The Wild Geese Part 35

His mind, as he sat brooding, travelled back to the beginning of it all; to the day on which Sir Michael's letter, with a copy of his will, had reached his hands, at Stralsund on the Baltic, in his quarters beside the East Gate, in one of those Hanse houses with the tall narrow fronts which look like nothing so much as the gable-ends of churches.

The cast of his thoughts at the reading rose up before him; the vivid recollections of his home, his boyhood, his father, which the old man's writing had evoked, and the firmness with which, touched by the dead man's confidence, a confidence based wholly on report, he had resolved to protect the girl's interests. Sir Michael had spoken so plainly of James as to leave the reader under no delusion about him. Nevertheless, Colonel John had conceived some pity for him; in a vague way he had hoped that he might soften things for him when the time came. But that the old man's confidence should be justified, the young girl's inheritance secured to her--this had been the purpose in his mind from first to last.

And this was his reward!

True, that purpose would not have embroiled him with her, strong as was her love for her brother, if it had not become entwined under the stress of events with another--with the resolve to pluck her and hers from the abyss into which they were bent on flinging themselves. It was that resolution which had done the mischief, and made her his enemy to this point. But he could not regret that. He could not repent of that--he who had seen war in all its cruel phases, and fierce rebellions, and more cruel repressions. Perish--though he perished himself in this cold prison--perish the thought! For even now some warmth awoke at his heart, some heat was kindled in him by the reflection that, whatever befell him, he had saved scores and hundreds from misery, a countryside from devastation, women and children from the worst of fates. Many and many a one who cursed his name to-day had cause, did he know it, to remember him in his prayers. And though he never saw the sun again, though the grim walls about him proved indeed his grave, though he never lived to return to the cold lands where he had made a name and a place for himself, he would at least pa.s.s beyond with full hands, and with the knowledge that for every life he, the soldier of fortune, had taken, he had saved ten.

He sat an hour, two hours, thinking of this, and of her; and towards the end less bitterly. For he was just, and could picture the wild, untutored heart of the girl, bred in solitude, dwelling on the present wrongs and the past greatness of her race, taking dreams for realities, and that which lay in cloudland for the possible. Her rough awakening from those dreams, her disappointment, the fall from the heaven of fancy to the world as it was, might--he owned it--have driven even a generous spirit to cruel and heartless lengths. And still he sighed--he sighed.

At the end of two hours he roused himself perforce. For he was very cold, and that could only be mended by such exercise as the size of his prison permitted. He set himself to walk briskly up and down. When he had taken a few turns, however, he paused with his eyes on the table.

The candles? They would serve him the longer if he burned but one at a time. He extinguished three. The deed? He might burn it, and so put the temptation, which he was too wise to despise, out of reach. But he had noticed in one corner a few half-charred fragments of wood, damp indeed, but such as might be kindled by coaxing. He would preserve the deed for the purpose of kindling the wood; and the fire, as his only luxury, he would postpone until he needed it more sorely. In the end the table and the chairs--or all but one--should eke out his fuel, and he would sleep. But not yet.

For he had no desire to die; and with warmth he knew that he could put up for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which he had the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased his chances; it was impossible to say what might not happen with time.

Uncle Ulick was due to return in a week--and Bale. Or his gaolers might relent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stout heart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not let him perish.

That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If it had, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and his inability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For they could put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so far as to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in his mind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, he must eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appet.i.te; after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through which he had pa.s.sed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among a barbarous people, this was a small thing.

Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, that sadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had not still sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head upon his breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger and cold and physical privation--no more! But when it was overpast, and he had suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospect stretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middle age, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of his friend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little while he would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: if he had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Already shadowy plans rose before him.

Yet for the time--for he was human--he drew small comfort from such plans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sink into his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when the cold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and pace again from wall to wall.

His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which--for how many years rolled between him and the girl, and how many things done, suffered, seen--he should have known the outcome. But, taking its rise in the instinct to protect, which their relations justified, it had mastered him slowly, not so much against his will as without his knowledge; until he had awakened one day to find himself possessed by a fancy--a madness, if the term were fitter--the more powerful because he was no longer young, and in his youth had known pa.s.sion but once, and then to his sorrow. By-and-by, for a certainty, the man's sense of duty, the principles that had ruled him so long--and ruled more men then than now, for faith was stronger--would a.s.sert themselves. And he would go back to the Baltic lands, the barren, snow-bitten lands of his prime, a greyer, older, more sombre man--but not an unhappy man.

Something of this he told himself as he paced up and down the gloomy chamber, while the flame of the candle crept steadily downward, and his shadow in the vault above grew taller and more grotesque. It must be midnight; it must be two; it must be three in the morning. The loopholes, when he stood between them and the candle, were growing grey; the birds were beginning to chirp. Presently the sun would rise, and through the narrow windows he would see its beams flas.h.i.+ng on the distant water. But the windows looked north-west, and many hours must pa.s.s before a ray would strike into his dungeon. The candle was beginning to burn low, and it seemed a pity to light another, with the daylight peering in. But if he did not, he would lack the means to light his fire. And he was eager to do without the fire as long as possible, though already he s.h.i.+vered in the keen morning air. He was cold now, but he would be colder, he knew, much colder by-and-by, and his need of the fire would be greater.

From that the time wore wearily on--he was feeling the reaction--to the breakfast hour. The sun was high now; the birds were singing sweetly in the rough brakes and brambles about the Tower; far away on the s.h.i.+ning lake, of which only the farther end lay within his sight, three men were fis.h.i.+ng from a boat. He watched them; now and again he caught the tiny splash as they flung the bait far out. And, so watching, with no thought or expectation of it, he fell asleep, and slept, for five or six hours, the sleep of which excitement had cheated him through the night. In warmth, morning and evening, night and day differed little in that sunken room. Still the air in it profited a little by the high sun; and he awoke, not only less weary, but warmer. But, alas! he awoke also hungry.

He stood up and stretched himself: and, seeing that two-thirds of the second candle had burned away while he slept, he was thankful that he had lit it. He tried to put away the visions of hot bacon, cold round, and sweet brown bread that rose before him; he smiled, indeed, considering how much more hungry he would be by-and-by, this evening--and to-morrow. He wondered ruefully how far they would carry it: and, on that, mind got the better of body, and he forgot his appet.i.te in a thought more engrossing.

Would she come? Every twenty-four hours, her letter said, a person would visit him, to learn if his will had yielded to theirs. Would she be the person? Would she who had so wronged him have the courage to confront him? And, if she did, how would she carry it off? It was wonderful with what interest, nay, with what agitation, he dwelt on this. How would she look? how would she bear herself? how would she meet his eye? Would the shame she ought to feel make itself seen in her carriage, or would her looks and her mien match the arrogance of her letter? Would she shun his gaze, or would she face it without flinching, with a steady colour and a smiling lip? And, if the latter were the case, would it be the same when hours and days of fasting had hollowed his cheeks, and given to his eyes the glare which he had seen in many a wretched peasant's eyes in those distant lands? Would she still be able to face that sight without flinching, to view his sufferings without a qualm, and turn, firm in her cruel purpose, from the dumb pleading of his hunger?

"G.o.d forbid!" he cried. "Ah! G.o.d forbid!"

And he prayed that, rather than that, rather than have that last proof of the hardness of the heart that dwelt in that fair shape, he might not see her at all. He prayed that, rather than that, she might not come; though--so weak are men--that she might come, and he might see how she bore herself, and how she carried off his knowledge of her treason--was now the one interest he had, the one thought, prospect, hope that had power to lighten the time, and keep at bay--though noon was long past, and he had fasted twenty-four hours--the attacks of hunger!

The thought possessed him to an extraordinary extent. Would she come?

And would he see her? Or, having lured him by that Judas letter into his enemies' power, would she leave him to be treated as they chose, while she lay warm and safe in the house which his interference had saved for her?

Oh! cruel!

Then--for no man was more just than this man, though many surpa.s.sed him in tact--the very barbarity of an action so false and so unwomanly suggested that, viewed from her side, it must wear another shape. For even Delilah was a Philistine, and by her perfidy served her country.

What was this girl gaining? Revenge, yes; yet, if they kept faith with him, and, the deed signed, let him go free, she had not even revenge.

For the rest, she lost by the deed. All that her grandfather had meant for her pa.s.sed by it to her brother. To lend herself to stripping herself was not the part of a selfish woman. Even in her falseness there was something magnanimous.

He sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and thinking of it. She had been false to him, treacherous, cruel! But not for her own sake, not for her private advantage; rather to her hurt. Viewed on that side, there was something to be said for her.

He was still staring dreamily at the table when a shadow falling on the table roused him. He lifted his eyes to the nearest loophole, through which the setting sun had been darting its rays a moment before. Morty O'Beirne bending almost double--for outside, the arrow-slit was not more than two feet from the ground--was peering in.

"Ye'll not have changed your quarters, Colonel," he said, in a tone of raillery which was a.s.sumed perhaps to hide a real feeling of shame.

"Sure, you're there, Colonel, safe enough?"

"Yes, I am here," Colonel John answered austerely. He did not leave his seat at the table.

"And as much at home as a mole in a hill," Morty continued. "And, like that same blessed little fellow in black velvet that I take my hat off to, with las.h.i.+ngs of time for thinking."

"So much," Colonel John answered, with the same severe look, "that I am loth to think ill of any. Are you alone, Mr. O'Beirne?"

"Faith, and who'd there be with me?" Morty answered in true Irish fas.h.i.+on.

"I cannot say. I ask only, Are you alone?"

"Then I am, and that's G.o.d's truth," Morty replied, peering inquisitively into the corners of the gloomy chamber. "More by token I wish you no worse than just to be doing as you're bid--and faith, it's but what's right!--and go your way. 'Tis a cold, damp, unchancy place you've chosen, Colonel," he continued, with a grin; "like nothing in all the wide world so much as that same molehill. Well, glory be to G.o.d, it can't be said I'm one for talking; but, if you're asking my advice, you'll be wiser acting first than last, and full than empty!"

"I'm not of that opinion, sir," Colonel John replied, looking at him with the same stern eyes.

"Then I'm thinking you're not as hungry as I'd be! And not the least taste in life to stay my stomach for twenty-four hours!"

"It has happened to me before," Colonel John answered.

"You're not for signing, then?"

"I am not."

"Don't be saying that, Colonel!" Morty rejoined. "It's not yet awhile, you're meaning?"

"Neither now nor ever, G.o.d willing," Colonel John answered. "I quote from yourself, sir. As well say it first as last, and full as empty!"

"Sure, and ye'll be thinking better of it by-and-by, Colonel."

"No."

"Ah, you will," Morty retorted, in that tone which to a mind made up is worse than a blister. "Sure, ye'll not be so hard-hearted, Colonel, as to refuse a lady! It's not Kerry-born you are, and say the word 'No'

that easy!"

"Do not deceive yourself, sir," Colonel John answered severely, and with a darker look. "I shall not give way either to-day or to-morrow."

"Nor the next day?"

"Nor the next day, G.o.d willing."

"Not if the lady asks you herself? Come, Colonel."

Colonel John rose sharply from his seat; such patience, as a famished man has, come to an end.

"Sir," he said, "if this is all you have to say to me, I have your message, and I prefer to be alone."

Morty grinned at him a moment, then, with an Irish shrug, he gave way.

"As you will," he said.