold him. Again the vision of
Asshlin--Asshlin the impetuous hero of past days--had risen intangible,
mirage-like and yet compelling from his native stretch of rugged
country.

But Burke made no reply. All his energies were directed to the guiding
of the mare down a steep incline. For a space Milbanke was conscious of
a dangerously accelerated pace; then the white piers of a large gate
sped past them, and he was aware of the black shadow of overhanging
trees.

Something unusual, something faintly prophetic and only vaguely
comprehended, touched his prosaic nature at that moment. He was
entering on a new phase of life. Without conscious preparation he was
to see the world from a new point of view. With a fresh spur of anxious
curiosity, he turned again to Burke.

"But your master?" he asked. "Has he changed much? Will I see a great
alteration?"

For an added space the old man remained mute, while he piloted the trap
up the sweep of avenue, with that irresistible desire for a fine finish
that animates every Irish driver. Then, as they spun round the final
curve, as the great square house loomed out of the mist, he replied
without slackening his vigilance.

"Is it changed?" he repeated half to himself. "Sure, if the Almighty
doesn't change a man in thirty year, it stands to rason that the divil
must."




CHAPTER II


To English ears the reply was curious. Yet with all its vagueness, all
its racial inclination towards high colour, it held the germ of truth
that frequently lies in such utterances. With native acuteness it threw
out a suggestion, without betraying a confidence.

An instant after it was spoken, there was a final flourish of the whip,
a scrape of wheels on the wet gravel, a straining and creaking of damp
leather, and the trap drew up before the big white house. Milbanke
caught a fleeting suggestion of a shabby door with pillars on which
rested a square balcony of rusty iron, a number of unlighted windows, a
general air of grandeur and decay curiously blended. Then the hall door
opened, and a voice, whose first note roused a hundred memories, rolled
out across the darkness.

"Is that you, James? Come in!--come in! Keep the mare in hand, Burke.
Steady, now, James! Let me hold the rug and give you a hand down. She's
a little rogue, and might be making a bolt for her stable. Well, you're
as welcome as the flowers in May! Come in!--come in!"

It was over in a flash--the arrival, the tempestuous greeting, the hard
grip of Asshlin's hand; and the two men were facing each other in the
candle-lit hall.

"Well, you're welcome, James!" Asshlin repeated. "You're welcome! Let
me have a look at you. I declare it's younger you are!"

He laid his hand heavily on the other's shoulder, and uttered this
obvious untruth with all the warmth and conviction that Irish
imagination and Irish hospitality could suggest.

"But you're perished after the long drive! Burke!" he called through
the open door. "Burke, when you're done with the mare come round and
carry up Mr. Milbanke's baggage. Now, James!" He wheeled round again,
catching up a silver candlestick from the hall table. "Now, if you come
upstairs, I'll show you where we're going to billet you."

With long, hasty steps he crossed the hall, his tall figure casting
gaunt shadows on the bare and lofty wall.

"We're a trifle unsophisticated here," he went on with a loud, hard
laugh. "But at least we'll give you enough to eat and a bed to lie on.
After all, a decent dinner and a warm welcome are the bone and sinew of
hospitality the world over. Unless they include a drop of something to
put life into a man----"

He paused, turning round upon his guest.

"By Jupiter, that reminds me! Have a small drink before we go another
step, just to take the cold out of you?"

Milbanke, who was close behind him, glanced up. He saw his host's face
more clearly than he had seen it in the hall. His answer when it came
was hurried and a little confused.

"No, Denis. No," he said. "Nothing; nothing, I assure you."

Asshlin laughed again.

"Still the same stickler?" he said. "How virtues cling to a man!"

He turned and began to mount the stairs. Then, reaching the first door
on the wide corridor, he paused.

"Here's your habitation," he said. "Burke will bring up your belongings
and get you whatever you want. We dine in a quarter of an hour."

He nodded; and was turning away, when a fresh thought struck him.

"You may as well take this candle," he said; "we haven't arrived at the
civilisation of gas. You might stumble over something, looking for the
matches. This is practically a bachelor establishment, you
know--without any bachelor comforts."

Once more he laughed; and, thrusting the candle into his guest's hand,
hurried away across the landing.

In silence Milbanke took the candle and, holding it uncertainly, waited
until his host had disappeared. Then slowly he turned and entered the
large, bare bedroom. For a moment he hesitated, his eyes wandering from
the faded window-hangings to the stiff, old-fashioned furniture.
Finally, laying aside the candlestick, he sat down upon the side of the
forbidding-looking four-post bedstead.

What motive prompted him to the action he could scarcely have defined.
He was strangely moved by the scene just gone through--stirred in a
manner he could never have anticipated. For the moment the precise,
matter-of-fact archaeologist was submerged; and the man--dry, narrow,
pedantic perhaps, but nevertheless capable of human sentiments--was
uppermost. The sight of Asshlin, the sound of his voice, and the touch
of his hand had possessed an alchemy all their own. The past, that
years of separation had dimmed and tarnished, had gleamed out from the
shadows and taken shape before his eyes. The influence, the fascination
that Asshlin had once exercised, had touched him again at the first
contact of personalities. But it was an altered fascination. The alloy
of doubt and apprehension had tainted the old feeling. The question he
had been prompted to ask Burke had answered itself at the first glimpse
of his host's face. Indisputably, unmistakably, Asshlin had changed.

And in what lay that change? That was the question he put to himself as
he sat on the bed, unconsciously noting the long, wavering flicker of
the candle-flame against the faded wall-paper. He had aged; but the
change did not lie with age alone. Something more relentless and more
corroding than time had drawn the worn, discontented lines about the
mouth, kindled the unnatural, restless glitter in the eyes, and changed
the note of the voice from spontaneous vitality to recklessness. The
change lay deeper; it lay in the heart and the soul of the man himself.

With a sensation of doubt--of puzzled doubt and inexplicable
disappointment--he rose, crossed the room, and, drawing the curtains
over the windows, shut out the dark, damp night.




CHAPTER III


It was nearly three-quarters of an hour later that a tremendous bell,
clanging through the house, announced that dinner had been served.

A wash, a change of clothes, and a half-hour of solitude had done much
for Milbanke. He felt more normal, less alienated by unfamiliar
surroundings than he had done in the first confused moments that had
followed his arrival. The vague sense of disappointment and
apprehension, the vague suspicion that Asshlin had undergone an immense
alteration still tormented him--as half-apprehended evils ever torment
the minds of those who see and study life as a thing apart from human
nature; but the immediate effect of the feeling was less poignant. He
unconsciously found himself anticipating the next glimpse of his old
friend with a touch of curiosity; and when the announcement of dinner
broke in upon his meditations, he was surprised at the readiness with
which he obeyed the summons.

His first sight of the dining-room came pleasantly to his senses,
numbed by the long drive and the bare coldness of his bedroom. It was
large and lofty: three long curtained windows occupied one of its
walls, while from the others numerous pictures of the dead-and-gone
Asshlins looked out of their canvases from tarnished gold frames; the
mahogany furniture, though of an ugly and ungainly type, was massive;
and over the whole room, softening its severity and hiding the ravages
of time, lay the warm red glow of a huge peat fire and the radiance of
a dozen candles set in heavy silver sconces.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, agreeably conscious of the
mingled shadow and light; then his attention was attracted to two
figures already occupying the room.

Asshlin himself was standing by the hearth, his back to the fire, his
feet apart, while by his side, in evident nervous embarrassment; stood
a little girl of nine or ten. Instantly he saw his guest, Asshlin put
his hand on the child's shoulder and pushed her forward.

"Here's the youngest shoot on the old tree, James!" he cried with a
laugh. "Shake hands with him, Nance!"

Somewhat uncertainly and very shyly the child looked up and smiled. She
was extremely pretty, with a gipsy-like prettiness new to Milbanke. The
only attribute she had inherited from her father's family was the clear
olive skin--that distinguished all the Asshlins. Her dark brown hair,
her deep blue eyes, her peculiarly winning smile, had all come to her
from her dead mother.

With an embarrassment almost equal to her own, Milbanke extended his
hand. The average modern child he ignored with comfortable superiority,
but this small girl, with her warm smile and her overwhelming shyness,
was something infinitely more different to deal with. He shifted his
position uneasily.

"How d'you do?" he hazarded. "How d'you do--Nance?"

The little brown fingers stirred nervously in his clasp, and the child,
still smiling, made some totally unintelligible reply.

With a boisterous laugh, Asshlin ended the situation.

"Easily known you're not a father, James!" he cried. "Why, you'd have
given her a kiss and clinched the business fifty seconds ago. But
you're starving. Where's that scamp Clo?"

He turned again to the little girl who had drawn nearer to him for
protection.

She replied, but in so low a tone that Milbanke heard nothing. A moment
later he was enlightened by Asshlin's loud voice.

"Did you ever hear of a thing like that, James?" he exclaimed. "What
would you say to a daughter who rides races on the strand in the dark
of an October evening, with the mist enough to give your horses their
death? 'Pon my word----" His face reddened; then suddenly he paused and
laughed. "After all, what's bred in the bone--eh, James?" he said. "I
believe I'd have done the same myself at fifteen--maybe worse."

He checked himself, laughed again; then sighed. But catching Milbanke's
eye, he threw off the momentary depression, and turned once more to
Nance.

"Tell Hannah we won't wait any longer, like a good child!" he said.
"There's no counting on that scallywag."

As the child went quickly to the door he motioned Milbanke to the
table, and took his own place at its head.

"No ceremony here," he said. "This is Liberty Hall."

Taking up a decanter, he poured some sherry into his friend's glass;
then, filling his own, drank the wine with evident satisfaction.

"Gradual decay is what we're suffering from here, James," he went on.
"Everything in this country is too damned old. The only things in this
house that have stood it are the wine and the silver. The rest--the
woodwork, myself, and the linen--are unsound, as you see."

He laughed again with a shade of sarcasm, and pointed to where a large
hole in the damask table-cloth was only partially concealed by a
splendid salt-cellar of Irish silver.

"Accumulated time is the disease we're suffering from. 'Tisn't the man
who uses his time in this country, but the man who kills it who's
mastered the art of living. Oh, we're a wonderful people, James!"

He slowly drained and slowly refilled his glass.

As he laid down the decanter, the door opened and Nance appeared and
quietly took her place at table. Almost immediately she was followed by
Burke in a black coat and wearing a clean collar.

For a second Milbanke marvelled at the domestic arrangements that could
compress a valet, a butler, and a coachman into one easy-going
personality; the next, his attention was directed to two enormous
dishes which were placed respectively before his host and himself.

"Just hermit's fare, James--the product of the land!" Asshlin
exclaimed, as Burke uncovered the first dish, revealing a gigantic
turkey. "Will you cut yourself a shaving of ham?"

With a passing sense of impotence Milbanke gazed at the great,
glistening ham; then the healthy appetite that exposure to the sea air
had aroused, lent him courage, and he picked up a carving knife.

But the execution of the ham was destined to postponement. Scarcely had
he straightened himself to the task, than a quick bang of the outer
door was followed by hasty steps across the hall, and the last member
of the household appeared upon the scene.

Almost before he saw her, Milbanke was conscious of her voice--high and
clear with youthful vitality, softened and rendered piquant by native
intonation.

"Oh, father, such a gallop! Such fun! And I won. The bay cob was
nowhere beside Polly. Larry was mad!"

The string of words was poured forth in irresistible excitement before
she had reached the door. Once inside, she paused abruptly--her whole
animated face flushing.

"Oh, I forgot!" she said in sudden naive dismay.

She made a quaint picture as she stood there in the light of the
candles and the fire--her slight, immature figure arrayed in a worn and
old-fashioned riding habit, her hair covered by a boy's cloth cap, her
fingers clasping one of her father's heavy hunting crops. But it was
neither dress nor attitude that drew Milbanke's eyes from the task
before him--that incontinently sent his mind back thirty years to the
days when Denis Asshlin had seemed to stand on the threshold of life
and look forth, as by Right Divine, upon the pageant of the future.
There was little physical likeness between the girl brimming with youth
and vitality and the hard, prematurely-aged man sitting at the head of
the table; but the blood that glowed in the warm olive skin, the spirit
that danced and gleamed in the hazel eyes, was the same blood and the
same spirit that had captivated Milbanke more than a quarter of a
century before.

The unlooked-for sensation held him spell-bound. But almost rudely the
spell was broken. Scarcely had Clodagh's exclamation of dismay escaped
her, than Asshlin broke into one of his boisterous laughs.

"Forgot, did you?" he cried. "Well, 'twas like you. Come here!"

He put out his hand, and as he did so, a sudden expression of pride and
affection softened his hard face.

"Here's the wildest scapegrace of an Asshlin you've met yet, James," he
said.

"Shake hands with him, Clo!" he added in a different voice. "He's a
symbol, if you only knew it. He stands for the great glory we must all
leave behind us. The glory of youth!" His voice sank suddenly to a
lower key, and he raised his glass. "Go on, child!" he added more
quickly. "Shake hands with him; tell him he's welcome."

But Clodagh's flow of speech had been silenced. With a suggestion of
the shyness that marked her sister, she came round the table as
Milbanke rose.

She made no remark as she proffered her hand, and she did not smile as
Nance had done. Instead, her bright eyes scanned his face with a quick,
questioning interest.

In return, he looked at her clear skin, her level eyebrows and proudly
held head; and his awkwardness vanished as he took the slight muscular
hand still cold from the night mist.

"How d'you do?" he said. "I've been hearing of you."

Again Clodagh coloured, and glanced at her father.

"What were you telling him, father?" she asked with native curiosity.

Once more Asshlin laughed loudly.

"Listen to her, James," he said banteringly. "Her conscience is
troubling her. She knows that it's hard to speak well of her. Isn't
that it, scamp? Confess now!"

Clodagh had again passed round the table; and, having thrown her whip
and cap into a chair, had seated herself without ceremony in the vacant
place that awaited her.

"Indeed it isn't!" she replied with immense unconcern. But an instant
later she repeated her question.

"What was it, father? Can't you tell me?"

Asshlin lifted his glass and studied the light through his sherry.

"Ah now, listen to her, James!" he exclaimed again delightedly. "And
women will tell you they aren't inquisitive."

Clodagh flushed.

The little sister, seeing the flush, was suddenly moved to assert
herself.

"'Twasn't anything, Clo," she said quickly. "He only said you were a
scallywag."

Then, as all eyes turned in her direction, she subsided abruptly into
confused silence.

"There you are again, James! Look at the way they stick together. A
poor man hasn't the ghost of a chance when two of them join forces. One
of them ought to have been a boy--if only for the sake of equality."

He shook his head and laughed afresh, while Burke deposited the last
plate upon the table, and dinner began in earnest.

That dinner, like his drive from Muskeere, was an experience to
Milbanke. More than once his eyes travelled involuntarily from the
candle-lit table, with its suggestion of another and an earlier era, to
the high walls where the fire cast long shafts of ruddy light and long
tongues of shadow upon Asshlin's ancestors, painted in garments of silk
and lace that had once found a setting in this same sombre room. There
was something strangely analogous in these dead men and women and their
living representatives. The thought recurred to him again and again, as
he yielded to the pleasant influences of good wine and wholesome food
pressed upon him with unceasing hospitality. It was not the first time
he had pandered to his taste for past things by comparing a man with
his forefathers, but the result had never proved quite so profitable.
In their uncommon setting, Asshlin and his children would have appealed
to the most unobservant as uncommon types; viewed by the eyes of a
student, they became something more; they became types of an uncommon
race--of an uncommon class.

With the spur of the old fascination and the goad of the new-born
misgiving, he glanced again and yet again from his host's hard,
handsome features to the pictures, from the pictures to the
warm-coloured faces of the children. The study was absorbing. It
supplied him with an agreeable undercurrent of interest while the ham
and turkey were removed, and Asshlin, with much dexterity, distributed
portions of an immense apple-pie, deluged in cream; it still occupied
his mind when--cheese having been placed upon the table and partaken
of--Burke proceeded to remove the cloth.

At the moment that the polished surface of the table was laid bare, his
glance, temporarily distracted from its study of the nearer pictures,
was attracted and arrested by one portrait, that hung in partial shadow
above the carved chimneypiece. It was the picture of a tall, slight boy
of sixteen or seventeen years, dressed in the black satin knee
breeches, the diamond shoe buckles, and powdered queue of a past
generation.

Something in the pose of this painted figure, something in the youthful
face, caught and held his attention. In unconscious scrutiny, he leant
forward to study the shadowed features; then Asshlin, suddenly aware of
his interest, leant across the table.

"That was what I meant, James, by saying one of them should have been a
boy," he said sharply. "Haven't I justification?"

He nodded half earnestly, half in malicious humour towards the picture
above the fire.

For a moment Milbanke was at a loss; then all at once he comprehended
his host's meaning. His gaze dropped from the picture to Clodagh,
sitting below it. Above the dark riding habit and above the satin coat,
it seemed that the same olive skin, the same level eyebrows and clear
hazel eyes confronted him.

"I see!" he said quietly. "I see! A very peculiar case of family
likeness."

He spoke affably, casually, in all innocence; but scarcely had the
words left his lips than he precipitately wished them back. With a loud
laugh, Asshlin struck the table with his hand.

"Ah, good!" he exclaimed. "Good! Now, Clo, what have you got to say?"

But with a gesture quite as vehement as his own, the girl raised her
head.

"I say that it's not true," she said. "It isn't true. I'm not like
him."

She glanced from her father to Milbanke with suddenly kindling eyes.

"I'm not like him!" she repeated. "I won't be like him!"

Asshlin leant back quickly in his chair. He was still laughing, but a
shade of temper was audible in the laugh.

"Do you hear that, James?" he said. "We of the present generation are
altogether too good for the past. A slip of a girl nowadays thinks
herself vastly superior to a great-great-grandfather who was the finest
horseman and the most open-handed man in Munster. That's the attitude
of to-day."

He moved aside, as Burke re-entered the room and laid a decanter of
port and two glasses on the shining mahogany table.

"My great-grandfather, Anthony Asshlin," he went on deliberately, "was
as fine a specimen of the Irish gentleman as ever lived--I don't care
who denies it. Have a glass of port, James? An appreciation of good
wine was the one thing he left his descendants."

There was an awkward silence while he filled the two glasses and pushed
one towards his guest.

But Milbanke's ease of mind had already been upset. He held no key to
the disconcerting situation; and it puzzled and perplexed him, as his
first impression of his old friend had done. Both possessed elements
that he vaguely knew to be hidden from his sight--out of focus from his
present point of view. For a space he sat warily fingering his glass,
but making no attempt to drink. Without openly seeming to observe it,
he was conscious of Asshlin's half-humorous, half-aggressive mood; of
the nervous attitude of the younger girl, and of Clodagh's flushed
face.

To a newly arrived guest, the position was strained. With growing
embarrassment he glanced from the rich, dark wine in his glass to its
reflection in the polished surface of the table. Finally the
awkwardness of the prolonged silence moved him to speech.

"A great-grandfather who was a judge of wine is always worthy of
consideration," he murmured amiably, as he lifted the glass to his
lips. "I'm afraid mine was a teetotaller."

But his feeble attempt at humour was not destined to be successful. It
drew a laugh from his host, but it was a laugh that found no echo.

"You're right, James!" Asshlin cried. "By Jupiter, you're right!
Anthony Asshlin was the finest man in the county--and I'm proud of
him."

"He was the worst man in the county--and the greatest fool!"

The words, so sudden and unexpected, came from Clodagh. For several
seconds she had been sitting absolutely still; but now she lifted her
head again, her flushed face glowing, her bright eyes alight with the
quick enthusiasm, the hot temper that she had inherited from her race.
With a swift movement she turned from her father to Milbanke.

"Do you think it great to be a fool--and a gambler?" she demanded.

Asshlin set down his glass noisily.

"Anthony Asshlin was no gambler," he said. "He was a sportsman."

Clodagh's lip curled.

"A sportsman!" she exclaimed. "Is it sport to keep game-cocks, to play
cards, and throw dice? To squander money that belongs to other people?
To mortgage your property and to--to--to kill your brother?"

The last words burst from her impetuously, impulsively; then suddenly
she paused, shocked by her own daring.

The silence that followed was short. With an equal impetuosity, Asshlin
pushed back his chair and rose.

"By Gad, Clo, that's going too far!" he cried. "I'll not hear my
great-grandfather called a murderer."

"All the same, he killed his brother."

"In a duel. Gentlemen had to fight in those days."

"Because of cards! Because they quarrelled over cards!"

Then, with a fresh change of expression, she appealed again to
Milbanke.

"Do you think that's sport?" she asked. "To get no good out of ordinary
things? To get no pleasure out of dogs or horses except the pleasure of
making them fight or race so that you can bet on the one you think
best?"

She stopped breathlessly; and Milbanke, desperately at a loss, gazed
from one angry, excited face to the other. But he was saved the trouble
of finding an answer; for immediately Clodagh ceased to speak,
Asshlin's loud laugh broke in again.

"Bravo!" he cried boisterously. "All the eloquence and all the lack of
logic of your sex! But don't put those propositions to Milbanke; put
them to yourself when you've reached his age. If you can't tell at
fifty-five why poor human creatures play and kill and make fools of
themselves, you'll have been a very lucky woman."

For an instant his voice dropped, the despondency, the restless ennui
that Milbanke had previously noticed falling like a brief shadow over
his anger. But the lapse was brief. With another laugh and a shrug of
the shoulders, he turned suddenly, and, crossing the room, opened the
door.

"Burke!" he called loudly across the hall. "Burke, bring more candles
and another bottle of port--and the cards!"

At the words Clodagh rose.

"Father!" she exclaimed below her breath. Then her voice faltered. The
involuntary note of protest and appeal was checked by some other
emotion. With a swift movement she crossed the hearth, picked up her
whip and cap, and, without another glance or word, walked out of the
room, followed noiselessly by Nance.

Asshlin continued to stand by the door until the figures of his
children had disappeared; then he turned back into the room.

"James," he said suddenly, "perhaps you don't think it, but one hair of
that child's head is more precious to me than life. She's an Asshlin to
the tips of her fingers. She's the whole race of us in one. The very
way she repudiates us is proof enough for any man. I tell you the whole
lot of us--lock, stock, and barrel--are looking at you out of her
eyes."

Again he paused; then again he shook off his passing seriousness with
nervous excitability, reseating himself at the table, as Burke entered.

"Ah, here we are!" he cried. "Here we are! Come along, Burke, and show
the light of heaven to us. Now, James, for any stakes you like--and at
any game! What shall it be? Piquet? Or will we say Euchre, for the sake
of the days that are dead and gone? Very well. Euchre let it be--for
any stakes you like. It's the land of beggars, but, by Gad, you'll
find us game? Pass me your glass for another taste of port."




CHAPTER IV


The unpleasant sensation of moving in the dark remained with Milbanke
while Asshlin, still noisily excited, arranged the stakes, cut for the
deal, and, having won the cut, distributed the cards. By nature he was
lethargic and placid; by habit he was precise, methodical, and
commonplace. The advent into this new atmosphere, with its inexplicable
suggestions and volcanic outbursts, left him distressed and ill at
ease. He was the type of man who, in every relation of life, likes to
know exactly where he stands. Having once satisfied himself upon that
point, he was usually content to follow the routine of existence
without trouble to those around him; but until it was fully defined, he
was a prey to a vague uneasiness.

So absorbed was he by the trend of his own speculations, that for the
first five games he gave but small consideration to the play. Then,
however, his host jogged his attention with no uncertain hand.

Pausing in the shuffling of the cards, he glanced across the table.

"You're playing like an old woman, James. Are your wits wool-gathering,
that you've let me win every blessed game?"

Milbanke looked up. "Forgive me," he said hastily--"forgive me. I was
thinking----"

"--Thinking that a broken-down devil of an Irishman isn't high enough
game to fly at?" Asshlin laughed. "Well, I'll put some life into you.
I'll double the stakes. What do you say to that?"

He leant back in his chair, balancing the pack of cards in his hands.

Milbanke, with suddenly awakened observation, saw that his eyes
glittered with excitement and that his lips were set.

"Double the stakes?" he echoed doubtfully. "Oh, certainly if you think
it will improve the game. For myself I rarely play for money! I always
think that the cards----"

"--Are sufficient in themselves, I suppose?" Asshlin laughed. "Don't
you believe it, James? Or if you do, I'll teach you better. Come along!
In for a penny, in for a pound! Are you agreeable?"

For a moment Milbanke was thoughtful; then he became conscious of the
other's impatient glance.

"Why--why certainly," he said. "Anything you like!"

"Spoken like a man!" Asshlin impulsively threw down the cards, and then
gathered them up again. "I see the embalming process isn't completed
yet. The antiquarians have left a shred or two of frail humanity in
you. Well, we'll have it out. We'll put an edge on it. Come along!" He
leant forward, the reckless brightness deepening in his eyes.

But Milbanke hesitated.

"Hadn't we better settle up the first score and start afresh?" he said.
"How do we stand?"

He put his hand into his pocket. But the other waived the point.

"Is it paying at this hour of the night?" he cried. "Give me a pencil,
and I'll jot down our difference, if you're conscientious. But the
balance will be on the other side before the candles are burned out.
The devil forgot to bring luck to the Asshlins since poor Anthony went
below. But come along, man!--come along! Here's to the youth of us!"

He drained his glass; and turned again to the business of the cards.

During the next half-dozen games neither spoke. With deep absorption,
Asshlin followed the run of the cards. Once or twice an exclamation
escaped him; once or twice he paused to replenish Milbanke's glass or
his own; but in every other respect he had eyes and thoughts for
nothing but the business in hand. Milbanke, on the contrary--gambler
neither by instinct nor training--was infinitely more interested in his
opponent than in the play.

As he watched Asshlin, a score of recollections rose to his
mind--recollections that time and advancing age had all but effaced. He
recalled the numberless occasions upon which the Irishman, in the
exuberance of youth, had sat over a gaming-table until the daylight had
streamed in across the scattered cards, the heaped-up cigar-ashes and
the emptied glasses; he reviewed the rare occasions on which his
cajoleries had drawn him from his own mild pursuits to be a sharer in
these prolonged revels; and with the memory came the thought of the
headache, the sick sense of weariness that had invariably lain in wait
for him the following morning. A wondering admiration for Asshlin had
always held a place in these jaded after-sensations--a species of
hero-worship for one who could turn into bed at four in the morning and
emerge at nine with all the vigour and vitality of the most virtuous
sleeper. He had never fully realised that to men of Asshlin's stamp
dissipation, excitement, and action are potent stimulants, calling
forth all the superfluous nervous energy that by nature they possess.
While the tide of life runs high about such men, they are borne
forward, buoyed up by their own capacity for living and enjoying. To
them, existence at high pressure is a glorious, exalted state, exempt
from satiety or fatigue; it is the quieter phases of existence--the
phases that to ordinary men mean rest, peace, domestic tranquillity and
domestic interests--that these exuberant, ardent human beings have
cause to dread.

An hour went by, and still the idea of a past, curiously reflected and
curiously contradicted, absorbed Milbanke's perceptions. Then gradually
but decisively it was borne in upon his mind that his absorption was
blunting his common sense. He was playing execrably.

It has been said that he was no gambler; but neither was he a fool.
With something of a shock he realised that he stood a loser to the
extent of seven or eight pounds. With the realisation he sat
straighter in his chair. It was not that he grudged the money. He
was generous--and could afford generosity. It was rather that that
admirable quality which urges the Englishman to play a losing game
was stirred within him.

"By Jove, Denis!" he said. "I must look to my laurels! I used to play a
better game than this."

Asshlin's only answer was a laugh--a laugh from which all the
bitterness had dropped away, leaving a buoyant ring of absorption and
delight. Under the stimulus of excitement, he had altered. He was
exalted, lifted above the petty discontent, the pessimism, the
despondency that tainted his empty days.

And so for nearly two hours they played steadily; then Milbanke paused
and drew out his watch.

"I don't know what sort of hours you keep in Ireland," he hazarded;
"but it's nearly twelve o'clock."

Asshlin had paused to snuff one of the candles that had begun to
gutter. At the other's words, he glanced up in undisguised surprise.

"Hours?" he repeated. "Why, any--or none at all. You don't know the
glory of having something to sit up for." He paused for a second in a
sort of ecstasy. "You don't know it; you can't know it! You have never
felt the abomination of desolation."

He laughed feverishly and gathered up the cards afresh.

"Come, James! Your deal!"

And in this manner the night wore on. In the early stages of their play
Asshlin's luck stuck to him determinately; but by degrees his
opponent's more cautious and level play began to tell, and their
positions were gradually reversed. By one o'clock Milbanke had made
good his losses and even stood with some trifling amount to his
advantage. Here again he had mildly suggested a cessation; but Asshlin,
more intoxicated by bad than he had been by good fortune, had demanded
his revenge, and called loudly through the quiet house for more candles
and more wine.

But with the fresh round of play, the luck remained unaltered. Milbanke
continued to win.

With a sleepy face, but no expression of surprise, Burke responded to
his master's call, replenishing the light and setting the port upon the
table. But the players scarcely noticed his entrance or departure.
Asshlin was playing with desperate recklessness; and Milbanke, without
intent or consciousness, was slowly falling under the influence of his
companion's excitement. As minute succeeded minute and Asshlin sat
rigid in his seat--cutting, dealing, marking the result of each game
upon a strip of paper--the elder man became more and more the satellite
of thirty years ago, less and less the placid archaeologist for whom
the follies of the present lie overshadowed by the past.

He forgot the long journey of the afternoon, the peculiar incidents of
his arrival. A slight flush rose to his usually bloodless cheeks; he
found himself watching the run of the cards with a species of reflected
eagerness, roused to an unaccustomed elation when the advantage fell to
him.

At three o'clock they played the last round. And it was only then--when
the last card had been thrown on the table, and he had risen stiff from
long sitting, the winner of something like twenty pounds--that he
realised how completely he had been dominated by this resurrected
influence; dominated to the exclusion of personal prejudice and even
personal comfort. So strong was this impression of past influences that
he was roused to no surprise when, glancing at his companion, he saw
him temporarily rejuvenated--his expression alert, his whole face
vivified by the night's excitement.

Again a touch of the old sympathy arose within him. The reckless,
cynical man before him was momentarily effaced; the bright personality
of long ago seemed to fill the room.

"Good-night, Denis!" he said gently, holding out his hand.

Asshlin caught it enthusiastically.

"Good-night, James!--good-night! And once more a thousand welcomes and
a thousand thanks. You have been a drop of water in the desert to a
parching man. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you! I'll reckon up my
losses in the morning and write you a cheque. Good-night!"

Milbanke responded to the pressure of his fingers.

"Don't trouble about the money," he said. "Any time will do--any time.
But you're turning in yourself? We'll be upstairs together?"

But Asshlin shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "Not after this. I'll take a turn across the fields
and have a look at the night on the water. I feel too much awake to be
smothered by sheets and blankets. It isn't often we feel life here--and
the sensation is glorious."

He drew up his tall, powerful figure and stretched out his arms. Then
almost at once he let them fall to his sides.

"But what moonshine this is to you, you prosaic Saxon!" he exclaimed.
"Let me light you to bed."

He laughed quickly; and, picking up one of the massive candlesticks,
moved towards the door.

For an instant Milbanke lingered in the dining-room, grown dimmer with
the departing lights; then, hearing his name in his host's voice, he
hurried after him into the hall.

Asshlin was standing at the foot of the stairs, the glowing candles
held aloft. Above him, the high ceiling loomed shadowy and indistinct;
behind him, the dark wainscoted wall threw his figure into bold relief.

It would have demanded but a slight stretch of fancy to picture him as
his satin-coated great-grandfather grown to a dissipated maturity, as
he stood there, the master spirit in this house of fallen greatness. As
Milbanke reached his side, he laughed once more, precisely as Anthony
Asshlin might have laughed, standing at the foot of the same staircase
nearly a hundred years ago. The taint of heredity seemed to wrap him
round--to gleam in his unnaturally bright eyes, to reverberate in his
voice.

"Up with you, James!" he cried. "I needn't put your hand on the
banister, like I have to do with some of my guests. You never yet drank
a swerve into your steps. Well, I don't blame you for it. It's men like
you that keep heaven a going concern, while poor devils like me are
paving the lower regions. Good-night to you!"

With a fresh laugh he thrust the great candlestick into the other's
hand and turned on his heel.

Milbanke remained motionless, while Asshlin passed across the hall and
opened the door, letting in a breath of fresh, damp air that set the
candle-flames dancing; then, as the door closed again, he turned and
put his hand on the banister.

It was with a feeling of unreality, mingled with the borrowed
excitement still at work within him, that he began his ascent of the
stairs. The natural fatigue consequent on the day's journey had been
temporarily dispelled, and sleep seemed something distant and almost
unattractive. As he mounted the creaking steps, moving cautiously out
of consideration for the sleeping household, he found himself wishing
incontinently that he had offered his company to his host in his stroll
towards the sea.

As the desire came to him, he paused. He could still overtake Asshlin!
He hesitated, glancing from the closed door of his bedroom to the hall
lying below him in a well of shadow. Then suddenly he raised his head,
attracted by a sound, subdued and yet distinct, that came to him
through the silence of the house--the sound of light, hasty steps on an
uncarpeted corridor.

In the wave of surprise that swept over him he forgot his recent
excitement, his recent wish for action and fresh air. Lifting the
candlestick above his head, he peered along the passage that stretched
away beyond his own door. But the scrutiny was momentary. Almost at
once he lowered the candles and drew back, as he recognised the figure
of Clodagh coming towards him out of the gloom. She was wearing a
flowing, old-fashioned dressing-gown of some flowered material; one
strand of her brown hair had been loosened, and fell across her
forehead, shadowing her eyes into something of the beauty they were yet
to wear. And as Milbanke looked at her, he realised with a stirring of
something like embarrassment, that a touch of promise, very gracious
and infinitely feminine, had replaced the first, half-boyish impression
that he had received of her.

But if he felt embarrassment, it was evident that she was conscious of
none. As she came within a few yards of him she halted for an instant
to assure herself of his identity; then, her mind satisfied, she
stepped straight onward into the light of the six candles.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said quickly. "I was afraid for a minute that it
was father. I've been waiting up for you," she added hastily. "I
couldn't go to sleep till I'd seen you."

Milbanke was confused. Moved by an undefined impulse, he extinguished
three of the six candles.

"Indeed!" he said. "But it's very late. You must--you must be tired."

He glanced uncertainly round the landing, as if seeking a chair to
offer her. Then an idea struck him.

"Will you come downstairs?" he suggested. "The fire is still alight in
the dining-room. You--you must be cold as well as tired."

He looked hesitatingly at her light gown.

But Clodagh shook her head.

"We mustn't go down," she said. "He might come in and find us--and then
we'd have a row. He and I of course, I mean," she added politely.

Then, as if impatient of the preamble, she plunged into the subject she
had at heart.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said, "will you promise me not to--not to, after
to-night----?"

Milbanke's face looked blank.

"Not to what?" he asked.

"Oh, not to encourage him--not to play with him. He's ruining himself
and ruining us all. Couldn't you guess it from dinner--from the quarrel
we had? Oh, he's so terribly foolish!"

Her voice suddenly trembled.

But he was labouring under the shock her revelation had given him.

"Good heavens!" he stammered. "I had no idea--no idea of such a thing."

"No; I know you hadn't--I was sure you hadn't." Her voice thrilled with
quick relief.

"No, no. Certainly not. But tell me about it. Dear me!--dear me! I had
no idea of such a thing."

"Oh, it began ages ago--before mother died. Burke says 'twas the
life--the quiet life after England. He came home, you know, when his
father died, and he found the place in a bad way. He has never been
rich enough to live out of the country, and he has never stopped
fretting for the things that aren't here. But while mother lived he
kept pretty good; 'twas after she died that he seemed not to care.
First he got gloomy and sad, then he got reckless and terrible. People
were frightened of him. His friends began to drop away."

She paused for a moment, glancing down into the hall to assure herself
that all was quiet.

"It's been the same ever since. Sometimes he's gloomy and depressed,
other times he's wild, like to-night. And when he's wild, he's mad for
cards. Oh, you don't know what it's like! It's like being a
drunkard--only different--and worse. When he's like that, he'd play
with any one--for anything. Last week he had a dreadful man--a
horse-dealer from Muskeere--staying here with him for three days. They
played cards every night--played till three or four in the morning.
Father lost all the ready money in the house, and nearly emptied the
stables."

Milbanke stood before her horrified and absorbed. An understanding of
many things, before obscure, had come to him while she was speaking;
and with the knowledge, a sudden deep pity for this child of his old
friend--a sudden sense of guilt at his own blindness, his own weakness.

"Miss Clodagh," he said quickly, in his stiff, formal voice. Then he
paused, as she raised her hand with a sharp gesture of attention.

A heavy step sounded on the gravel outside the house. There was an
instant's hesitation; then Clodagh leant forward with swift presence of
mind and blew out the three remaining candles.

"You understand now?" she whispered.

"Yes," he murmured, below his breath. "Yes; I understand."

A moment later he heard her flit down the corridor, and heard Asshlin
open the heavy outer door.




CHAPTER V


Thus it was that James Milbanke entered on his first night at
Orristown. The surprise, the excitement, and the culminating incident
of the evening would have been disturbing to a man of even more placid
temperament; and rebel as he might against the weakness, he lay awake
considerably longer than was his wont in the uncomfortable, canopied
bed, listening to the numberless infinitesimal sounds that break the
silence of a sleeping house--from the faint, occasional cracking of the
furniture to the scurrying of a mouse behind the plaster of the walls.
Then gradually, as his ears became accustomed to these minor noises,
another sound, unnoticed in the activity of the earlier hours, obtruded
itself softly but persistently upon his consciousness--the subdued and
regular breaking of the sea on the rocks below the house.

A slight sense of annoyance was his first feeling, for it was many
years since he had slept by the sea; then quietly, lingeringly,
soothingly the rhythmical persistence of the sound began to tell.
Imperceptibly the confusing ideas of the evening became pleasantly
indistinct--the numberless contradictory feelings blurred into one
delightful sensation of indifference and repose. With the salt, moist
air, borne to him through the open window, and the great untiring
lullaby of the ocean rising and falling upon his senses, like the
purring of a gigantic cat, he fell asleep.

His first sensation upon waking the next morning was one of
pleasure--the placid, unquestioning satisfaction that comes to the
untroubled mind with the advent of a fine day. To his simple taste, the
sights and sounds that met his waking consciousness were possessed of
an unaccustomed charm. With daylight, the room that last night had held
grim and even ghostly suggestions, took on a more human and more
friendly air. The ancient mahogany furniture seemed anxious to reflect
the morning sunshine; the massive posts of the bed with their drapery
of faded repp no longer glowered upon the intruder. Each object was
bathed in, and rejuvenated by, the golden warmth, the incomparable
mellow radiance of sea and sky that flowed in at the open window.

For a while he lay in contemplative enjoyment of this early, untainted
atmosphere, while the sounds of the awakening day gradually rose above
the soft beating of the outgoing tide--falling upon his ears in a
pleasant, primitive medley of clacking fowls, joyous, yelping dogs, and
stamping horses. For a space he lay still; then the inevitable wish to
take active part in this world created from the darkness and the
silence of the night aroused him; and, slipping out of bed, he drew on
a dressing-gown and walked to the window.

The sight that met his eyes was one of infinite beauty. The
delicacy--the poetry--the subtle, unnameable charm that lie in the
hollow of Nature's hand were over land and sky and sea; the warmth and
wealth of summer stretched before him, but summer mellowed and softened
by a golden autumnal haze.

There are more inspiring countries than Ireland--countries more richly
dowered in vegetation; countries more radiant in atmosphere and
brilliant in colouring: but there is no land where the Hand of the
Maker is more poignantly felt; where the mystic spirit of creation--the
wonderful, tender, pathetic sense of the Beginning--has been so
strangely preserved. As Milbanke stood at the open window, his eyes
travelled without interruption over the wide green fields--neither lawn
nor meadow--that spread from the house to the shore, owning no boundary
wall beyond the low, shelving rocks of red sandstone that rose a
natural barrier against the encroachments of the tide. And from the
fields his gaze wandered onward, drawn irresistibly and inevitably to
the sea itself--the watchful, tyrannical guardian of the silent land.

It lay before him like a tremendous glassy lake, stretching in one
untroubled sweep from Orristown to the point, three miles away, where
the purple headland of Carrigmore completed the semicircle of the bay.
The silence, the majesty of that sweep of water was indescribable. From
the rim of yellow sand, which the indolent waves were lapping, to the
misted horizon, not one sign of human life marred the smoothness of its
surface. Across the bay at Carrigmore a few spirals of smoke rose from
the cluster of pink and white cottages lying under the shadow of the
Round Tower; on the long, sandy strand a couple of bare-legged boys
were leisurely raking up the sea-weed that the waves had left, and
slowly piling it on a waiting donkey butt; but the sea itself was
undisturbed. It lay as it might have lain on the first day of completed
creation--mystical, sublime, untouched.

Milbanke was no poet, yet the scene impressed him. The extraordinary
sense of an inimitable and impenetrable peace before which man and
man's mere transitory concerns are dwarfed, if not entirely eliminated,
touched him vaguely. It was with a tinge of something bordering upon
reluctance that he at last drew his eyes from the picture and began to
dress.

But once freed from the spell of the ocean, his mind reverted to the
other interests that lay closer at hand. He found himself wondering how
his entertainers would appear on a second inspection; whether, like his
room, they would take on a more commonplace semblance with the advent
of daylight. The touch of irrepressible and human curiosity that the
speculation aroused gave a spur to the business of dressing; and it was
well under the twenty minutes usually devoted to his neat and careful
toilet when he found himself crossing the corridor and descending the
stairs.

He encountered no one as he passed through the hall; and catching a
fresh suggestion of sunshine through the door that stood hospitably
open, he paused for an instant to take a cursory glance at the
gravelled sweep that terminated the drive, and the grassy slope
surmounted by a fringe of beeches that formed the outlook from the
front of the house. Then he turned quickly, and, recrossing the hall,
passed into the dining-room.

None of the household had yet appeared, but here also the daylight had
worked changes.

The curtains were drawn back, permitting the view of fields and sea,
that he had already studied from his bedroom, to break uninterruptedly
through the three lofty windows. The effect was one of extreme airiness
and light; and it was quite a minute before his gaze turned to the
darker side of the room, where the portrait of the famous Anthony
Asshlin hung above the fire.

Realising that he was alone in the big room, he crossed to the table
where breakfast was already laid--the remains of the enormous ham
rising from an untidy paper frill to defy the attacks of the largest
appetite. In the brilliance of the light, the fineness of the table
linen and its state of dilapidation were both accentuated, as was the
genuine beauty and intrinsic value of the badly kept silver.

But Milbanke had no time to absorb these details, for instantly he
reached the table his eye was caught by a folded slip of paper lying by
his place. With a touch of surprise he stooped forward and picked it
up; then a wave of annoyance, almost of guilt, succeeded the surprise
as he realised that it was a cheque made out in Asshlin's straggling
handwriting for his losses of the night before.

As he fingered it uncomfortably a vivid remembrance of his interview
with Clodagh rose to his mind. He thought of the poverty, suggested
rather than expressed by the girl's words; he thought of the Muskeere
horse-dealer who had all but emptied the stables. With a puckered brow
he studied his own name scrawled across the cheque; then, with a sense
of something like duplicity, he hurriedly pushed it under his plate as
he heard the hall door close, and footsteps sound across the hall. A
moment later Asshlin, followed by his two daughters, entered the room.

All three greeted him in turn; then Asshlin crossed to the fire and
proceeded to stir it to a blaze, while Nance and Clodagh passed to
their appointed places.

Both girls looked pleasantly in keeping with the fresh morning--their
rich, youthful colouring having nothing to fear from the searching
light. Nance was dressed in a very clean blue cotton frock that
accentuated the colour of her eyes; but Clodagh was again attired in
the old-fashioned riding-habit, though this time the boy's cap was
absent, and the sunshine caught reflections in her light brown hair.

"I hope you don't mind my being dressed like this," she said, as she
took her seat. "I always have a ride in the mornings, and I generally
tidy up for breakfast; but I'm riding a race at ten with Larry--my
cousin, you know--so 'twouldn't be worth while to change to-day."

She spoke quite naturally, encountering Milbanke's eyes with no
suggestion of embarrassment for last night's adventure.

He met her glance for an instant; then his own wandered guiltily to the
corner of the cheque protruding from under his plate.

"Not at all!" he said hurriedly--"not at all! I hope I may be permitted
to see the race."

Clodagh smiled.

"Of course--if you like," she said. "But it won't be much to look at."
She added this with a quick glance that ineffectually attempted to
gauge the guest's tastes and powers of appreciation.

"'Twill be grand!" murmured Nance softly. "And I know who's going to
win."

"Nonsense!" said Clodagh. "I won in the practice last night, but the
strand was wet, and the cob is only sure on hard ground."

But nevertheless she flushed and threw a quick look of appreciation and
affection at her loyal little partisan.

"What are you two chattering about?" said Asshlin, standing up from the
fire and straightening his shoulders.

"Is that your notion of hospitality? To keep a stranger waiting for his
breakfast? Faith, we knew better in the old days--eh, James?"

He laughed, and passed round the table.

Clodagh presided at the old-fashioned silver urn; and either her
confidences of the night before or the prospect of her coming contest
affected her, for she forgot the diffidence that had marked her at the
dinner of the preceding evening, and talked brightly and with interest
on a variety of subjects. Finally, as she handed Milbanke his second
cup of tea, she touched upon the object of his visit.

"'Twas to see the ruins at Carrigmore, not us, that you came, wasn't
it?" she said with a shade of humour.

He returned her glance seriously.

"Oh no," he said. "At least----"

"Ah, now you've let it out!" she cried, with a laugh. "I knew it. I
said so. Didn't I, Nance? I knew no one would come here just to see
us."

Asshlin laughed.

"'Pon my soul!" he cried, "you haven't learned your market value yet,
Clo! If I were a girl, I'm hanged if I'd rate myself lower than a
fourth-century ruin."

He laughed afresh.

But Clodagh displayed no embarrassment. She was too unversed in the
ways of coquetry to see or resent the point of the remark.

"I?" she said naively. "What have I to do with it?"

After this there was a trifling silence, at the end of which, Asshlin
looked quickly at his guest.

"By the way, James," he exclaimed, "we were too well amused last night
to look ahead. I never thought of asking you about to-day. Have you any
pet plans or schemes? Is it to be a pilgrimage to St. Galen? Or what do
you say to a day in the saddle? There's a meet not five miles away; and
if a good gallop pleases you, I have as neat a little horse for you as
ever carried a saddle. What do you say? Of course if you think the
Round Tower is likely to collapse or be demolished by a tidal wave, I
won't raise a finger; but----"

Milbanke laughed.

"My dear Denis," he said quickly, "don't you trouble on my account." He
glanced deprecatingly over Asshlin's sporting attire. "Don't you
trouble about me. I never was a sportsman, as you know. I'll go to my
own hunting, and you go to yours. Don't let me interfere with any plans
you may have formed. I enjoy a solitary excursion."

But Asshlin's face darkened.

"Oh no," he objected after a short pause--"oh no. If you're not game
for it, then the meet is off so far as I'm concerned. I can't have you
roaming about the country by yourself. Oh no; I hope I remember my
obligations."

Milbanke looked distressed. With a genuine feeling of embarrassment he
turned from one face to the other.

"My dear Denis," he objected feebly, "I must really beg of you----"

"Not another word!--not another word!" Asshlin ostentatiously helped
himself to some ham, "I hope, James, that whatever our environments, we
still understand the traditions of hospitality. If you don't feel on
for it, there's no hunting for me to-day."

After this there was another unpleasant pause. Asshlin attempted to
hide his chagrin, but his face was unmistakably dark with
disappointment.

For a space Milbanke toyed with his breakfast, then he spoke again.

"But, my dear Denis, if you will only allow me----" he ventured.

But before Asshlin could reply, Clodagh's voice broke in.

"Oh! you needn't bother so much, father," she said easily. "You go to
the meet, and I'll take Mr. Milbanke to Carrigmore. I'll drive him over
in the pony-trap, or we'll walk--whichever he likes best."

She spoke fluently and gaily, and it was difficult for Milbanke to
reconcile the high, buoyant tones of her voice with the serious note
struck by her the night before. Filled with relief, however, at her
timely interruption, he was satisfied to let the discrepancy go
unregarded.

"Excellent!" he cried--"an excellent idea, Miss Clodagh! Here's your
difficulty solved, Denis. Your Irish sense of chivalry won't allow you
to deprive me of so charming a guide."

Clodagh laughed frankly at the stilted compliment, and Asshlin's face
brightened perceptibly.

"Oh, well, as you're so amiable," he said magnanimously. "I don't mind
admitting that 'twould have been a bit of a sacrifice to give up the
hunt. Though if I hadn't been overruled by the majority, I'd have
swallowed the ruins without a grimace."

He laughed with restored good-humour, and turned to his daughters.

"When you've done breakfast, Clo," he said, "run round to the stables
and tell Burke he need only saddle the bay."

With the decision that he was, after all, to enjoy his day's sport, his
spirits had risen; and despite the fact that the daylight revealed many
evidences of last night's dissipation that would have been invisible
thirty years ago, Milbanke was pleased and reassured by his appearance.
His movements were energetic, his expression alert. He suggested one
who is interested and attracted by life; and the elder man was too
unimaginative--too single of purpose in his own concerns--to suspect
that the energy, the suggestion of anticipation were due to his own
presence in the house, to the promise of excitement and diversion that
that presence offered.

With the definite arrangement of the day's plans, a fresh energy had
descended on the party, and but a few minutes passed before Clodagh and
Nance rose from table and left the room. Then, as the two men were left
alone, Milbanke put into action the resolution that had been gradually
maturing in his mind.

Not without a certain trepidation--not without an embarrassed distaste
for the task--he bent forward in his precise manner, and drawing the
cheque from beneath his plate, began to smooth it out.

"Denis," he said, "I found this on my plate when I came downstairs----"

Asshlin looked up hastily and laughed. He had all the Irishman's
distaste to money as a topic of conversation. He was as sensitive in
the offering of it to another, as in the accepting of it for himself.

"Oh, that's all right!" he said quickly. "Not another word about that,
James--not another syllable."

But Milbanke continued to finger the cheque.

"Denis," he began again, a shade of nervousness audible in his voice,
"I am uncertain how to say what I want to say. I am extremely anxious
not to offend you, and yet I feel--I fear that you may take offence."

Before replying, Asshlin drained the cup of strong tea that stood
beside his plate; then he glanced again at his companion.

"What in thunder are you driving at?" he asked good-humouredly.

Milbanke looked down.

"That's what I want to explain," he answered without raising his head.
"And you must not allow it to offend you. I want you, for the sake of
old friendship, to let me tear this cheque up. I was excited last
night; I infringed on one of my set rules--that of never playing cards
for high stakes. It is for my own sake that I ask permission to do
this. It--it will put me right with myself."

He laughed deprecatingly.

For a second there was no indication that his laboured explanation had
been even heard; then, with alarming suddenness, Asshlin brought his
hand down upon the table, ripping out an oath.

"And where the devil do I come in?" he demanded. "Is it because you see
the place going to rack and ruin that you think you can insult me in my
own house? I'd have you to know that when an Asshlin needs charity, he
will ask for it." In the spasm of rage that had attacked him, his eyes
blazed and the veins in his forehead swelled. Then, suddenly catching a
glimpse of the consternation on his guest's face, he controlled himself
by an effort, and with a loud laugh pushed back his chair and rose.
"Forgive me, James!" he said roughly. "You don't understand--you never
did understand. It's the cursed pride of a cursed country. The less we
have to be proud of, the more damned proud we are. We have a sense of
humour for everything in creation except ourselves." Again he laughed
harshly; then again his mood changed. "James," he said seriously, "put
that cheque in your pocket, and if you value my friendship, never
mention it again. We may be a bad lot; we may be all Clo says of
us--fools, rakes, spendthrifts; but no Asshlin ever shirked his debts
of honour." The words were bombastic, the sentiment false, but the
natural dignity and distinction of the man--dissipated failure though
he might be--were unmistakable, as he stood with high head and erect
figure.

By the ironic injustice of such circumstances Milbanke--honest,
prosaic, incapable of a dishonourable action--felt suddenly humiliated.
With shame-faced haste he muttered an apology, and thrust the cheque
into his pocket.

At the moment that he did so, Clodagh re-entered the room.

"It's all right, father!" she exclaimed. "The bay will be round in a
second. And Larry has come. Are you ready, Mr. Milbanke?"

He responded with instant alacrity. It was the second time that morning
that she had unconsciously come to his relief.

"Oh! quite," he said--"quite ready. Shall we start?"

"This minute, if you like. Good-bye, father! I hope 'twill be a good
run." She crossed the room quickly, then paused at the door. "Remember,
the race will be nothing at all worth seeing," she added, glancing back
over her shoulder at the guest.




CHAPTER VI


Without ceremony or apology Clodagh led Milbanke to the stables by the
shortest route, which entailed the traversing of several long and windy
passages and the crossing of the great, draughty kitchen where Hannah,
the housekeeper, cook, and general mainstay of the establishment, held
undisputed sway.

As they entered her domain, she was standing by an open window engaged
in the cleaning of a saucepan--an operation to which she brought an
astonishing amount of noisy energy. At sight of the stranger, she
dropped the knife she was holding, and made a furtive attempt to
straighten her ample and somewhat dirty apron.

"Ah, wisha, Miss Clodagh," she began in a voice that trembled between
chagrin and an inherent sense of hospitality, "isn't that a quare thing
for you to be doin' now? To be bringin' the gintleman down here--an' me
in the middle of me pots? Not but what you're welcome, sir--though 'tis
no fit place for you," she added, with a glance that summed the
intruder up from head to heel.

Milbanke laughed a little awkwardly.

"So long as you make no objection," he said with amiable haste, "I see
nothing to find fault with."

But Hannah gave an incredulous shake of her head.

"Ah! you do be sayin' that," she replied sagely. "But 'tis a quare
place you'll be findin' Orristown after England." She added this in a
persuasive tone, making a tentative cast for the stranger's sentiments.

But before the fish could rise to her bait, her attention was claimed
in another direction. A pellet of mud, aimed with extreme accuracy,
came flying through the open window and hit her on the cheek.

Milbanke glanced round quickly; Clodagh laughed; and the victim of the
assault gave a gasp, pushed her saucepans aside, and thrust her head
through the window.

"Wait till I catch you, Masther Larry!" she cried across the yard. "How
can I be doin' the work of six women and three men with the likes of
you trapesin' about? 'Pon my word, I'll tell on you--I'll tell your
uncle on you. Long threatenin' comes at last!"

But the only response that greeted her was a smothered laugh from the
stables opposite--a laugh which Clodagh involuntarily echoed.

Instantly Hannah wheeled round from the window.

"Ah! Miss Clodagh, isn't it a shame for you?" she exclaimed
tremulously. "Isn't it a shame for you now to be encouragin' that brat
of a boy? Sure, 'tis the third time he thrun his marbles of mud at me
this mornin'. So signs, I'll spake to the masther. I will so."

She gave her apron a defiant tug.

Milbanke stood uncertain and embarrassed, nervously curious as to
Clodagh's next move. With a certain misgiving he saw her face brim over
with delight; then with a sense of complete amazement he saw her step
suddenly to the side of the indignant Hannah, throw one arm impulsively
round her neck, and give her a hasty kiss.

"Indeed you won't speak to him, Hannah--and you know you won't," she
said in her most beguiling tones. "And you'll make a griddle cake for
lunch--just to show you aren't angry. Come on, Mr. Milbanke! Larry is
waiting."

As they crossed the kitchen, Hannah defiantly passed the corner of her
apron across her eyes and ostentatiously resumed her interrupted work.

At the door Clodagh looked back.

"Hannah!" she said persuasively.

Hannah began to scrape her saucepan.

"Go on wid you now, Miss Clodagh!" she cried. "Sure 'tis a pair of ye
that's there. I'm out wid ye."

"But the griddle cake, Hannah?"

"Let Betsy over at Mrs. Asshlin's make griddle cake for ye. Maybe she
wouldn't put up wid Masther Larry as aisy as me."

"Of course Betsy would make a griddle cake at any time," said Clodagh
promptly; "only we couldn't eat it--after yours."

For a moment Hannah made no response; then she gave another disdainful
whisk to her apron and attacked the saucepan with renewed force.

Clodagh said nothing, but took a step forward. Her cheeks were bright
and her eyes danced with mischief and amusement. As her foot touched
the paving stones of the yard, Hannah raised her head.

"I suppose 'twill be at wan ye'll be wantin' the lunch?" she said in a
suddenly lowered and mollified voice; and Clodagh responded with a
laugh of triumph and delight.

Outside in the sunshine of the yard, she laughed again.

"Hannah is an old duck!" she said. "She is always getting as cross as
two sticks, and then forgetting all about it. Nobody could help teasing
her. But where's Larry gone to? Larry! Larry!"

There was a pause, a stamping of horse's hoofs, and the sound of a
voice whispering affectionate injunctions to an unseen animal; then
young Laurence Asshlin emerged from the stables, leading his chestnut
cob.

He was a well-made, long-limbed boy of fourteen, with skin as smooth
and eyes as clear as Clodagh's own.

"Hullo, Clo!" he exclaimed. "That was a straight shot, wasn't it? Was
she mad?"

"Pretty mad," responded Clodagh. "This is Mr. Milbanke. He came last
night."

Young Asshlin eyed the stranger frankly and without embarrassment.

"You're not at the meet?" he said with involuntary surprise. "I'd be
there, only mother doesn't let me hunt yet. She thinks I'd break my
neck or something," he laughed. "But I'll go to every meet within
twenty miles when I'm a man," he added. "There's nothing as good as
hunting--except sailing. Are you much of a sailor?"

Milbanke looked back into the bright, fearless eyes and healthy,
spirited face, and again a touch of aloofness, of age, damped him.
There was a buoyancy in this boy and girl, a zest, an enthusiasm
outside which he stood the undeniable alien.

"Yes, I am fond of the sea," he responded; "but probably not as you are
fond of it."

Try as he might to be natural and pleasant, his speech sounded stilted,
his words staid.

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

"Didn't know there were two ways of doing it," he said, rubbing his
face against the cob's sleek neck.

But Clodagh came to her guest's rescue.

"Larry doesn't deserve any credit for liking the sea," she said. "His
father was a sailor. You go on to the fields, Larry," she added;
"you'll find Nance waiting there. I'll saddle Polly in a second, and be
after you with Mr. Milbanke. Run now! you're only wasting time."

Larry hesitated for a moment, then he nodded.

"All right!" he acquiesced. "Only don't be long."

Instantly he was gone, Clodagh handed her whip to Milbanke and darted
into the coach-house, reappearing with a saddle over her arm and a
bridle swinging from her shoulder.

"You are not going to saddle the horse yourself?" he exclaimed in
consternation. "Let me call one of the men. Please let me call one of
the men."

Clodagh laughed.

"There's no one to call," she said. "Burke is the only proper
man-servant we keep, and he drove into Muskeere for provisions as soon
as he brought the bay round for father. You don't think I'd let any of
the labourers touch the horses!" As she said this she laughed again
and, nodding gaily, passed into one of the stalls.

After she had disappeared Milbanke stood silent, listening with an
uncomfortable embarrassment to the soft whinnying of the horse, the
soft murmuring of Clodagh's voice, the straining and creaking of
leather that reached his ears. At last, yielding to his instincts, he
stepped forward and spoke again.

"Miss Clodagh, let me help you," he said. "I'm afraid I'm rather
useless, but you might let me try."

Again Clodagh's soft, humorous laugh answered him.

"It's done now," she said; "and anyway I've known how to saddle a horse
since I was twelve. Stand back a little, please!"

He drew back hastily, and she led out a small grey mare.

"She isn't much to look at," she explained, "but she's grand to go--and
I know she's going to win. She must win."

She kissed the animal impulsively on the soft, quivering nostril.

Together they threaded their way between the scurrying fowls and
innumerable dogs that filled the yard--Clodagh leading the mare,
Milbanke keeping close to her side.

"What is this race for?" he asked, as they passed through the arched
gateway. "A mere trial of strength?"

Clodagh's eyes widened.

"Oh no," she said; "that would be silly. There are stakes of
course--Larry's telescope against my Irish terrier. The telescope
belonged to Uncle Laurence, and is a beauty; but it's nothing at all to
Mick--Mick is a pedigree dog, six months old, with the finest coat and
the loveliest head you ever saw. If I lost him----" But here she
stopped. "It's unlucky to say that, isn't it?" she added quickly. "Of
course I'm not going to lose him."

Again she turned and fondled the mare; and a moment later they came
into view of the long, level fields that lay between the house and the
sea, and saw the erect figure of Larry clearly silhouetted against the
sky, as he sat his cob with the ease of the born horseman.

It took Milbanke but a few minutes to place himself in a safe and
advantageous position on a ditch that, dividing two of the fields, was
to form the last jump of the race. And once ensconced in this pleasant
and not uncomfortable seat, he watched the cousins move across the
fields to the point where little Nance was waiting to arrange the
preliminaries. He saw Clodagh mount the grey mare, observed the one or
two inevitable false starts, then became conscious with a quickening of
interest that the race had begun.

Had he been possessed of the humorous quality he would undoubtedly have
been drawn into a smile at his own position; as it was, he saw nothing
ludicrous in the idea of an elderly student seated on an Irish ditch,
playing umpire to a couple of children. As the horses started, he
merely settled himself more securely in his seat, and drew out his
handkerchief in obedience to the instinct that some expression of
enthusiasm would be demanded by the winner. He could not picture
himself raising a cheer as the conqueror sailed past him; but his
dignity affably bent to the idea of a friendly wave of a handkerchief.

A slight breeze was blowing in from the sea, and the intense freshness
of the atmosphere again obtruded itself upon him as he watched the
horses swing towards him across the fields, the thud of their hoofs
upon the grass gaining in volume with every stride.

For a space they galloped neck to neck; then slowly, almost
imperceptibly, Clodagh drew away. For a couple of seconds the distance
between the animals became noticeable; then young Asshlin, urging the
chestnut, regained his lost position, and to Milbanke's eyes the two
were again abreast as they crossed the last field.

Once more he settled himself in his place of vantage. Something in the
freshness of the morning, something in the youth and vitality of the
competitors gave the race an interest and attraction it would otherwise
have lacked. With a reluctant sensation--half curiosity, half the
alien's unaccountable attraction towards conditions of life other than
his own--he found himself straining his eyes towards the two slight
figures moving towards him across the short grass. Nearer and nearer
they came, maintaining their level positions; then, as the last ditch
came clearly into view, the grey mare seemed to gather herself together
for the short final gallop and the jump. Leaning forward, he saw
Clodagh straighten herself in the saddle as each stride increased the
advantage she had gained.

Unconsciously--with the nearer pounding of the hoofs--the excitement
of the moment touched him. But it touched him with disastrous results.
As the mare neared the ditch, he suddenly leant forward, losing the
balance he had so carefully preserved.

The action was instantaneous, and it was but the work of another
instant to grasp the sturdy weeds that topped the ditch, and regain his
position; but unwittingly the harmless incident had changed the result
of the race. As he involuntarily steadied himself, the handkerchief,
held in readiness for the victor, slipped from his hand and fluttered
down upon the grass.

It fell at the feet of the grey mare. She paused in sudden alarm, then
hunched herself together, and shied away from it as from a ghost.

No harm was done. Clodagh kept her seat without a tremor; but in that
second of lost time the cob drew level with his rival, then sailed
triumphantly over the ditch.

For Milbanke there was a moment of horrible suspense, and a succeeding
relief that drove all thought of the race and its result far from his
mind. Immediately the field was clear he scrambled from his position
and hurried to where Clodagh was soothing the still frightened Polly.

"Miss Clodagh," he began, "I am so sorry. I assure you it--it was not
my fault."

Clodagh was bending low over the mare's neck, her flushed face
partially hidden. She made no reply to his confused and stammering
speech.

"Miss Clodagh," he began afresh, "you are not angry? You don't think it
was my fault?"

Clodagh laughed a little tremulously.

"Of course not," she said. "How can you be so silly? I hadn't her
properly in hand, that was all."

As she finished young Asshlin cantered back, halting on the further
side of the ditch. His face was also flushed and his eyes looked dark.

"Look here," he said, eyeing Milbanke, "what did you mean by balking
her like that? What were you doing with your beastly handkerchief?
'Twas no race, Clo!"

But Clodagh looked up.

"Oh yes, it was," she said. "It was all my own fault; I hadn't Polly in
hand. I should have pulled her together and sent her over with a touch
of the whip. Apologise, Larry! 'Twas a fair race."

But Larry still hesitated, his glance straying doubtfully from one face
to the other.

"Honour bright, Clo?" he asked at last.

Clodagh nodded.

"Then I'm sorry, sir," he said frankly, "for saying what I said."

Milbanke made a murmur of forgiveness; and a moment later Nance
appeared upon the scene, breathless and full of curiosity. As Larry
entered upon a voluble account of the finish in reply to her eager
questions, Clodagh wheeled the mare round and trotted quickly across
the fields in the direction of the house.

For a moment or two Milbanke stood irresolute; then a sudden impulse to
follow the mare and her rider seized him, and ignoring Nance and
Larry--still absorbed in heated explanation--he took his way slowly
across the green and springy turf.

His crossing of the field was measured and methodical, and he had
barely come within sight of the arched gateway of the yard when Clodagh
reappeared--this time on foot. The tail of her habit was tucked under
one arm, the struggling form of an Irish terrier was held firmly under
the other.

She came straight forward in his direction; and, reaching him, would
have passed on without speaking. But he halted in front of her.

"Miss Clodagh," he said, "you are hurt and disappointed."

Clodagh averted her eyes.

"I'm not," she said shortly.

"But I see that you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Miss Clodagh, you are. Can't I do something?"

Then at last she looked at him. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes
were brimming with tears that only pride held back.

"It isn't the old race," she said defiantly. "It's--it's Mick."

Two tears suddenly welled over and dropped on the red head of the dog,
who responded with an adoring look and a wild attempt to lick her face.

"Oh, I've had him since he was six weeks old!" she cried impulsively.
"I reared him and trained him myself! He knows every word I say."

Milbanke suddenly looked relieved.

"Is that all?" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Is that all? We'll soon put
that right. Keep your dog. I'll settle matters with your cousin."

He glanced back across the fields to where Larry was walking the cob to
and fro.

But Clodagh's face expressed intense surprise.

"But you don't understand," she said. "Mick was the stake. 'Twas a fair
race, and Larry won. Mick is--is Larry's now."

He laughed a little.

"Oh, nonsense! You raced for fun."

"Yes, for the best fun we could get," she said seriously. "That's why
we staked what we cared most about. Don't you understand?"

For the moment her grief was merged in her unaffected surprise at his
lack of comprehension.

But Milbanke was staring at her interestedly. The scene at the
breakfast-table, and with it Asshlin's offended pride and ridiculous
dignity, had risen before him with her soft, surprised tone, her wide,
incredulous gaze. With total unconsciousness she was voicing the
sentiments of her race. An Asshlin might neglect everything else in the
world, but his debts of honour were sacred things.

He looked more closely at the pretty, distressed face, at the brimming
eyes, and the resolutely set lips.

"And simply because you staked him," he said, "you intend to lose the
dog?"

Clodagh caught her breath, and a fresh tear fell on Mick's head; then
with a defiant lifting of the chin she started forward across the
field.

"'Twas a fair race," she said in an unsteady voice.




CHAPTER VII


Whatever Clodagh may have felt upon the subject, she made no further
allusion to the loss of her dog.

An hour after the race, Milbanke, standing at his bedroom window,
caught a glimpse of Larry riding slowly across the fields towards the
avenue with the evidently unwilling Mick held securely under his arm;
and a few minutes afterwards, a noisy bell, clanging through the house,
informed him that luncheon had been served.

The two girls were already in the dining-room when he entered. Clodagh
had changed her riding habit for a neat holland dress; her hair was
smoothly plaited, and only a lingering trace of the morning's
excitement burned in her cheeks.

As the guest entered, she came forward at once and pointed to his chair
with a pretty touch of gracious hospitality.

"Where is your cousin?" he said, as he responded to her gesture.

She flushed momentarily.

"Gone!" she answered laconically. Then, conscious that the reply was
curt, she made haste to amend it. "He's gone home to lunch," she added.
"Aunt Fan wanted him back. She's a great invalid and always worrying
about him. I suppose invalids are never like other people. Will you
please help yourself?"

She smiled and indicated a steaming stew--sufficient to feed ten hungry
people--that Hannah, acting in Burke's absence, had planted heavily
upon the table.

"We always begin lunch with meat," Clodagh explained; "but we always
finish with tea and whatever Hannah will make for us to eat. If you
stay long enough you'll be able to tell all Hannah's tempers by what we
get at lunch. When she's terribly cross we have bread and jam; when
she's middling we get soda bread; but when she's really and truly nice
we have currant loaf or griddle cake!"

She glanced round mischievously at the red face of the factotum.

Hannah, who had been wavering between offence and amusement, suddenly
succumbed to the look.

"Sure, 'tis a quare notion you'll be givin' him of the place," she
said, amicably joining in the conversation without a shade of
embarrassment. "If I was you, I wouldn't be tellin' a gintleman that I
laves the whole work of the house to wan poor ould woman, an' goes
galavantin' over the country mornin', noon, an' night, instead of
learnin' meself to be a good housekeeper! So signs, 'tis Miss Nance
that'll find the husband first!" With a knowing glance at Milbanke and
a shake of the head she left the room, banging the door behind her.

Clodagh laughed. The insinuation in Hannah's words and look passed
unnoticed by her. She swept them aside unconcernedly, and proceeded
with an inborn tact--an inborn sense of the responsibilities of her
position--to fill her _role_ of hostess and entertain her guest.

So successful was she in this new aspect, that Milbanke found himself
thawing--even growing communicative under her influence as the meal
progressed. Long before the appetising griddle cake and the heavy
silver teapot had been laid upon the table he had begun to feel at
home; to meet Nance's shy, friendly smiles without embarrassment; to
talk with freedom and naturalness of his small, personal ambitions, his
own unimportant, individual researches in his pet study of antiquity.

A reticent man--when once his reticence has been broken down--makes as
egotistical a confidant as any other. Before they rose from the table,
he had been beguiled into forgetting that the Celtic zeal for the
entertainment of a guest may sometimes be mistaken for something more;
that Irish children--with their natural kinship to sun and rain, dogs
and horses, men and women--may assume, but cannot possibly feel, an
interest in monuments of wood or stone, no matter how historic or how
unique.

This erroneous impression remained with him until the time arrived for
Clodagh to pilot him to Carrigmore; and filled with the knowledge of
having a sympathetic listener, he harked back to his earliest
experiences while he covered the two miles of firm yellow sand with his
young hostess walking sedately beside him and half a dozen
dogs--setters, retrievers, and sharp-nosed terriers--careering about
him in a joyous band. He entered upon minute and technical details of
every archaeological discovery of the past decade; he recounted his
personal opinion of each; he even unbent to the extent of relating a
dry anecdote or two during that delightful walk in the mellow warmth of
the afternoon. It was only when the long curve of the strand had at
last been traversed and the rocks of Orristown left far behind, that
discoveries, opinions, and stories alike faded from his mind in the
nearer interest of the Carrigmore ruins.

Even to the pleasure-seeker there is something symbolic and imposing in
the tall, grey, symmetrical tower that tops the hill above Carrigmore
and faces the great sweep of the Atlantic Ocean; something infinitely
ancient and impressive in the crumbling ruins of the church from whose
walls the rudely carved figures look down to-day as they looked down in
primitive Christian times, when Carrigmore was a centre of learning,
and its tower a beacon to the world of Faith. To Milbanke--a student of
such things--they were a revelation.

He scarcely spoke as he climbed the steep hill and entered the
grass-grown churchyard; and once within the precincts of the ruin all
considerations save the consideration of the moment faded from his
thoughts. With the mild enthusiasm that his hobby always awoke in him,
he set about a minute examination of the place, hurriedly unstrapping
the satchel in which he carried his antiquarian's paraphernalia.

During the first half-hour Clodagh sat dutifully on one of the graves,
alternately plaiting grasses and admonishing or petting her dogs; then
her long-tried patience gave out. With a sudden imperative need of
action she rose, shook the grasses from her skirt, and, picking her way
between the half-buried headstones, reached Milbanke's side.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said frankly, "would you mind very much if I went
away and came back for you in an hour? You see, the ruins aren't quite
so new to me as they are to you--people say they've been here since the
fourth century."

She laughed, and called to the dogs.

But Milbanke scarcely heard the laugh. There was a flush of delight on
his thin cheeks as he peered through his magnifying-glass into one of
the carved stones. He waited a moment before replying; then he answered
with bent head.

"Certainly, Miss Clodagh," he said abstractedly--"certainly! But make
it two hours, I beg of you, instead of one."

And with another amused laugh Clodagh took advantage of her dismissal.


Milbanke's absorption was so unfeigned that when Clodagh came running
back nearly three hours later, full of remorse for her long desertion,
he greeted her with something amounting to regret.

Twice she had to remind him that the afternoon was all but spent and
the long walk to Orristown still to be reckoned with, before he could
desist from the fascinating task of completing the notes he had made.
At last, with a little sigh of amiable regret, he shut up his book,
returned the magnifying-glass to his satchel, and slowly followed her
out of the churchyard.

They had covered half a mile of the smooth strand, across which the
first long shadows of evening had begun to fall, before the glamour of
the past centuries had faded from his consideration, permitting the
more material present to obtrude itself.

Then at last, with a little start of compunction, he realised how
silent and uninteresting a companion he must seem to the girl walking
so staidly beside him; and with something of guilt in the movement, he
withdrew his eyes from the long, wet line of sand where the incoming
tide was stealthily encroaching.

"Miss Clodagh," he said abruptly, "what are you thinking of?"

With frank spontaneity, she turned and met his gaze.

"I was wondering," she said candidly, "when you'd forget the Round
Tower and remember about father."

He started, roused to a fresh sense of guilt.

"You--you mustn't think----" he began stammeringly.

But Clodagh laughed.

"Oh, don't bother about it!" she said easily. "I wasn't really
thinking."

For a while he remained silent, watching the noisy dogs as they
ineffectually chased the seagulls that wheeled above the unruffled
waves; then, at last, urged by his awakened conscience, he half paused
and looked again at the girl's bright face.

"Miss Clodagh," he began, "I feel very guilty--I _am_ very guilty."

Clodagh glanced back at him.

"How?" she said simply.

"Because last night I unconsciously did what you disapprove of. I
played with your father for high stakes, and I am ashamed to say that I
won a large sum of money."

For an instant the brightness left her glance; she looked at him with
the serious eyes of the night before.

"Much?" she asked impulsively.

"Twenty pounds." Milbanke felt himself colour. Then he rallied his
courage. "But that isn't all," he added quickly. "I have something
worse to confess. When I came down to breakfast this morning I found a
cheque lying on my plate. I felt intensely remorseful, as you can
imagine; and determined to make reparation. After breakfast I broached
the subject to Denis; I begged him to allow me to cancel our play by
tearing up the cheque. He was furiously angry; and I, instead of
showing the courage of my opinion, was actually weak enough to succumb.
Now, what punishment do you think I deserve?" He paused, looking at her
anxiously.

For a while she looked steadily ahead, absorbed in her own thoughts;
then slowly she looked back at him with interested, incredulous eyes.

"Don't English people pay when they lose?" she asked after a long
pause.

Again he coloured.

"Why, yes," he said hurriedly. "Yes, of course, only----"

"Only what?"

"Nothing--nothing. It was only that I thought you wanted----"

"I wanted you not to encourage him. I never wanted you to think that he
isn't a gentleman."

She made the statement with perfect naturalness, as though the subject
was one of common, everyday discussion. According to her code of
honour, she was justified in putting every possible bar to her father's
weakness; but where the bar had proved useless, where the weakness had
conquered and the deed she disapproved of had been accomplished, then
the matter, to her thinking, had passed out of her hands. Her judgment
ceased to be individual and became the judgment of her race.

As she looked at Milbanke's perplexed, concerned face, her expression
changed, and she smiled. The smile was gracious and reassuring, but
below the graciousness lay a tinge of tolerant indulgence.

"We won't talk about it any more," she said. "I don't suppose you can
be expected to understand." And suddenly raising her head, she whistled
to the dogs.

During the remainder of the walk Milbanke was very silent. Perplexed
and yet fascinated by the problem, his mind dwelt unceasingly upon this
strange position into which the chances of a day or two had thrown him.
The bonds that drew him to his entertainers, and the gulf that
separated him from them, were so tangible and yet so illusive. In every
outward respect they were his fellow beings; they spoke the same
language, wore the same dress, ate the same food, and yet
unquestionably they were creatures of different fibre. He felt
curiously daunted and curiously attracted by the peculiar fact.

To appreciate the difference between the Englishman and the Irishman
one must see the latter in his native atmosphere. It is there that his
faults and his virtues take on their proper values; there that his
innate poetry, his reckless generosity, his prodigal hospitality have
fullest scope; there that his primitive narrowness of outlook, his
antiquated sense of honour and his absurdly sensitive self-esteem are
most vividly backgrounded. Outside his own country, he is merely a
subject of a great Empire, possessing, perhaps, a sharper wit and a
more ingratiating manner than his fellow-subjects of colder
temperament; but in his natural environment he stands out pre-eminently
as a peculiar development--the product of a warm-blooded, intelligent,
imaginative race that by some oversight of Nature has been pushed aside
in the march of the nations.

Milbanke made no attempt to formulate this idea or any portion of it,
as he paced steadily forward across the darkening sands; but
incontinently it did flash across his mind that the girl beside him
claimed more attention in this unsophisticated atmosphere than he might
have given her in conventional surroundings. She was so much part of
the picture--so undeniably a child of the sweeping cliffs, the
magnificent sea, and the hundred traditions that encircled the
primitive land. In her buoyant, youthful figure he seemed, by a curious
retrograde process of the mind, to find the solution to his own early
worship of Asshlin. Asshlin had attracted him, ruled him, domineered
over him by right of superiority--the hereditary, half-barbaric
superiority of the natural aristocrat; the man of ancient lineage in a
country where yesterday--and the glories of yesterday--stand for
everything, where to-day is unreckoned with, and to-morrow does not
exist. Reaching the end of the strand, he turned to her quickly with a
strange sensation of sympathy--almost of apprehension.

"Miss Clodagh," he said gently, as she began to ascend the heaped-up
boulders that separated the road from the beach, "Miss Clodagh, I grant
that I don't quite understand, as you put it; but I knew your father
many years before you were born, and I think that gives me some
privilege. On one point I have quite made up my mind. I shall not play
cards again while I am in your house."

As he spoke, Clodagh paused in her ascent of the boulders and looked at
him. In the softly deepening twilight her eyes again held the
mysterious promise of great beauty; and in their depths a shade of
respect, of surprised admiration had suddenly become visible. As she
gazed at him, her lips parted involuntarily.

"I didn't think you were so plucky," she said; then abruptly she
stopped, glancing over her shoulder.

From the road behind them came the clicking thud of a horse's hoofs,
and a moment later the voice of Asshlin hailed them out of the dusk.




CHAPTER VIII


It would be futile to deny that the unexpected sound of Asshlin's voice
brought a tremor to the mind of his guest. It is disconcerting to the
most valiant to be confronted with his antagonist in the very moment
that he has laid down his challenge; and at best Milbanke was no hero.
Nevertheless he recovered his equanimity with creditable speed, and
exchanging a quick glance with Clodagh, scrambled hastily over the
remaining stones and reached the road.

As he gained it, Asshlin pulled up sharply and dismounted from his big,
bony horse with all the dexterity of a young man. With a loud laugh of
greeting, he slipped the bridle over one hand and linked the other in
Milbanke's arm.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Now who'd have dreamt that I'd meet you like this?
I'm ashamed of you, James. 'Pon my word I am. Philandering across the
strand in the fall of the evening as if you were still in the twenties.
It's with me you should have been. We had the deuce of a fine run!"

He paused to push his hat from his hot forehead and to rearrange the
bridle.

Clodagh, who had followed Milbanke slowly, stepped eagerly forward as
she caught the last words.

"Oh, father," she cried, "tell us about it! Who was there? Was the
sport good? Did the bay carry you well?"

In her suddenly awakened interest it was clear to Milbanke that the
vital question she had been discussing with him--the opinions he had
expressed upon it--his very existence even, were obliterated from her
mind, her natural, youthful exuberance responding to the idea of any
physical action as unfailingly as the needle answers to the magnet. And
again the faintly poignant sense of aloofness and age fell upon him as
he listened uncomprehendingly to Asshlin's excited flow of words, and
watched the bright, ardent face of the girl glowing out of the shadows.

They made a curious trio as they covered the stretch of road that led
to Orristown and passed between the heavy moss-grown piers of the big
gate, entering the deep shade of the avenue. With an instinctive care
for his horse, Asshlin went first, cautiously guiding the animal over
the ruts that time and the heavy rains had ploughed in the soft ground.
Behind him came Clodagh, Milbanke, and their following of dogs.

Once again the thought of what the evening held came unpleasantly to
Milbanke's mind as the shadow of the gaunt beech trees and the outline
of the great square house brought the position home to him afresh. Lack
imagination as he might, he realised that it was no light task to
thwart a man whose faults had been cultivated and whose
peculiarities--racial and personal--had been accentuated by a quarter
of a century of comparative isolation. But instinctively as the thought
came to him, he turned to the girl, whose erect figure had grown
indistinct in the gathering gloom.

"Miss Clodagh," he whispered, "though I may not understand, are you
satisfied to trust me?"

There was a pause; then, with one of the sudden impulses that formed so
large a part of her individuality, Clodagh put out her hand; and for an
instant her fingers and Milbanke's touched.


To every one but Asshlin, the dinner that evening was a strain. But the
silence or the uneasiness of the others was powerless to damp his
enthusiasm. His appetite was tremendous; and as he ate plentifully and
swallowed glass after glass of sherry, his excitement and his spirits
rose. With the ardour of the born sportsman, he recounted again and
again the details of the day's hunt--dwelling lovingly on the behaviour
of the dogs and horses, and the prowess of his own mount in particular.
Finally, he rose from the table with a flushed face, though a perfectly
steady gait, and, crossing the room, pulled the long bell-rope that
hung beside the fireplace.

"Now for our night, James!" he cried. "Now for my revenge!

"Clear the table, Burke," he added, as the old man appeared in answer
to the summons. "Get out the cards, and bring enough candles to light
us all to glory!" He gave a boisterous laugh; and, turning with a touch
of bravado, stood facing the picture of his great-grandfather.

Instinctively, as he turned his back upon the party, little Nance drew
nearer to her sister, and Clodagh glanced at Milbanke.

As their eyes met, he involuntarily stiffened his small, spare figure,
and with a quick, nervous manner nodded towards the door.

For a moment Clodagh hesitated, her fear for her father's self-control
dominated by her native interest in an encounter; then Nance decided
the matter by plucking hurriedly at her sleeve.

"Don't stop, Clo!" she whispered almost inaudibly, her small,
expressive face puckered with anxiety--"don't stop! I'm frightened."

The appeal was instantly effective. Clodagh rose at once, and with one
arm passed reassuringly round the child's shoulder, slipped silently
from the room.

For some moments after the two had departed, Asshlin retained his
position: and Milbanke, intently watchful of his tall figure, held
himself nervously in hand for the coming encounter. At last, when the
cloth had been removed, the candles renewed, and the cards placed upon
the table, Asshlin turned--his face flushed with anticipation.

"That's good!" he exclaimed. "That's good! With a bottle of port and a
pack of cards a man could be happy in Hades! Not that I'm forgetting
the good comrade that gives a flavour to the combination, James. Not
that I'm forgetting that."

His smile had much of the charm, his voice much of the warmth that had
marked them long ago, as he drew his chair to the table and picked up
the cards.

Milbanke straightened himself in his seat.

"Come along, man! Draw up!--draw up to the table! What shall it be?
Euchre again? Are you agreeable to the same stakes?" Asshlin talked on,
heedless of the strangely unresponsive demeanour of his guest.

As he ceased to speak, however, Milbanke took the plunge he had been
contemplating all day. In the silence of the room, broken only by the
faint, comfortable hissing of the peat in the fireplace and the
rustling of the cards as Asshlin mechanically shuffled them, he pulled
his chair forward and laid his clasped hands on the table.

"Denis," he said in his thin, quiet voice, "I am sorry--very sorry to
disappoint you, but I cannot play."

Asshlin paused in the act of shuffling and laid the cards down.

"What in the name of fortune are you talking about?" he asked. His tone
was indulgent and amused; it was evident that the meaning in the
other's words had not definitely reached him.

"It is not a joke," Milbanke interposed quickly. "I cannot--I do not
intend to play."

Then for the first time a shadow of comprehension crossed Asshlin's
face--but it was only a shadow. With a boisterous laugh, he leant
forward and filled the empty glasses that stood upon the table, pushing
one across to Milbanke.

"Have a drop of port, man!" he cried. "Twill give you courage to cut."

He lifted and drained his own glass, and setting it back upon the
table, refilled it.

But Milbanke remained immovable. His thin hands were still clasped, his
pale face looked anxious.

"Go on, James! You're not afraid of a drop of wine?" Again Asshlin
laughed, but this time there was an unpleasant ring audible in his
voice.

Mechanically Milbanke lifted his glass to his lips.

"No," he said with embarrassed deprecation, "no, I'm more afraid of
your displeasure. I--I'm exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."

But once more his host laughed.

"Nonsense, man! I know your little scruples and your little conscience,
and I'm not scared of either. Never meet the devil half way! He covers
the ground too quickly as it is." He caught up the cards again, and
forming them into a pack, held them out. "Cut!" he said laconically.

Milbanke drew back, and his lips came together, in a thin line.

"Come on! Cut!"

The colour of Asshlin's face became a shade deeper.

Still the other sat rigidly still.

For a moment their eyes held each other; then suddenly the blood surged
into Asshlin's neck and face.

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to play?" he asked slowly. "That
you refuse to give me my revenge?"

Milbanke met the attack unsteadily.

"My dear Denis----"

But before the words had left his lips, Asshlin flung the cards upon
the table with a force that sent a score of them flying across the
room.

"And may I ask you for your reasons?" he demanded with alarming calm.

Milbanke fenced.

"I do not wish to play."

"And I don't wish to be treated as a fool."

The other altered his attitude.

"My dear Denis, you surely acknowledge the right of free will? I do not
wish to play cards, and therefore beg to be excused. What could be
simpler?"

His manner was slightly perturbed, his speech hasty. There was the
suggestion of a sleeping volcano in his host's unnatural calm.

In the silence that followed, Asshlin lifted his glass and emptied it
slowly.

"I don't know about that," he said as he set it down. "There are
unwritten codes that all the free will in the world won't dispose of.
One of them is that a gentleman who wins at cards cannot refuse his
opponent the satisfaction of his revenge. But perhaps the etiquette has
changed since my time."

His manner was still controlled, but his eyes glittered.

Milbanke cleared his throat.

"My dear Asshlin," he said, "we are surely friends of too long standing
to split hairs in this fashion. What is this revenge that you talk of?
Nothing--a myth--an imaginary justification of honour."

A quick sound of contempt escaped Asshlin.

"And what is every code and every sentiment in the world but an outcome
of imagination?" he cried. "What is it but imagination that herds us
off from the beasts? I'm satisfied to call it imagination. It tells me
that I was worsted last night, and that I'm capable of better things if
I try my luck again. I'm satisfied to follow its promptings--and demand
my revenge!"

For a while Milbanke sat miserable and undecided; then under the goad
of the other's eyes, he did an ill-judged thing. Fumbling nervously for
his letter-case, he rose from his seat and walked across to the
fireplace.

"There is nothing for you to revenge," he said agitatedly. "There was
no play last night. It's cancelled. I cancel it."

With tremulous haste, he pulled out the letter-case, extricated
Asshlin's cheque, and dropped it into the fire.

There was a pause--a pause of tremendous moment--in which he stood
aghast at his own deed. Then Asshlin turned on him, his face purple and
convulsed with rage.

"You dare to insult me? You dare to insult me in my own house? You dare
to imply that it was the money--the damned money, that I wanted to win
back?"

Milbanke looked up sharply.

"Good God, no!" he exclaimed with unwonted vehemence. "Such a thought
never entered my mind."

"Then what's the meaning of all this? What is it all driving at?"

Asshlin's hard, handsome face was contorted by passion and his hands
shook.

"Nothing. It's driving at nothing. It is simply that I do not wish to
play."

"And why not?" He suddenly rose, his great body towering above the
other's. "Why not? By God, I'll have an answer!"

"There is no answer."

"No answer? We'll see about that. Who's been lying to you about me?
Who's been carrying scandals about me? Out with it!--out with it!"

Then unexpectedly Milbanke's trepidation forsook him. He suddenly
straightened himself.

"No one," he answered.

"No one? Are you quite sure?"

"No-one!"

"Then what do you mean by this? What do you mean by meddling in my
affairs?"

He took a menacing step forward.

[Illustration: With a fierce gesture he took another step forward.]

Milbanke stood firm.

"I have my reasons," he said quietly.

"Your reasons, have you?" Asshlin laughed harshly. "Then I'll have my
answer. What do you mean by it?"

For a second the older man remained silent and unmoved; then a light
gleamed in his colourless eyes.

"All right!" he said. "You shall have it. Perhaps it is as well. I came
here expecting to see the boy I had known grown into a genial,
hospitable, honourable gentleman; instead, I find him an undisciplined,
tyrannical egotist."

He said it quickly in a rush of unusual vehemence. All his
anticipations, all his suspicions, and their subsequent
justification--coupled with the new sense of protection towards the
children of his early friend--found voice in these words.

"You are an egotist, Denis," he repeated distinctly. "A weak, worthless
egotist--not fit to have children--not fit to have a friend----"

Asshlin stared at him for a moment in speechless surprise; then
indignation surmounted every other feeling. With a fierce gesture he
took another step forward, his eyes blazing, his hand menacingly
clenched.

"How--how dare you?" he stammered. "How dare you? By God, if you were a
bigger man I'd--I'd----"

He paused, choked by his fury.

"I know--I know. But I'm not afraid of you. I'm not to be bullied into
subjection."

Milbanke's temper, difficult to rouse, was stirred at last. He gave his
host glance for glance.

"You realise what you have said?" Asshlin's dark face was distorted,
his voice came unsteadily.

"Yes. I regret that I have to say it, but I do not regret saying it. It
is wholesome for a man to hear the truth."

"Oh, it's wholesome to hear the truth, is it?"

"Yes; and I won't see you go to pieces for want of a word. You are a
man with obligations, and you are neglecting your obligations. There
are other things in life besides cards and horses----"

Asshlin suddenly threw back his head.

"By God, you're right!" he cried. "And the other things are a damn
sight worse. I'd put a good horse before a self-righteous preacher any
day."

Milbanke's usually pallid face flushed.

"You mean that for me?" he asked quietly.

Asshlin shrugged his shoulders.

"If you like," he said. "If the cap fits----" For a moment Milbanke
said nothing; then once again he straightened his small, thin figure.

"Very well, Denis," he said, "I quite understand. With your permission
I will say good-bye to you now, and to-morrow morning I will catch the
earliest train from Muskeere."

He looked at his host steadily. Then, through the temper that still
mastered him, a twinge of regret, a sense of parting and loss obtruded
themselves. With all his intolerable faults, Asshlin still stood within
the halo and glamour of the past.

"Denis!" he exclaimed suddenly.

But the appeal was made too late. Uncontrollable fury--the one power
which could efface his sense of hospitality--possessed Asshlin. His
pulses pounded; his senses were blurred. With a seething consciousness
of insult and injury, he turned again upon his guest.

"You can go to hell for all I care!" he cried savagely.

For a second Milbanke continued to look at him; then without a word he
turned, crossed the room, and passed into the hall.




_PART II_




CHAPTER I


It was on a windy March morning three years after his summarily ended
visit to Ireland, that James Milbanke stood in the bedroom of his
London flat. A perturbed frown puckered his forehead and he held an
open letter in his hand.

Outside, the dark sky and cold searching breeze proclaimed the raw
English spring; inside, the partly dismantled walls of the room, the
emptied drawers and wardrobe, the trunks, bags, and rugs standing ready
strapped, all suggested another and more inviting climate. Milbanke was
bound for the south.

Three months earlier he had come to the momentous conclusion that a
solitary life in London--spent no matter how comfortably--becomes a
colourless and somewhat empty thing after a thirty-three years'
experience. He had his club and his friends, but he was not a clubman
born, and friends must be very intimate to be all-sufficing. The
restlessness that sometimes unexpectedly attacks the middle-aged
bachelor had fallen upon him. The suggestion that he craved new
surroundings and new fields of interest had been slow in coming, and
his acceptance of it had been slow. But steadily and inevitably it had
grown into his consciousness, maturing almost against his will, until
at last the day had dawned on which he had admitted to himself that a
change was indispensable. The subsequent events had followed in natural
order. His hobby had urged him to leave his own country for one richer
in association; the damp cold of the English winter, coupled with the
chilled blood of advancing age, had inclined him to the idea of
Southern Europe. The result of his triple suggestion was that he stood
in his room on that spring morning in the last stages of preparation
for a journey to Italy.

He stood there, with the discomfort of packing pleasantly accomplished,
and his belongings neatly surrounding him; yet his attitude and
expression were those of a man who is faced by an unlooked-for
difficulty. With a nervous gesture, he shook out the letter that he
held, and began to read it hastily for the fourth time. It was a long
letter, written in a careless, almost boyish hand on thin paper, and
bore the address of "Orristown, Ireland." It was dated two days
earlier, and began:

    "DEAR MR. MILBANKE,--

    "You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for
    father, not for myself. He had a bad accident yesterday while out
    riding, and is terribly hurt and ill. The doctor from Carrigmore is
    with him all the time, and my aunt--as well as Nance and I; so he
    is well cared for. But he seems to get worse instead of better, and
    we are dreadfully frightened about him.

    "There is one thing he constantly craves for--and that is to see
    you. Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he
    quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about
    you. Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has
    ever forgotten that he treated you badly.

    "This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he
    were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like
    to see you. The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at
    once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never
    giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour.

    "Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently.
    I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing
    you to him. And if you are in London, please do come, if only for
    one night. Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad. Any time you send
    me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven.

    "This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and
    scarcely know what I am writing.

    "Answer as soon as possible,

    "Yours,

    "CLODAGH ASSHLIN."

Milbanke scanned the letter to the last line; then, as he reached the
signature, the inertia that had pervaded his mind was suddenly
dispersed. His own shock of sorrow and dismay, his own interrupted
plans faded from his consideration; and in their place rose the picture
of a great white house on the lonely Irish coast; of a sick--perhaps a
dying--man; of two frightened children and a couple of faithful,
inefficient servants. With an energy he had not evinced for years he
crossed the room, stumbling over straps and parcels, and rang the bell
with imperative haste.

When a surprised maid appeared at the door he turned to her with
unwonted excitement.

"I have a telegram to send," he said; "one that must go at once."


The rest of that day, with its suddenly altered plans, its long railway
journey from Paddington to New Milford, and its stormy night crossing
from the latter point to the town of Waterford, was too beset with
haste and confusion to contain any definite recollections for Milbanke.
It was not until he had taken his seat at eight o'clock next morning in
the small and leisurely train that transports passengers from Waterford
to the seaport of Dunhaven that he found time to realise the
significance of his journey; and not until he descended from his
carriage at this latter station and was greeted by old Burke, the
Orristown retainer, that he fully appreciated the gravity of the
incident that had occasioned it.

There was no change apparent in Burke's familiar face save the gloom
that overhung his expression. But this was obvious to Milbanke at a
first glance.

"You're welcome, sir!" were his opening words; then the underlying bent
of his thoughts found vent. "'Tis a sorrowful house you'll be findin',"
he added in a subdued voice.

Milbanke glanced up sharply from the rug he was unstrapping.

"How is he?" he asked. "Not worse?"

Burke shook his head.

"'Twouldn't be wishin' for me to give you the bad word----" he began
deprecatingly.

"Then he is bad?"

The old man pursed up his lips.

"Ah, I'm in dread 'tis for his long home he's bound," he said
reluctantly. "Glory be to God an' His Holy Ways! But 'tis of thim two
poor children that I do be thinkin'."

But Milbanke's mind was occupied with his first words.

"But how is he?" he demanded. "What is the injury? Has he an efficient
doctor?"

Again Burke shook his head.

"Docthors?" he said dubiously. "Wisha, I don't put much pass on
docthors! not but what they say Docthor Gallagher from Carrigmore is a
fine hand wid the knife. But, sure, when the Almighty takes the notion
to break every bone in a man's body, 'tisn't for the like of docthors
to be settin' up to mend them."

With this piece of pessimistic philosophy, he picked up Milbanke's bags
and rug, and guided him through the small station into the open, where
the Orristown trap stood waiting in a downpour of rain.

He imparted little more information during the long drive, and Milbanke
had to sit under his dripping umbrella with as much patience as he
could muster while they ploughed forward over an execrable road.

The gateway of Orristown, when at last it was reached, looked mouldy
and forlorn in the chilly damp of the atmosphere; and as they plunged
up the avenue at the usual reckless pace, a perfect torrent of
rain-drops deluged them from the intersecting branches of the trees.
Yet despite the gloom and the discomfort, a thrill of something like
pleasure filled Milbanke as a whiff of pure, cold air brought the scent
of the sea to his nostrils, and the turn of the avenue showed the
square house, white and massive against the grey sky.

But he was given little time to indulge in the pleasure of
reminiscence, for instantly the trap drew up, the hall door was thrown
open, showing a face and figure that sent everything but the moment and
the business in hand far from his mind.

It was Clodagh who stood there waiting to greet him--Clodagh, curiously
changed and grown in the three years that had passed since their last
meeting. In place of the spirited, unformed child that he remembered,
Milbanke saw a very young girl, whose boyishness of figure had
disappeared in slight feminine curves, whose bright, fearless eyes had
softened into uncommon beauty.

With a glow of relief lighting up her face, she stepped forward as the
horse halted, and, heedless of the rain that fell on her uncovered
head, laid one hand on the shaft of the trap.

"Oh, it's good of you!--it's good of you!" she exclaimed. "We can never
forget it."

Then the colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes filled.

"Oh, he's so bad!" she added. "It's so terrible to see him--so
terrible."

She looked up with alarm and impotence into Milbanke's face.

But it was not the guest, but old Burke who found words to calm her
fear and grief. Leaning down from his seat, he laid a rough hand on her
shoulder.

"Whist now, Miss Clodagh!" he said softly--"whist now! Sure God is
good. While there's life there's hope. Don't be believin' anythin'
else. Sure, what is he but a young man yet?"

"That's true, Burke--that's true!" Clodagh exclaimed quickly. "Won't
you come in, Mr. Milbanke?" she added. "You know how welcome you are."

Once inside the hall, she turned to him quickly and confidingly.

"I can never forget that you've done this," she said. "It's a really,
really generous thing. But all my mind is full of father. You can
understand, can't you?"

Her agitation, her alarm, her evident helplessness in presence of a
contingency never previously faced, all touched him deeply. His tone
was low and gentle as he responded.

"I understand perfectly--perfectly," he said. "Poor Denis! Poor Denis!
How did the thing occur?"

"Oh, just an accident--just an accident. About six months ago he took a
fancy for riding late at night. He used to ride for miles along the
most dangerous paths of the cliff. I knew it wasn't safe; I said so
over and over again. But you know father!" She gave a little hopeless
shake of her head. "On Monday night he saddled one of the young horses
at about ten o'clock, and went out by himself. It came to twelve and he
hadn't returned. Then we began to get uneasy, and at one o'clock we
started to look for him. After a search all along the cliff, we found
him wedged between two of the upper ledges of the rocks,
terribly--terribly hurt." She shuddered palpably at the recollection.
"We didn't know--we don't know even now--quite how it happened. But we
think the horse must have lost his footing and fallen over the cliff,
throwing father; for the poor thing was found dead on the shingle next
morning. 'Twas a miracle that father escaped with his life, but he's
terribly injured."

She paused again, as though the subject was too painful to be pursued.

Milbanke looked at her compassionately.

"Has he had proper medical advice?" he asked.

"Oh yes! Doctor Gallagher from Carrigmore has done everything, and we
have a trained nurse from Waterford."

"That's right. I must have a talk with the doctor. But how is Denis
now? Will he know me, do you think?"

"Oh yes! Ever since the first night he has been quite conscious. He
expects you. He's longing to see you."

"Then may I go to him?"

Clodagh nodded; and, turning, led the way silently up the remembered
staircase. On the landing, the recollection of their curious interview
on his first night at Orristown recurred forcibly to Milbanke. He
glanced at his guide to see if it had any place in her mind; but her
thoughts were evidently full of other things. With a quick gesture that
enjoined silence, she led him down the corridor, upon which rough fibre
mats had been strewn to deaden sound.

With that peculiar sensation of awe that serious illness always
engenders, he tip-toed after her, a sense of apprehensive depression
growing upon him with every step. As they neared the end of the
passage, a door opened noiselessly, and two figures emerged from a
darkened room. The taller of the two--a pale, emaciated woman, dressed
in mourning--was unknown to him; but a glance told him that the latter
was little Nance, grown to pretty, immature girlhood.

On catching sight of him, she drew back with a passing touch of the old
shyness; but, conquering it almost directly, she came forward and shook
hands in silence. In the momentary greeting, he saw that her vivacious
little face was red and marred by tears; but before he had time for
further observation Clodagh touched his arm.

"My aunt, Mrs. Asshlin!" she whispered.

Milbanke bowed, and Mrs. Asshlin extended her hand.

"We meet on a sad occasion, Mr. Milbanke," she murmured in a low,
querulous voice. "My poor brother-in-law was always such a rash man.
But with some people, you know, there is no such thing as
remonstrating. Even this morning when Mr. Curry, our rector from
Carrigmore, came to have a little talk with him, he was barely polite;
and it was only yesterday that we dared to tell him that Doctor
Gallagher insisted on having a nurse. Now, what can you do with a
patient like that?"

Milbanke murmured something vaguely unintelligible; and Clodagh stirred
impatiently.

"Did you give him the medicine, Aunt Fan?" she asked.

"I did; but with great difficulty. My brother-in-law has always been
averse to medical aid," she explained to Milbanke.

"He's never had any need of it," Clodagh whispered sharply. "Will you
come, Mr. Milbanke? He's quite alone. The nurse is resting."

With great dignity Mrs. Asshlin moved away.

"I shall ask Hannah to get me a cup of tea, Clodagh," she murmured. "I
get such a headache from a sick-room."

Without replying, Clodagh turned again to Milbanke.

"He's not to get excited," she whispered. "And mind--mind--don't say
that you think him looking badly."

She paused and laid her fingers lightly on his arm; then with a swift
movement, she stepped forward, drawing him with her into the big,
darkened room with its sense of preternatural quiet, and its pungent,
suggestive smell of drugs and antiseptic dressings.




CHAPTER II


With a strange blending of curiosity and shrinking, Milbanke obeyed the
pressure of Clodagh's hand, and moved forward into the room. The cold
March daylight was partly excluded by drawn blinds, but a glow from the
fire played upon the walls and the high four-post bedstead.

With the same mingling of curiosity and dread, his eyes fell at once
upon this prominent article of furniture and remained fixed there in
doubt and incredulity. For the moment his senses refused to acknowledge
that the feverish, haggard face that stared at him from the pillows was
the face of Asshlin--Asshlin, tyrannical, passionate, greedy of life.

In the hours of agony that he had passed through, the sick man's
features had become shrunken, causing his eyes to stare forth
preternaturally large and restless; his hair had been cropped close, to
allow of the dressing of a wound over the temple, and the tight white
bandages lent a strange and unfamiliar appearance to his finely shaped
head. With a sick sensation, Milbanke went slowly forward.

The patient made no attempt to move as he drew near the bed, but his
feverishly bright glance seemed to devour his face.

"Here he is, father!" Clodagh exclaimed softly and eagerly. "Here's Mr.
Milbanke! Now, aren't you happy? He's not able to move," she explained,
turning to the guest. "It gives him terrible agony to stir."

Milbanke had reached the bed; and with a sensation of awkwardness and
impotence impossible to describe, he stood looking down upon Asshlin.

"My poor Denis!" he said. "My poor, poor friend! This is a bad
business; I had no idea----"

Then he paused confusedly, remembering Clodagh's warning.

"But we'll see you laughing at it all before we're much older," he
added, in awkward haste to make amends.

A gleam of something like irony crossed Asshlin's watchful eyes.

"I'm done for this time, James!" he said feebly. "I suppose I've had my
day, and, like every other dog, must answer to the whistle. I don't
complain! I'm getting more than my deserts in seeing you again. You're
as welcome as the flowers in----"

His voice failed.

"I know--I know! Don't trouble! Don't try to speak!" Milbanke bent over
him anxiously.

But Asshlin glanced back.

"Ah, but that's what I must do, James!" he said sharply. "That's what I
want you for. I have something that must be said."

Milbanke turned to Clodagh.

"Is it right of him to excite himself?" he asked in distress. "If it's
anything that you reproach yourself with, Denis----"

But Asshlin interrupted with a weak echo of his old intolerance.

"Send Clo away!" he said. "There's something I want to say."

Again Milbanke looked helplessly at Clodagh, but her eyes were fixed
passionately on her father's face.

"He'll excite himself more if we cross him," she said hesitatingly. "I
think I'd better go."

Still Milbanke hesitated.

"But the doctor?" he hazarded. "If the doctor insists on quiet----"

She glanced at him quickly, her clear eyes brimming.

"Oh, I don't know!" she exclaimed; "I can't cross him--I can't cross
him! He's wanted you so badly."

She turned quickly towards the bed.

"Father," she said tenderly, "won't you promise not to talk much? Won't
you promise to take care?"

For answer, Asshlin looked up, meeting her glance.

"I'll promise, child--I'll promise. Run away now--and God bless you!"
He added the expressive native phrase in a suddenly lowered voice.

Clodagh bent quickly and kissed his hot, drawn face with passionate
affection; then, as if fearing to trust herself, she turned hastily and
passed out of the room.

Instantly the two men were alone, Asshlin turned to his guest.

"James," he said agitatedly, "I haven't thought much about the Almighty
in these last years; but I give you my word, I have prayed that I might
see you before I die."

"My dear Denis, don't! I beg you not to excite yourself. I implore
you----"

Asshlin made a harsh sound of impatience.

"Don't waste breath over a dying man," he said roughly. Then, seeing
the distress in the other's face, he altered his tone. "Don't take it
to heart, James! It's the road we must all travel. They think there's
life in me yet, but I know better. You may blindfold a sheep as much as
you like, but 'twill know that you're dragging it to the slaughter. I
tell you I'm done for--as done for as if the undertaker had measured me
for the coffin."

He moved his head slightly and painfully, his feverish glance
brightening.

"James," he exclaimed suddenly, "I'm in a terrible position! But
'tisn't death that's troubling me."

"Denis!"

"'Tis true! I'm not frightened of death--I hope I'm man enough to face
a natural law. 'Twould have been better if I'd had to face it thirty
years ago."

"Denis, don't! I beg you to keep quiet----"

"Quiet? I tell you there's not much quiet for a man like me. 'Tisn't
what I'm going to that's troubling me, but what I'm leaving behind.
I'll be paying me own score on the other side; but here 'tis others
will be paying it for me."

His burning eyes fixed themselves on Milbanke's.

"But, my dear old friend----"

"Don't talk to me, James! Don't waste words on me. I'm broke inside and
out. I'm smashed. I'm done for." A spasm of pain, mental and physical,
twisted his features. "The weak, worthless egotist has come to the end
of his rope!" He tried to laugh.

Milbanke, in deep apprehension, laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Denis," he pleaded, "don't talk like this! Don't torture yourself like
this!"

Asshlin groaned.

"'Tis involuntary!" he cried. "'Tis wrung from me. Every time they come
into the room--every time I see the tears in their eyes--every time
they kiss me, I tell you I taste hell."

"Who?"

"The children. My children." Another spasm crossed his face. "You once
told me I was not fit to have children, James--and you were right. By
God, you were right!"

"Denis, I refuse to listen. I insist--I----"

"Don't bother yourself! 'Tisn't of my damned health I'm thinking."

"Then what is it? What is troubling you?"

"The children--the children. I've been a blackguard, James--a
blackguard." He moved his head sharply, regardless of the agony the
movement caused. "I tell you I don't care what's before myself. I've
always been a reckless fool. But 'tis the children--the children."

"What of the children?"

A sound of mockery and despair escaped Asshlin.

"Ah, you may well ask!" he said--"you may well ask! 'Tis the question
I've been putting to myself every hour since they laid me here. You
know the world, James. You know what the world will be to two pretty,
penniless girls. And they're so unconscious of it all! That's the sting
of it. They're so unconscious of it all! They care for me; they cling
to me as if I were a good man, and in five years' time they may be
cursing the hour they were born." A fresh groan was wrung from him.

A look of apprehension crossed Milbanke's face.

"Oh no, Denis!" he exclaimed quickly. "No. Things can't be as bad as
that. Your suffering has told upon your nerves. Things can't be as bad
as that."

"They are worse. I tell you these two children will face life without a
penny."

"No, no! You exaggerate. Why, even if you were to die they would still
have the place. The place must be worth something."

"Ah, if I could only drug my conscience with that thought! But I
can't--I can't! Before I'm cold in my grave my creditors will be down
on the property like a swarm of rats."

"No, no!"

"Yes! I tell you yes! The children will be homeless as well as
penniless."

Milbanke glanced about him in deep perplexity.

"There's your sister-in-law," he hazarded at length.

"Fan?" Asshlin made a contemptuous grimace. "Fan is as poor as a church
mouse already. Laurence had nothing to leave her: the Navy beggared
him. No, Fan could do nothing for them. And, anyway, she and Clodagh
couldn't stand each other for a twelvemonth. You might as well try to
blend fire and water. No, there's no way out of it. I'm reaping the
whirlwind, James. I'm reaping it with a vengeance."

The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were
burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural
exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point--the tardily
aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the
consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial
delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his
friend.

"What am I to do, James?" he asked--"what am I to do?"

Milbanke bent over him.

"Denis! Denis!" he pleaded.

"But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've
wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?"

Milbanke tightened his lips.

"You have friends," he said.

"Ah! but how many? And where?"

There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened
himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly
he turned towards the bed.

"You have one--here," he said in a low voice.

For an instant Asshlin answered nothing; then an odd sound--something
between a laugh and a sob--shook him.

"James!" he cried. "James!"

But Milbanke leant forward hastily.

"Not a word!" he said. "Not one word! If thanks are due, it is from me
to you. It is not every day that human responsibilities fall to an old
bachelor of my age."

Asshlin remained silent. Dissipated, blunted, degenerate though he
might be, his native intuition was unimpaired; and in a flash of
illumination he saw the grade of nobility, the high point of honour to
which this prosaic, unimaginative man had attained in that moment of
need. With a pang of acute pain, he freed his uninjured arm and
shakingly held out his hand.

"There are no friends like the old friends, James!" he said in a broken
voice.




CHAPTER III


Asshlin scarcely spoke again during the early portion of that day. The
immense effort of his explanation to Milbanke left him correspondingly
weak; though through all his exhaustion, a look of peace and
satisfaction was visible in his eyes.

During the whole morning Milbanke remained at his bedside, only leaving
the room to partake--at Clodagh's urgent request--of a hurried meal in
the deserted dining-room. At twelve o'clock the nurse resumed her
duties, and soon afterwards the dispensary doctor from Carrigmore drove
over to see his patient. Before he came into the sick-room Milbanke
left it; but when--his examination over--he departed with a whispered
injunction to the nurse, he found the stranger waiting for him in the
corridor.

Milbanke stepped forward as he appeared, and silently motioned him down
the passage to his own room, inviting him to enter with a punctilious
gesture.

"Doctor Gallagher, I believe?" he said. "Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Milbanke. I am a very old friend of your patient."

With a slow but friendly gesture, the young man held out his hand.

"Oh, I know all about you!" he said. "I'm glad to make your
acquaintance."

His voice, with its marked Irish accent, was soft and pleasant, and his
glance was good-natured; but his tanned skin and rough shooting-suit
suggested the sportsman rather than the medical practitioner.

Milbanke eyed him quickly.

"Then you won't misunderstand anything I may say?"

Gallagher smiled.

"Not a bit of it!" he answered nonchalantly. "And what's more, I think
I know what it's going to be."

A shade of confusion passed over the Englishman's face. His
understanding was still unattuned to the half-shrewd, half-inquisitive
tendencies of the Irish mind. With a shadowy suspicion that he was
being unobtrusively ridiculed, he became a degree colder.

"I am grieved beyond measure at Mr. Asshlin's condition, Doctor
Gallagher," he said, "and it has struck me--it has been suggested to my
mind that possibly----" He stopped uncertainly. "That possibly----"

"That perhaps there ought to be another opinion?" Gallagher looked at
him complacently. "Well, maybe you're right. 'Tisn't because _I_
condemn him that he shouldn't appeal to a higher court."

Milbanke started.

"Then you think poorly of his chances?"

Gallagher shook his head expressively.

"You despair of him?"

A pang of unexpected grief touched Milbanke. He realised suddenly how
distant, vague, and yet how real a part the ideal of his youth had
played in his life and thoughts; how deep a niche, unknown to them
both, Asshlin had carved for himself. With a sense of loss altogether
disproportionate to circumstances, he turned again to the doctor.

"Yes, I should like another opinion," he said quickly. "The best we can
get--the best in Ireland. We can't get a man from town sooner than
to-morrow, and time is everything. I suppose Dublin is the place to
wire to? Not that I am disparaging you," he added. "I feel confident
you have done everything."

Gallagher smiled.

"Oh, I'm not taking offence. It's only human nature to think what you
do. I'll meet any one you like to name. But he'll say the same as me."

"And that is?"

"That he's done for." Gallagher lowered his voice. "He hasn't the
stamina to pull through, even if we could patch him up. He's been
undermining that big frame of his for the last ten years. No man
nowadays can sit up half the night drinking port without paying heavily
for it. Many a time, driving home from a late call, I've seen the light
in these windows at three in the morning."

Milbanke pulled out his watch.

"But these Dublin doctors," he said. "Tell me their names."

Gallagher pondered a moment.

"Well, there's Dowden-Gregg and Merrick," he said. "And of course
there's Molyneaux. Molyneaux is a magnificent surgeon. If any man in
Ireland can make a suggestion, he will. But of course his fee----"

Milbanke interrupted sharply.

"Molyneaux let it be," he said decisively. "Wire for him when you get
back to Carrigmore. Wire urgently. The expenses will be my affair. What
they may amount to is of no consideration."

A look of involuntary respect crossed Gallagher's face.

"I understand," he said. "I'll wire at once. And you can comfort
yourself that you'll have the best opinion in the country."

He nodded genially, the new considerations for Milbanke tinging his
usually careless manner; and with an inaudible word of farewell, turned
on his heel.

Once alone, Milbanke went in search of Clodagh. He suffered no small
trepidation at the thought of communicating his action to her, and he
bestowed much silent consideration upon the manner in which he should
couch his information. Failing to find her in the house, he wandered
out into the grounds. The rain had ceased, and a watery gleam of
sunshine was falling on the wet gravel of the drive. Picking his way
carefully, he turned in the direction of the yard; but he had scarcely
reached it, when Clodagh's clear voice reached him, directing Burke as
to some provisions required from Muskeere.

On seeing her guest, she came forward at once. Her face looked brighter
and happier than he had seen it since his arrival. Her mercurial nature
had responded instantly to the apparent change in Asshlin.

"Oh, isn't it lovely that he's so much better?" she cried. "You must
have the gift of healing; it's like as if you had set a charm."

Milbanke made no response.

"Why don't you say something?" she asked quickly. "Don't you think he's
better? Doesn't the doctor think he's better?"

Her quick mind sprang like lightning from one conclusion to another.

"Mr. Milbanke," she added, "you're keeping something back! There's
something you don't like to say!"

Then at last Milbanke found voice.

"Indeed no, Miss Clodagh. You are wrong--quite wrong, believe me. There
is nothing to be alarmed at--nothing. It is only----"

"Only what?"

"Now don't be alarmed! I beg you not to be alarmed!" The sudden
whiteness that had overspread her face unnerved him. "It is only that
I, as a Londoner, am a little doubtful of your village doctor. A mere
prejudice, I know. But Gallagher is broadminded and willing to humour
me. And he--I--that is, we both think that another opinion will do no
harm. It's nothing to be alarmed at. Nothing, believe me! A mere
formality."

But Clodagh's lips had paled. She stood looking at him silently, her
large, questioning eyes reminding him disconcertingly of Asshlin's.

"Miss Clodagh," he said again, "don't be alarmed!--don't be alarmed!
It's only to satisfy an old sceptic----"

"Oh no, it isn't!" she said suddenly. "Oh no, it isn't! I know--I know
quite well. It means that he's going to die."

Her voice caught; and, with a swift movement, she turned and fled out
of the yard, leaving Milbanke pained, bewildered, and alarmed.


The afternoon passed in weary, monotonous waiting. Half an hour after
the conversation in the yard, Clodagh appeared in her father's room.
She was pale and subdued, and her eyelids looked suspiciously red, but
she took her place quietly at the foot of the bed. She sat very still,
her eyes fixed on Asshlin's face, apparently heedless of both the
nurse's deft movements and Milbanke's silent, unobtrusive presence. At
three o'clock the acute pains that had tormented the patient at
intervals ever since the accident had occurred, returned with a
violence that seemed accentuated by the respite he had obtained during
the morning. For an hour or more he writhed and groaned in unspeakable
agony, while those about him suffered a reflected torment, and chafed
impotently at the distance that cut off Carrigmore and the possibility
of any fresh medical relief. The nurse was unceasingly vigilant; but
the mild and cautious remedies ordered by Gallagher were powerless to
soothe the violent pain. At last Nature mercifully intervened, and the
exhausted sufferer fell into a sleep that lasted for several hours.

At seven o'clock there was a stir of excitement through the house, as
the whisper passed from one to another that the Dublin surgeon had
arrived. When the news reached the sick-room, Milbanke drew a breath of
intense relief; but Clodagh's pale face went a shade whiter.

The great man arrived attended by Gallagher, and was shown directly to
the patient's room. There was a confused moment of introduction; then
Milbanke and Clodagh slipped quietly into the passage, leaving the
doctors and nurse to their work.

During a long interval of indescribable suspense Molyneaux made his
examination. Then, without a word, he and Gallagher emerged from the
room and descended solemnly into the dining-room.

While this final conference lasted Clodagh--who had returned to her
vigil immediately the doctors had left the sick-room--sat silent and
motionless beside the bed; outside in the corridor, Mrs. Asshlin
wandered to and fro, weakly tearful and agitated, while Nance stood
beside her father's door, afraid to enter and yet reluctant to remain
outside. Downstairs in the hall, Milbanke paced up and down in nervous
perturbation, awaiting his summons to the conclave.

At last the door opened, and Gallagher looked out.

"Mr. Milbanke," he said, "Doctor Molyneaux would like to see you."

With a little start of agitation Milbanke went forward.

In the dining-room a great peat fire was burning as usual, lighting up
the faces of Asshlin's ancestors; but the candles in the silver sconces
were unlighted and the window curtains had not been drawn. In the dull
light from the three long windows the large, placid face of Molyneaux
looked preternaturally long and solemn. Milbanke felt his heart sink.

In formal silence the great man rose and motioned him forward, and the
three sat down at the centre table.

"Mr. Milbanke," he began in slow and unctuous tones, "I suppose you
would like me to come to the point with as little delay as possible?
Professional details will not interest you."

Milbanke nodded mechanically.

Molyneaux hesitated, studying his well-kept hands; then he looked up
with the decorous reserve proper to the occasion.

"I regret to inform you, Mr. Milbanke," he said softly, "that my visit
is of little--I might say of no--avail. Doctor--er--Gallagher's
diagnosis of the case is satisfactory--perfectly satisfactory. Beyond
mitigating his sufferings, I fear we can do nothing for our poor
friend."

"Nothing!" Milbanke felt a sudden dryness in his throat.

Molyneaux shook his head with becoming gravity.

"Nothing, Mr. Milbanke. The injuries to the ribs and hip we might have
coped with, but the seat of the trouble lies deeper. The internal----"

But Milbanke held up his hand.

"I beg you to give me no details," he said weakly. "This--this is a
great shock to me."

He covered his face with his hands and sat silent for a few seconds.

Molyneaux tapped lightly upon the table with his finger-tips.

"It was merely that your mind might be fully satisfied, Mr.
Milbanke----" he said a trifle pompously.

Milbanke started.

"Forgive me! I understand--I fully understand. It is only the thought
of what lies before us--the thought of his children's grief----"

Molyneaux made a gracious gesture of comprehension.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "Very distressing! Most distressing!"

He looked vaguely round the room; and Gallagher, as if anticipating his
thought, pulled out his watch.

Milbanke rose quickly.

"I thank you very much, Doctor Molyneaux," he said, "for your--your
valuable opinion. I think Miss Asshlin wishes to know if your train
will permit you to partake of some dinner before you leave us?"

Molyneaux smiled with the air of a man who has put an unpleasant duty
aside.

"Ah, thank you!" he said suavely. "Thank you! If Doctor--Gallagher
gives me permission I shall be charmed. He understands your local
time-tables, and has promised that I shall catch the night mail to
Dublin."

He smiled again and glanced genially round the firelit room.

"What interesting family portraits our poor friend possesses!" he added
with pleasant affability.

But Milbanke did not seem to hear.

"If you will excuse me for a moment," he said hastily, "I will see that
you are caused no unnecessary delay. You can understand that we--that
we are a somewhat demoralised household."

His voice was agitated, his step uneven as he crossed the room and
passed into the hall.

Molyneaux followed him with a conventional glance of sympathy; then his
eyes turned again to the pictures with the gratified glance of a
dilettante.

"Do you happen to know if this is a Reynolds?" he said to Gallagher,
rising and crossing the room.




CHAPTER IV


To the last day of his life, that evening, with its horde of harassing
and unfamiliar sensations, remained stamped upon Milbanke's mind; and
not least among the unpleasant recollections was the visit of
Molyneaux, and the dinner at which he himself unwillingly played host.

It may have been that his usually placid susceptibilities had undergone
a strain that rendered him over sensitive; but whatever the cause, the
atmosphere diffused by the great man jarred upon him. In his eyes, it
seemed little short of callous that one who had just passed sentence of
death upon his patient could so far remain unmoved as to partake with
relish of the dinner set before him, and comment with affable
appreciation upon the quality of the patient's wines.

Milbanke spoke little during the course of that meal. Try as he might
to enact the part entrusted to him, his thoughts persistently wandered
to the room upstairs, with its doomed sufferer and its anxious
watchers, as yet mercifully ignorant of the verdict that had been
pronounced. But if the host was silent, the guests made conversation.
Gallagher was assiduous in his attentions to the man who, in his eyes,
stood for the attainment of all ambition; and Molyneaux--under the
unlooked-for stimulus of good, if homely food and wines that even as an
epicure he admitted to be remarkable--was graciously pleased to accept
the homage of his humble colleague, and to display a suave glimpse of
the polished wit for which he was noted in society.

His expressions of regret were perfectly genuine when at last the sound
of wheels on the gravel of the drive broke in upon his discourse, and
Gallagher deprecatingly drew out his watch.

"The way of the world, Mr. Milbanke!" he murmured as he rose. "Our
pleasantest acquaintances end the soonest. I must wish you
good-bye--with many thanks for your delightful hospitality. So far as
our poor friend is concerned," he added, in a correctly altered tone,
"Doctor Gallagher may be relied upon to do everything. In a case like
this, where physical pain is recurrent and violent, we can only have
recourse to narcotics. We have already allayed the suffering consequent
on my examination and you may rely upon some hours of calm; for any
subsequent contingency Doctor Gallagher has my instructions. Of course,
if you wish me to have one more glimpse at him before I go----"

But Milbanke, who had also risen, held out his hand mechanically.

"Oh no," he said quietly. "No, thank you! I don't think we will trouble
you any further. It has been a great satisfaction to have obtained
your--your opinion."

Molyneaux waved his hand magnanimously.

"Do not mention it!" he murmured. "My regret is deep that I have been
of so little avail. Good-bye again, Mr. Milbanke! It has been an honour
as well as a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled blandly, and added the last remark as Gallagher solicitously
helped him into his furlined travelling coat. Then, still suavely
genial, he passed out of the dining-room towards the hall door.

Gallagher hurried after him, but, in passing Milbanke, he paused.

"I'll be back in an hour, Mr. Milbanke," he said. "I'm just going as
far as Carrigmore with Doctor Molyneaux to get an additional supply of
morphia."

Milbanke nodded silently, and in his turn stepped into the hall.

When the two men had entered the waiting vehicle, when Molyneaux had
waved a courtly farewell and the coachman had gathered up the reins, he
turned and slowly began to mount the stairs.

Instantly his foot touched the landing, Mrs. Asshlin darted from the
shadowy corridor.

"What news?" she asked agitatedly. "Oh, Mr. Milbanke, what news? The
suspense has been dreadful."

Her voice trembled. Tears came very easily to Mrs. Asshlin, and her
habitual attitude of mourning had heretofore irritated Milbanke. But
now her thin face and faded black garments came as a curiously welcome
contrast to the bland affluence, the genial, complacent superiority of
Molyneaux. He turned to her with a feeling of warmth.

"Forgive my delay, Mrs. Asshlin!" he said gently. "One is never in a
hurry to impart bad news. Doctor Molyneaux holds out no hope--not a
shadow of hope."

There was a pause; then Mrs. Asshlin made a tragic gesture.

"Oh, the children!" she murmured. "The poor, poor children! What will
become of them?"

"The children will be provided for," Milbanke said hastily. Then,
without giving her time for question or astonishment, he went on again:

"Don't say anything of this to Clodagh," he enjoined. "She must have
these last hours in peace."

"Certainly--certainly! Poor Denis! Poor Denis! I always said he would
have an unfortunate end. But go in and see him, Mr. Milbanke. Clodagh
is in the room."

Milbanke silently acquiesced, and moved slowly down the corridor.

At the door of her father's room, he found Nance still patiently
watchful. He paused, arrested by his new sense of obligation, and
looked down into the upturned, wistful little face.

"What are you doing here, Nance?" he asked kindly.

She made a valiant attempt to conjure up her pretty, winning smile, but
her lips began to tremble.

"I don't know!" she said shyly and softly; then in a sudden burst of
confidence she stepped close to him. "Clo doesn't like me to go in,"
she murmured. "She thinks it makes me sad to see father; and I don't
know where to go. I'd be in Hannah's way in the kitchen, and I don't
like being with Aunt Fan, and--and I'm frightened to be by myself.
There's a horrid sort of feel in the house."

Her dark blue eyes searched Milbanke's face appealingly; and with a
sensation of pity and protection, he stooped and took one of her cold,
limp hands.

"You may come in," he said gently. "It is very lonely out here. I think
we can make Clodagh understand."

Without hesitation her fingers closed round his in a movement of
confidence and gratitude, and together they passed into the room where
Asshlin lay peacefully under the influence of the narcotic administered
by Molyneaux. By Gallagher's orders the nurse--who had been deprived of
her necessary rest in the morning--had retired to her room again in
preparation for the night, and only Clodagh was in attendance. Having
quietly closed the door, Milbanke halted hesitatingly, expecting a
flood of questions. But to his intense surprise she did not even glance
in his direction. She sat motionless and pale, her eyes on her father's
face, her attitude stiff and almost defiant. He wondered for a moment
whether, by the power of instinct, she had divined Molyneaux's verdict,
or whether, through some source unknown to him, the news of it had
already reached her. With a sense of trepidation, he tightened his
fingers round Nance's small hand, and drew her silently into a corner
of the room.

For more than an hour the three watchers sat regarding their patient.
No one attempted to speak--no one appeared to have anything to say.
Once or twice Mrs. Asshlin flitted agitatedly in and out of the room,
but none of them took heed of her presence. Occasionally a clock struck
in the silent house or a cinder fell from the fire, causing them all to
start nervously. But, except for these interruptions, the quiet was
preternatural.

It was with a throb of relief at his heart that Milbanke at last caught
the sound of Gallagher's horse trotting up the avenue, and knew by the
shutting of the hall door that the doctor had entered the house.

He walked into the sick-room a few minutes later, and with a casual nod
to all present, moved at once to the bed.

Bending over Asshlin, he felt his pulse, then glanced significantly at
Milbanke, who had risen on his entrance.

"I think we must inject a stimulant," he said. "The pulse is a little
weak."

With a faint sound of consternation Clodagh stood up.

"Oh, he's not worse?" she said. "Doctor Gallagher, he's not worse?"

Gallagher looked at her, and his expression changed. The distress of a
pretty girl is always difficult to resist.

"No, Miss Asshlin," he said kindly. "No. You see, he has gone through a
lot. We must expect him to be weak."

Clodagh looked relieved, though the alarm still lingered in her eyes.

"Of course," she said. "Yes, of course. Is there anything I can do?"

Gallagher glanced at her again.

"Well," he said quietly, "perhaps you will call the nurse for me?
There's no real need for her, but it is just as well we should have her
on the spot."

Again Clodagh's eyes darkened with apprehension, but she made no
remark. Signalling to Nance to follow her, she left the room.

As the two girls disappeared, Gallagher bent again over Asshlin, making
another rapid examination; then once more he glanced up at Milbanke.

"He may not last the night," he said below his breath. "Molyneaux
expected that it wouldn't be a long business, but we didn't look for
the change so soon as this."

Milbanke did not alter his position.

"You'll stay on, of course?" he said mechanically.

"Yes. Oh yes, I'll stay on!"

As he said the last word Clodagh reappeared.

"The nurse will be here in a minute," she said in a steady voice.


The unrelaxed, monotonous vigil lasted until two o'clock; then, as
Asshlin showed a disposition to rally, the doctor asserted his
authority, and dismissed Mrs. Asshlin, Nance, and Milbanke for a
much-needed rest--Clodagh alone refusing to leave the room.

Though he would not have admitted it, the command came as a boon to
Milbanke. His long and arduous journey, coupled with the strain and
excitement of the day and evening, had culminated in intense weariness;
and when Gallagher's order came, it would have been a superhuman effort
to offer any protest.

Reaching his room, he took off his boots, and, partially undressing,
threw himself upon his bed.

How many hours he slept the deep sleep of utter exhaustion he did not
know. His first effort at awaking consciousness was a thrill of nervous
fright that made him sit up in bed, aware with a sudden shock that some
one was knocking imperatively on his door and calling him by name in
low, agitated tones.

"Mr. Milbanke! Mr. Milbanke! Wake, please! Quick! Mr. Milbanke!"

He stared into the darkness for an instant in dazed apprehension; then
he slid out of bed, fumbling blindly for his dressing-gown.

"Coming!" he called. "Coming!"

Having found the garment, he crossed the room stumblingly, thrusting
his arms into the sleeves as he went.

Opening the door, he realised the situation with a sick sinking of the
heart. Clodagh stood in the corridor with a blanched face, holding a
candle in her shaking hand.

"Oh, come, please!" she exclaimed. "Come quick!"

Without a word he stepped forward, and the two hurried down the
passage.

In the sick-room the fire was glowing and additional candles had been
lighted. For a second Milbanke paused at the door; then, as his eyes
grew accustomed to the access of light, the scene became clear to him.
On the bed lay Asshlin, his head partly propped up by pillows, his eyes
wide, his breath coming in slow, difficult gasps; Gallagher was moving
about the room with more quickness and deftness than the Englishman
could have believed possible; Mrs. Asshlin, unnerved, and yet
fascinated, leaned upon the end of the bed; while Nance--crying
silently--followed the nurse to and fro in dazed, half-comprehending
fear; and Hannah, the household factotum, crouched behind the door,
weeping and murmuring inarticulate prayers.

The picture turned Milbanke cold. With an instinctive gesture he
paused, with the intention of shielding it from Clodagh's sight. But at
the very moment that he turned towards her, a convulsion shook the
dying man. He half-lifted himself in bed, his eyes staring wildly; as
Gallagher rushed forward, a faint sound escaped him, his head fell
forward, and his body collapsed in the doctor's arms.

There was a breathless, appalled silence--a silence that seemed to
extend over years. At last Gallagher looked up.

"It's all over," he said in a hushed voice.

For a minute no one spoke, no one moved. It seemed as if the whole room
was petrified. Then Gallagher quietly laid the body back upon the
pillows, and as though the action broke the spell, Clodagh gave a
sudden sharp cry and ran forward to the bed.




CHAPTER V


The three days that followed Asshlin's death resolved themselves into
so many hours of gloom and confusion, that found their culmination in
the funeral ceremony.

To Irishmen of every class, a funeral is invested with an almost
symbolic importance, and a solemn consideration is bestowed upon its
most minute details. And Milbanke, deeply imbued with the horror and
suddenness of the whole disaster, was filled with a growing
astonishment at the numberless preliminaries--the amount of precedence
and prestige requiring consideration--before one poor human body could
be hidden away. But he rose dutifully to the occasion and proved
himself unfailingly patient and conscientious in every emergency, from
the first repugnant interview with the undertaker to the woeful
breakfast, partaken of in the early hours of the funeral morning, with
the curtains drawn across the dining-room windows and the candles in
the massive silver sconces shedding an unnatural light upon the table
laden with eatables.

The guests who partook of this meal were men of varied and interesting
types; but whatever their characteristic differences, it was remarkable
that the same air of responsibility and solemnity inspired them all. It
did not matter that many of them had been personal enemies of the dead
man; that many, with that jealous distrust of unconventionality that
reigns in Ireland, had markedly drawn away from him in the last ten
years of his life; death had obliterated everything. Asshlin's
eccentricities, his lawlessness, his contempt for the little world in
which he lived were all forgotten. He was one of themselves--deserving,
in death at least, the same consideration that the county had bestowed
upon his father, his grandfather, and those who had gone before them.

The faces of these men were unfamiliar to Milbanke, though each on
entering the dining-room shook him cordially and sympathetically by the
hand. The meal was partaken of almost in silence; and it was with
obvious relief that, one after another, the members of the party rose
from table and passed into the darkened hall, and from thence to the
sweep of gravelled drive that fronted the house, where the less
privileged of those who had come to do Asshlin honour lounged singly or
in groups.

The funeral was timed to start at nine; but the concourse of
mourners--well accustomed to the delays inevitable on such an
occasion--evinced no sigh of impatience when half-past nine, and then
ten arrived, and no move had yet been made.

But all things come to those who understand the art of patience. At a
quarter past ten a thrill galvanised the lethargic crowd; and with the
recognition of the great moment for which they waited, the men began to
jostle each other and push forward towards the house, while all hats
were respectively removed.

A faint murmur of admiration and awe went up from the gathering as the
great brass-bound coffin was borne solemnly through the door and laid
upon the open bier. In silence Milbanke and young Laurence Asshlin took
their places as chief mourners, and with the inevitable confusion and
uncertainty of such a moment, the crowd of men and vehicles formed up
behind them, the horses under the bier moved slowly forward, and the
body of Denis Asshlin passed for the last time down the avenue and
through the gates of Orristown.


The funeral over, Milbanke walked back from Carrigmore alone. The
servants, who had followed their master to his resting-place in the old
graveyard, had remained in the village to enjoy the importance that the
occasion lent them; young Asshlin had disappeared at the conclusion of
the burial service; while the daughters and sister-in-law of the dead
man--in accordance with the custom of the country--had remained
secluded in their own rooms at Orristown, appearing neither at the
breakfast nor the funeral.

In a house of death, the hours that succeed the burial are, if
possible, even more melancholy than those that precede it. The
sensations of awe and responsibility have been dispersed, but as yet it
is impossible to resume the commonplace routine of life. As Milbanke
passed through the gateway and walked up the drive, ploughed into new
furrows by the long procession of cars that had followed the coffin, he
was deeply sensitive to this impression; and it fell upon him afresh
with a chill of desolation as he entered the door, still standing open,
and moved slowly across the deserted hall.

In the dining-room the curtains had been drawn back and the candles
extinguished; but the daylight seemed to fall tardily and unnaturally
upon the room after its three days' exclusion. He stood for a moment
looking at the debris of the breakfast that had not yet been removed,
at the disarray of the chairs that had been hurriedly vacated; then,
with a fresh and poignant sense of loss and loneliness, he turned
hastily and walked out of the room.

In the hall he attempted to pause afresh; but the sound of muffled
sobbing from the upper portion of the house sent him incontinently
forth into the open. With an overwhelming desire for human
fellowship--for any companionship in this abode of desolation, he
passed without consideration of his dignity round the corner of the
house in the direction of the stable-yard.

He walked calmly, but there was a pucker of anxiety on his usually
placid brow--an expression of concern, apart from actual sorrow, in his
tightly set lips. To the most casual observer it would have been
obvious that something weighed upon his mind.

Still moving with his habitual precision, he entered the yard by the
arched gateway, picking his way between the scattered array of rubbish,
food, and implements that encumbered the ground.

When he appeared, a dozen rough or glossy heads were thrust out of
kennels or outhouses, as the dogs accorded him a noisy welcome; but
paying only partial heed to their demonstrations, he passed on to the
vast coach-house, with the vague hope that some labourer connected with
the farm or stables might possibly have been left behind in the general
exodus. But here again he was doomed to disappointment. The
coach-house, with its walls festooned with rotting harness, its ghostly
row of cumbersome antiquated vehicles, was as empty of human presence
as the yard itself.

Conscious of the isolation that hung over the place--disproportionately
aware of his own aimlessness, he stood uncertain in what direction to
turn. For the moment, the household had no need of him; there were no
legal formalities to succeed the funeral, Asshlin having left no will;
and of personal duties he had none to claim his attention.

He stood by the coach-house door woefully undecided as to his next
move, when all at once relief came to him from the most unexpected
quarter of the outbuildings. One of the dairy windows was opened
sharply, and a head was thrust through the aperture.

"Wisha, what is it you're doin' there, sir?" a voice demanded kindly.
"Sure that ould yard is no fit place for you!"

Turning hastily, Milbanke saw the broad, plain face of Hannah; her
small eyes red, her rough cheeks stained with weeping.

"Why, Hannah!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing here? I thought you
were at the funeral."

Hannah passed the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Wisha, what would I be doin' at it?" she demanded huskily. "Sure I
don't know what they do be seein' in funerals at all."

Milbanke glanced up with interest, recognising the originality of the
remark.

"Why, you and I are of the same opinion," he said. "The Celtic delight
in the obsequies of a friend has been puzzling me for the last three
days----" Then he paused suddenly, conscious of Hannah's fixed regard.
"That is," he substituted quickly--"that is, I have been wondering,
like you, what they see in it."

Hannah's small, observant eyes did not waver in their scrutiny.

"You've been wonderin' about somethin', sure enough!" she said. "I seen
it meself every time I'd be carryin' in the dinner or doin' a turn for
the poor corpse. God be good to him this holy and blessed day!" Again
she wiped her eyes. "But 'tisn't wonderin' alone that's at you," she
added more briskly. "'Tis some other thing that's lyin' heavy on your
mind. I seen it meself at every hand's turn."

Milbanke started. This sympathetic onslaught was as disconcerting as it
was unexpected.

"I--I won't contradict you, Hannah," he said waveringly. "No doubt you
are right."

For the space of a minute Hannah was profoundly silent; then she
broached the subject that had been filling her mind for a day and a
half.

"Wisha, now, is it thrue what they do be tellin' me?" she asked softly
and warily--"that you're goin' to be father and mother an' all to thim
two poor children?"

Again Milbanke started almost guiltily; then the personal anxiety that
mingled with and almost dominated his grief for Asshlin rose
irrepressibly in response to the persuasive tones, the kindly human
interest and curiosity.

"Yes, Hannah," he said quickly. "Yes, it is my intention to try and
fill my poor friend's place."

The tears welled suddenly into Hannah's eyes, and with an awkward
movement she wiped her rough hand in her apron and held it out.

"God Almighty will give it back to you, sir!" she exclaimed, with
impulsive fervour.

Strangely touched by the expression of understanding and appreciation,
he responded to the gesture and took her hand.

But instantly she withdrew it.

"Don't be mindin' an ould woman like me, sir," she said deprecatingly.
"'Twas the thought of the children that come over me. I couldn't help
it. I had the both of thim in me arms before they could cry. Small
wonder me heart would be in thim! Many's the sad day I put over me,
thinkin' what would become of them, wid the poor masther goin' to the
bad. God forgive me for sayin' it! And sure now 'tis all settled and
done for--and the heavth of it off of our minds. Praise be to God!"

She paused to dry her tears.

"And what would you be thinkin' to do wid thim?" she asked presently in
a new and more personal tone.

Milbanke did not answer at once. His eyes strayed uneasily from one
object in the yard to another, while the frown of perplexity that had
puckered his brow since Asshlin's death reappeared more prominently
than before. At last, with a certain expression of puzzled resolution,
he looked up and met Hannah's attentive gaze.

"To tell you the truth, Hannah," he said, "that is the precise question
I have been asking myself ever since your poor master died."

There was a wait of some seconds while his listener digested the
information; then she nodded her head with slow impressiveness.

"I seen it meself," she said again. "Sure, I seen it as plain as
daylight. 'There's somethin' on his mind,' I says to meself. An' if it
isn't the poor masther's death,' I says, 'thin it's nothin' more nor
less than the natural feelin's of a single gentleman that finds himself
wid two grown daughters.'"

It was characteristic of Milbanke that he did not smile. He recognised
only one fact in the old servant's words--the fact that the state of
affairs over which he had been worrying in lonely perplexity had
suddenly been accurately, if roughly, voiced by some one else. He
glanced up with quick relief into the round, red face framed in the
dairy window.

"Hannah," he said honestly, "your surmise was perfectly correct."

For the first time a smile broke over her tear-stained face.

"I was right thin? 'Tis the children was troublin' you?"

A sharp gleam of inquiry shot from her eyes.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"An' why, now?" Again her tone changed, the irrepressible undercurrent
of native humour, native inquisitiveness and familiarity welling out
unconsciously. "Sure, they're good children."

"I do not doubt it. I do not doubt it for one moment."

"But they're troublin' you all the same?"

"Well, yes. Yes, I confess they are troubling me."

"Both of thim?" she asked innocently.

He hesitated.

"Well, no," he replied artlessly. "No, not both of them."

"Ah, I thought that same!" Hannah gave a nod of understanding. "Sure,
'twas to be tormentin' men she was brought into the world for. I said
so meself the first day I took her into me arms."

"But--but I haven't said anything. How do you know that it is----?"

"How do I know that it's Miss Clodagh that's botherin' you? Sure, how
do I know that you're standin' before me? Faith, by the use of me
eyesight! Haven't I seen you lookin' at her and ponderin'--and lookin'
at her agin?"

Milbanke's lips tightened, and he drew himself up.

"I should be sorry if any thought I have bestowed on your young
mistress----" he began coldly; then suddenly the intense need of help
and sympathetic counsel over-balanced dignity. "Hannah," he said
abruptly, "I'm in a terribly awkward position, and that is the simple
truth. My mind is quite at rest about the younger girl. She is a
child--and will be a child for years. A good school is all she needs.
But with the other it's different--with Clodagh it's different. Clodagh
is no longer a child."

Hannah remained discreetly silent.

"If I had a sister," he went on, "or any friend to whom I could entrust
her. But I have none."

Again Hannah shook her head.

"Why, thin, that's a pity!" she murmured. "Sure, 'tis lonesome for a
gintleman to be by himself."

"It is a pity--a great pity. You do not know how it is weighing upon
me. Of course, there is her aunt----"

Hannah made an exclamation of horror.

"Is it Mrs. Laurence?" she cried. "Is it tie her to Mrs. Laurence you
would? Sure, you may as well put her in the grave and be done wid it."

Milbanke's harassed face grew more perplexed.

"No," he said hurriedly--"no; I understand that that arrangement is
impossible. I was merely wondering whether there is any other--any more
distant relative with whom she might be happy----"

He looked anxiously into her broad, shrewd face.

For a moment the small eyes met his seriously, then involuntarily they
twinkled.

"Faith, when I was a young woman, sir," she said slowly, "men wasn't so
sat on findin' relations for a girl like Miss Clodagh--unless maybe
'twas a relation of their own makin'!"

Milbanke suddenly looked away.

"What--what do you mean?" he asked confusedly.

"Why, that 'tisn't aunts and cousins that a girl like Miss Clodagh
wants, but a good husband."

"A--a husband?"

"Why, thin, what else? Instid of throublin' yourself and frettin'
yourself till your heart is scalded out of you, why don't you marry her?
That's what _I've_ been askin' meself ever since the poor masther died.
It's out now, if I'm to be killed for it!"

She eyed him almost defiantly.

But Milbanke stood stammering and confused, his gaze fixed nervously on
the ground, an unaccustomed flush on his worn cheeks.

"But--but, Hannah, I--I am an old man!"

His tone was deprecating and meant to be ironic; but unconsciously it
had an undernote of question; unconsciously, as he raised his eyes to
his mentor's face, he straightened the shoulders that age and study had
combined to bend.

"I am an old man!" he said again. "Why--why, I am five years older than
her father----"

Hannah continued to search his face.

"An' sure what harm is that?" she said. "Wasn't me own poor man as ould
as me grandfather?--an' no woman ever buried a finer husband--God rest
him!"

Milbanke's lack of humorous imagination stood him in good stead.

"But she's a child," he stammered--"a child----"

For answer, Hannah leant out of the window until her face was close to
his.

"Listen here to me!" she said softly. "Child or no child, you thought
about marryin' her before ever I said it. But you'd never riz the
courage to do it. You're not like the Asshlins, that would tear down
the walls of hell if they wanted to be gettin' at the divil; you'd like
somebody to take him be the hand and draw him out nice and aisy for
you----

"There she is up in that lonesome house, frettin' her heart an' cryin'
her eyes out. Why can't you go up an' take her, before somebody else
does?"

As she came to the last words her rough voice dropped. Her loyalty to
her dead master, her anxiety to see his child in a place of safety
poured from her in crude eloquence. To her primitive mind Milbanke
appeared as the ideal husband--a man of dependable years, of wealth, of
good social position; and all her affections, all her energies yearned
to make the marriage. She could not have framed the fear that possessed
her; but her instinct, her acute native intuition warned her
unanswerably that the daughter of Denis Asshlin would need protection,
and would need it before long. With an impulsive gesture she stretched
out her hand, and, touching Milbanke's shoulder, pushed him gently
forward into the yard.

"Go on, sir!" she urged softly. "Go on up an' take her, before somebody
else does!"




CHAPTER VI


It may be surmised without fear of misconception that never during the
smooth course of his uneventful existence had Milbanke been so rudely
shaken into self-comprehension as by Hannah's unlooked-for onslaught.
Left to the placid guidance of unaided instinct, it is almost certain
that he would have left Orristown whenever the hour of departure
arrived, innocently unconscious that any parting pangs could be
attributed to a personal cause. It is possible that, with the passage
of time, he might have acknowledged that somewhere in the inner
recesses of his mind there was a shrine where one face, more changeful
and alluring than any other he had known, reigned in solitary state;
but beyond that tardy acknowledgment he would not have dared to
venture. Later still, perhaps, if circumstances had compelled him to
resign his guardianship over Clodagh in favour of some possible
husband, it is within the bounds of reason to conjecture that
understanding of his feelings might have come to him when, having said
good-bye to the young girl just crossing the threshold of life, he
returned to his home, newly and bitterly alive to his age and
loneliness. But now, in the light of present events, all such
suppositions had become valueless. As if by some powerful outside
pressure, his eyes had been opened, and he stood dazed and elated
before the new road that opened upon his vision.

His brain felt light and unsteady, his limbs were imbued with a
sensation of unaccustomed buoyancy as he turned, impelled by Hannah's
words, and moved across the yard towards the arched gateway. A
half-admitted, intoxicating sense of imminent action possessed him; and
as he walked forward it seemed that he scarcely felt the ground beneath
his feet.

Almost without volition, he passed from the stone-paved courtyard into
the sweep of gravelled pathway that fronted the house. For the first
time in his existence he was conscious of being borne forward on the
tide of his emotions; and the knowledge had an exhilarating, unbalanced
daring that suggested youth.

As though he feared the evaporation of his mood, he made no pause on
gaining the pathway, but went straight forward towards the house with a
haste and impetuosity very foreign to his formal nature. On his second
entry into the hall, he paid no heed to the chill desolation of the
place, but crossing the intervening space, began immediately to mount
the stairs.

Scarcely had he reached the highest step, however, than he halted
incontinently. For, as though in direct response to the thoughts that
were filling his mind, a door on the corridor opened, and Clodagh
appeared.

Seeing him, she too paused; and in the moment of mutual hesitation he
had opportunity to study her.

In her new black dress, she looked slighter and more immature than he
had expected; and the pathetic effect of her appearance was enhanced by
the paleness of her face and the heavy, purple shadows that
sleeplessness and tears had traced below her eyes. As the impression
obtruded itself upon him, his own nervous excitement dropped from him
suddenly.

"My poor child!" he said involuntarily.

At the words and the tone, she turned to him impulsively.

"Oh! Mr. Milbanke----" she began.

Then her loneliness, her sense of bereavement and desolation, inundated
her mind. With a short sob, she moved abruptly away, and turning her
face to the wall, broke into a passion of tears.

The action was the action of a child; and without hesitation Milbanke
responded to it. Stepping across the corridor, he put his arm about her
shoulder and drew her gently towards the stairs.

"Come!" he said soothingly--"come! The house is quite quiet, and you
are badly in want of a little daylight and fresh air. Come! Let me take
you out."

Clodagh sobbed on; but she suffered herself to be led down the stairs
and across the hall towards the open door. There, however, she paused,
newly arrested by her grief.

"Oh, Mr. Milbanke," she cried, "I can't believe it! I can't believe
that we'll never see him again. Poor father! Oh, poor father!"

But Milbanke was equal to the situation.

"You must be brave," he said kindly. "You must remember that he would
like you to be brave."

The words were an inspiration; with marvellous efficacy they checked
the torrent of Clodagh's tears. For a moment she stood looking at him
in a dazed, uncertain way; then she lifted her head in a pathetic
attempt at decisive action.

"You are right," she said unevenly. "He _would_ like to know that I was
brave."

The declaration seemed to cost her an immense effort; for instantly it
was made, she turned away from Milbanke, freeing herself from his
detaining arm. And as though fearing to trust herself to any further
onrush of emotion, she stepped through the open door and walked quickly
forward to where the gravelled drive merged into the long and narrow
glen in which the Orristown woods met the sea.

Down the wide track leading to this glen she walked, with head rigidly
erect and with resolutely set lips, while Milbanke followed. Now that
the immediate need for his protection had been removed, his mind
involuntarily reverted to his earlier and more tumultuous thoughts.
With a strange, half-timid excitement, he acknowledged the personal
element in his surroundings, and exulted with a certain tremulous joy
in the keen air that blew inland from the sea; in the pleasant earthy
smell of the moss that clothed the rough stones of the boundary wall
skirting the path; in the promise of spring, suggested by the hardy
green of the wild violet plants clustering at the roots of the beech
trees. And with his eyes fixed upon Clodagh's slim black figure, he
walked forward in a vaguely intoxicating dream.

For the full course of the path she went on steadily; but reaching the
glen, she paused; and there, as if by a pre-arrangement of destiny,
Milbanke overtook her.

With a quiet, unostentatious movement he stepped to her side, and stood
looking upon the scene that spread before them.

The view was not imposing, but it was beautiful with the brooding,
solemn beauty that emanates from Ireland. Upon one hand, the sea
stretched away green, invincible, and cold as it so often looks in
early spring; upon the other, the woods lay a mass of leafless,
interlacing boughs that formed a clean, brown silhouette against the
grey sky; while directly in front, the first undulation of the rugged
Orristown cliffs stood up, an impregnable rampart against the outer
world.

For a long silent moment Clodagh surveyed the picture; then with one of
the impulsive, unstudied gestures that were so characteristic of her,
she looked round; and for the first time since they had left the house,
her eyes rested on Milbanke's face.

"You are very kind to me," she said suddenly. "Why are you so kind?"

The words, spoken with complete ingenuousness, came at a singularly
appropriate moment. To Milbanke, nervously conscious of his own
emotions, they seemed inspired. With a quick, unsteady gesture he
wheeled round, and putting out his hand, caught hers.

"It--it is easy to be kind to some people," he said, almost
inarticulately.

Clodagh looked at him in some surprise; but it did not occur to her to
withdraw her hand. She stood perfectly calm and unembarrassed; and
presently, as he made no attempt at further speech, her glance wandered
back to the cool stretch of green water.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose it is easy to be nice to some
people; but not to selfish people like me."

At her words, Milbanke's hand tightened abruptly.

"You must not say that," he murmured. "I have never seen any faults
in your character. And even--even if I had"--his voice quickened
confusedly--"even if I had seen them, you would still be the--the child
of my oldest friend."

He spoke disjointedly and agitatedly; but at his words, Clodagh turned
to him afresh with a grateful, impulsive movement.

"Ah, then I understand!" she said warmly. "You are very kind--you are
very good----"

At her movement and her tone, a mental giddiness seized upon Milbanke.
A flush rose to his temples.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "let me be kind to you always! Let--let me
marry you--and be kind to you always!"

The appeal came forth with volcanic suddenness. He had not meant to be
precipitate; it was entirely alien to his slow, methodical nature to
plunge headlong into any situation. But the occasion was unprecedented;
circumstances overwhelmed him. For a long space he stood as if
transfixed, his eyes straining to catch the expression on Clodagh's
face, his pale, ascetic features puckered with anxiety.

The pause was long--preternaturally long. Clodagh stood as motionless
as he, her hand still resting passive in his clasp, her clear eyes
staring into his in stupefied amazement. It was plainly evident that no
realisation of the declaration just made had penetrated her
understanding. To her mind--unattuned, even vaguely, to the idea of
love, and temporarily numbed by her grief--the thought that her
father's friend could consider her in any light but that of a child was
too preposterous, too unreal to come spontaneously. The belief that
Milbanke's extraordinary words but needed some explanatory addition
held her attentive and expectant. And under this conviction, she stood
unconscious of his close regard and unembarrassed by the pressure of
his hand.

At last, as some shadowy perception of her thoughts obtruded itself
upon him, he stirred nervously, and the flush upon his face deepened.

"Clodagh," he said, "have I made myself plain? Do you understand that
I--that I wish to marry you? That I want you for my--my wife?"

The final word with its intense incongruity cut suddenly through the
mist of her bewilderment. In a flash of comprehension the meaning of
his declaration sprang to her mind. Her face turned red, then pale;
with a sharp movement she drew away her hand.

"You want to marry me?" she said in a slow, amazed voice.

Before the note of blank, undisguised incredulity, Milbanke shrank into
himself.

"Yes," he said hurriedly--"yes; that is my desire. I know that perhaps
it may--may seem incongruous. You are very young; and I----"

He hesitated with a painful touch of embarrassment. At the hesitation,
Clodagh's voice broke forth.

"But I don't want to marry," she cried; "I don't want to marry--any
one."

There was a sharp, half-frightened note audible in her voice. For the
moment, her whole attitude was that of the inexperienced being who
clings instinctively to the rock of present things, and obstinately
refuses to be cast into the sea of future possibilities. For the
moment, she was blind to the instrument that was forcing her towards
those possibilities. To her immature mind it was the choice between the
known and the unknown. Then suddenly and accidentally her eyes came
back to Milbanke's face, and the personal element in the choice
assailed her abruptly.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she cried involuntarily--"I couldn't!--I couldn't!"

She did not intend to hurt him; but cruelty is the prerogative of the
young, and she failed to see that he winced before the decisive honesty
of her words.

"Am I so--so very distasteful?" he asked in a low, unsteady voice.

She looked at him in silence. It was the inevitable clash of youth and
age. She was warm-hearted, she was capable of generous action; but
before all else, she was young--the triumphant inheritor of the ages.
Life stretched before her, while it lay behind him. She looked at him;
and as she looked a wave of revolt--a strong, sudden sense of her
individual right to happiness--surged through her.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she cried again--"I couldn't!"

And before Milbanke could reply--before he had time to comprehend the
purport of her words--she had turned and fled in the direction of the
house, leaving him standing as he was, dazed and petrified.


Upward along the path, Clodagh ran. Her impulse towards flight had been
childish, and her thoughts as she sped forward were as unreasonable and
confused as a child's. She was vaguely, blindly filled with a desire to
escape--from she knew not what; to evade--she knew not what. Her one
clear thought was that the prop upon which she had leaned in these days
of sorrow and despair had unaccountably and suddenly been withdrawn;
and that she stood woefully alone and unprotected.

On she ran, until the archway of the courtyard broke into view; then,
without a moment's hesitation, she swerved to the left, sped across the
yard, and burst unceremoniously into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Hannah was busying herself over the fire that, in the
confusion of the morning's event, had been suffered to die down. At the
tempestuous opening of the door she turned sharply round, and for a
second stood staring at the disturbed face of her young mistress; then,
with the intuitive tact of her race, she suddenly opened her ample
arms, and with a sob Clodagh rushed towards her.

For a long moment Hannah held her as if she had been a baby, patting
her shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair, while she cried out her
grief and bewilderment. At last, with a slow sobbing breath, she raised
her head.

"Oh, Hannah, I want father!" she said--"I want father!"

Hannah drew her closer to her broad shoulder.

"Whisht, now!" she murmured tenderly--"whisht, now! Sure, he's betther
off--sure, he's betther off."

But Clodagh's mind was too agitated to take comfort. With a change of
mental attitude, she altered her physical position--freeing herself
abruptly from Hannah's embrace.

"Hannah," she cried suddenly, "Mr. Milbanke wants me to marry him. And
I won't! I can't! I won't!"

Hannah's eyes narrowed sharply. But whatever her emotion, she checked
it, and bent over her charge with another caress.

"Sure you won't, of course, my lamb. Who'd be askin' you?"

"No one."

"Thin why would you be frettin' yourself?"

"I'm not fretting myself. Only----"

"Only what?"

"Onl

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/33490