XXIII
A LION IN THE PATH
With the decline of day came enough of a chill to spin a delicatecobweb of mist across the country and cover forests and hills with abluish bloom.
The sunset had become a splashy crimson affair, perhaps a bit tootheatrical. In the red blaze Thessalie and Westmore came wanderingdown from the three pines on the hill, and found Barres on the lawnscowling at the celestial conflagration in the west, and Dulcie seatednear on the fountain rim, silent, distrait, watching the scarletripples spreading from the plashing central jet.
"You can't paint a thing like that, Garry," remarked Westmore. Barreslooked around:
"I don't want to. Where have you been, Thessa?"
"Under those pines over there. We supposed you'd see us and come up."
Barres glanced at her with an inscrutable expression; Dulcie's greyeyes rested on Barres. Thessalie walked over to the reddened pool.
"It's like a prophecy of blood, that water," she said. "And over therethe world is in flames."
"The Western World," added Westmore, "I hope it's an omen that weshall soon catch fire. How long are you going to wait, Garry?"
Barres started to answer, but checked himself, and glanced across atDulcie without knowing exactly why.
"I don't know," he said irresolutely. "I'm fed up now.... But----" hecontinued to look vaguely at Dulcie, as though something of hisuncertainty remotely concerned her.
"I'm ready to go over when you are," remarked Westmore, placidlysmiling at Thessalie, who immediately presented her pretty profile tohim and settled down on the fountain rim beside Dulcie.
"Darling," she said, "it's about time to dress. Are you going to wearthat enchanting white affair we discovered at Mandel's?"
Barres senior came sauntering out of the woods and through the wallgate, switching a limber rod reflectively. He obligingly opened hiscreel and displayed half a dozen long, slim trout.
"They all took that midge fly I described to you this afternoon," hesaid, with the virtuous satisfaction of all prophets.
Everybody inspected the crimson-flecked fish while Barres senior stoodtwirling his monocle.
"Are we dining at home?" inquired his son.
"I believe so. There is a guest of honour, if I recollect--some fellowthey're lionising--I don't remember.... And one or two others--theGerhardts, I believe."
"Then we'd better dress, I think," said Thessalie, encircling Dulcie'swaist.
"Sorry," said Barres senior, "hoped to take you young ladies out onthe second lake and let you try for a big fish this evening."
He walked across the lawn beside them, switching his rod ascomplacently as a pleased cat twitches its tail.
"We'll try it to-morrow evening," he continued reassuringly, as thoughall their most passionate hopes had been bound up in the suggestedsport; "it's rather annoying--I can't remember who's dining withus--some celebrated Irishman--poet of sorts--literary chap--guest ofthe Gerhardts--neighbours, you know. It's a nuisance to bother withdinner when the trout rise only after sunset."
"Don't you ever dine willingly, Mr. Barres, while the trout arerising?" inquired Thessalie, laughing.
"Never willingly," he replied in a perfectly sincere voice. "I preferto remain near the water and have a bit of supper when I return." Hesmiled at Thessalie indulgently. "No doubt it amuses you, but I wagerthat you and little Miss Soane here will feel exactly as I do afteryou've caught your first big trout."
They entered the house together, followed by Garry and Westmore.
A dim, ruddy glow still lingered in the quiet rooms; every windowglass was still lighted by the sun's smouldering ashes sinking in thewest; no lamps had yet been lighted on the ground floor.
"It's the magic hour on the water," Barres senior confided to Dulcie,"and here I am, doomed to a stiff shirt and table talk. In otherwords, nailed!" And he gave her a mysterious, melancholy, butsignificant look as though she alone were really fitted to understandthe distressing dilemmas of an angler.
"Would it be too late to fish after dinner?" ventured Dulcie. "I'dlove to go with you----"
"Would you, really!" he exclaimed, warmly grateful. "That is thespirit I admire in a girl! It's human, it's discriminating! And yet,do you know, nobody except myself in this household seems to care verymuch about angling? And, actually, I don't believe there is anothersoul in this entire house who would care to miss dinner for the sakeof landing the finest trout in the second lake!--unless you would?"
"I really would!" said Dulcie, smiling. "Please try me, Mr. Barres."
"Indeed, I shall! I'll give you one of my pet rods, too! I'll----"
The rich, metallic murmur of a temple gong broke out in the dim quietof the house. It was the dressing bell.
"We'll talk it over at dinner--if they'll let me sit by you,"whispered Barres senior. And with the smile and the cautionary gestureof the true conspirator, he went away in the demi-light.
Thessalie came from the bay window, where she had been with Westmoreand Garry, and she and Dulcie walked away toward the staircase hall,leisurely followed by the two men who, however, turned again into thewestern wing.
* * * * *
Dulcie was the first to reappear and descend the stairs of the northwing--a willowy white shape in the early dusk, slim as a young spiritin the lamplit silence.
Nobody else had come down; a maid was turning up a lamp here andthere; the plebeian family cat came out of the shadows from somewhereand made advances as though divining that this quiet stranger was afriend to cats.
So Dulcie stooped to pet her, then wandered on through the place andfinally into the music room, where she seated herself at the piano andtouched the keys softly in the semi-dusk.
Among the songs--words and music--which her mother had left inmanuscript, was one which she had learned recently,--"Blue Eyes"--andshe played the air now, seated there all alone in the subdued lamplight.
Presently people began to appear from above--Mrs. Barres, who motionedher not to rise, and who seated herself near, watching the girl'sslender fingers moving on the keys; then Lee, who came and stoodbeside her, followed in a few moments by Thessalie and the two youngermen.
"What is that lovely little air you are playing?" inquired Mrs.Barres.
"It is called 'Blue Eyes,'" said Dulcie, absently.
"I have never before heard it."
The girl looked up:
"No, my mother wrote it."
After a silence:
"It is really exquisite," said Mrs. Barres. "Are there words to it?"
Some people had come into the entrance hall beyond; there was the lowwhirring of an automobile outside.
"Yes, my mother made some verses for it," replied Dulcie.
"Will you sing them for me after dinner?"
"Yes, I shall be happy to."
Mrs. Barres turned to welcome her new guests, now entering the musicroom convoyed by Barres senior, who was arrayed in the dreaded "stiffshirt" and already indulging in "table talk."
"They took," he was explaining, "a midge-fly with no hackle--Claire,here are the Gerhardts and Mr. Skeel!" And while his wife welcomedthem and introductions were effected, he continued explaining theconstruction of the midge to anybody who listened.
At the first mention of Murtagh Skeel's name, the glances of Westmore,Garry and Thessalie crossed like lightning, then their attentionbecame riveted on this tall, graceful, romantic looking man of earlymiddle age, who was being lionised at Northbrook.
The next moment Garry stepped back beside Dulcie Soane, who had turnedwhite as a flower and was gazing at Skeel as though she had seen aghost.
"Do you suppose he can be the same man your mother knew?" hewhispered, dropping his arm and taking her trembling hand in a firmclasp.
"I don't know.... I seem to feel so.... I can't explain to you how itpierced my heart--the sound of his name.... Oh, Garry!--suppose it istrue--that he is the man my mother knew--and cared for!"
Before he cou
ld speak, cocktails were served, and Adolf Gerhardt, alarge, bearded, pompous man, engaged him in explosive conversation:
"Yes, this fellow Corot Mandel is producing a new spectacle-play on mylawn to-morrow evening. Your family and your guests are invited, ofcourse. And for the dance, also----" He included Dulcie in a pompousbow, finished his cocktail with another flourish:
"You will find my friend Skeel very attractive," he went on. "You knowwho he is?--_the_ Murtagh Skeel who writes those Irish poems of theWest Coast--and is not, I believe, very well received in England justnow--a matter of nationalism--patriotism, eh? Why should it surpriseyour Britisher, eh?--if a gentleman like Murtagh Skeel displays nosympathy for England?--if a gentleman like my friend, Sir RogerCasement, prefers to live in Germany?"
Garry, under his own roof, said pleasantly:
"It wouldn't do for us to discuss those things, I fear, Mr. Gerhardt.And your Irish lion seems to be very gentle and charming. He must befascinating to women."
Gerhardt threw up his hands:
"Oh, Lord! They would like to eat him! Or be eaten by him! You know?It is that way always between the handsome poet and the sex. Whicheats which is of no consequence, so long as they merge. Eh?" And histhunderous laughter set the empty glasses faintly ringing on thebutler's silver tray.
Garry spoke to Mrs. Gerhardt, a large, pallid, slabby German who mighthave been somebody's kitchen maid, but had been born a _von_.
Later, as dinner was announced, he contrived to speak to Thessalieaside:
"Gerhardt," he whispered, "doesn't recognise you, of course."
"No; I'm not at all apprehensive."
"Yet, it was on his yacht----"
"He never even looked twice at me. You know what he thought me to be?Very well, he had only social ambitions then. I think that's all hehas now. You see what he got with his Red Eagle," nodding calmlytoward Mrs. Gerhardt, who now was being convoyed out by the monocledmartyr in the "stiff shirt."
The others passed out informally; Lee had slipped her arm aroundDulcie. As Garry and Thessalie turned to follow, he said in a lowvoice:
"You feel quite secure, then, Thessa?"
She halted, put her lips close to his ear, unnoticed by those ahead:
"Perfectly. The Gerhardts are what you call fatheads--easily used byanybody, dangerous to no one, governed by greed alone, without aknowledge of any honour except the German sort. But that Irish dreamerover there, _he_ is dangerous! That type always is. He menaces thesuccess of any enterprise to which his quixotic mind turns, because itinstantly becomes a fixed idea with him--an obsession, a monomania!"
She took his arm and walked on beside him.
"I know that fascinating, hot-headed, lovable type of mysticvisionary," she said, "handsome, romantic, illogical, governedentirely by emotion, not fickle yet never to be depended on; notfaithless, but absolutely irresponsible and utterly ignorant offear!... My father was that sort. _Not_ the hunting cheetah Cyril andFerez pretended. And it was in _defence_ of a woman that my fatherdied.... Thank God!"
"Who told you?"
"Captain Renoux--the other night."
"I'm so glad, Thessa!"
She held her flushed head high and smiled at him.
"You see," she said, "after all it is in my blood to be decent."
* * * * *
The Gerhardts, racially vulgar and socially blunt--for the inherentvulgarity of the Teutonic peoples is an axiom among the civilised--madethemselves characteristically conspicuous at the flower-laden table;but it was on Murtagh Skeel that all eyes became ultimately focused tothe limit of good-breeding. He was the lode-star--he was the magnet,the vanishing point for all curiosity, all surmises, all interest.
Perfect breeding, perfect unconsciousness of self, were his mintedmarks to guarantee the fineness of his metal. He was natural withouteffort, winning in voice, in manner, in grace of mind and body, thisfascinating Irishman of letters--a charming listener, a persuasivespeaker, modest, light hearted, delightfully deferential.
Seated on the right of Mrs. Barres, his smiling hostess very quicklyunderstood the situation and made it pleasantly plain to everybodythat her guest of honour was not to be privately monopolised.
So almost immediately all currents of conversation flowed from allsides toward this dark-eyed, handsome man, and in return thesilver-tongued tide of many currents--the Irish Sea at its sparklingflood--flowed prettily and spread out from its perennial sourcewithin him, and washed and rippled gently over every separate dinnerplate, so that nobody seemed neglected, and there was jetsam andbeach-combing for all.
And it was inevitable, presently, that Murtagh Skeel's conversationshould become autobiographical in some degree, and his careless,candid, persuasive phrases turn into little gemlike memories. For hecame ultimately, of course, to speak of Irish nationalism and what itmeant; of the Celt as he had been and must remain--utterly unchanged,as long as the last Celt remained alive on earth.
The subject, naturally, invaded the fairy lore, wild legend and lovelymysticism of the West Coast; and centred about his own exquisite workof interpreting it.
He spoke of it very modestly, as his source of inspiration, as theinception of his own creative work in that field. But always, throughwhatever he said, rang low and clear his passionate patriotism and theonly motive which incited him to creative effort--his longing fornational autonomy and the re-gathering of a scattered people inpreparation for its massed journey toward its Destiny.
His voice was musical, his words unconscious poetry. Without effort,without pains, alas!--without logic--he held every ear enthralledthere in the soft candlelight and subdued glimmer of crystal and ofsilver.
His was the magic of shadow and half-lights, of vague nuances and lostoutlines, and the valued degrees of impinging shade. No sharpcontours, no stark, uncompromising shapes, no brutality of rawdaylight, and--alas!--no threat of uncompromising logic invaded hisrealm of dreamy demi-lights and faded fantasies.
He reigned there, amid an enchanted twilight of his own creation, theembodiment of Irish romance, tender, gay, sweet-minded, persuasive,gallant--and tragic, when, at some unexpected moment, the frail veilof melancholy made his dark eyes less brilliant.
All yielded to his charm--even the stuffed Teutons, gorging gravy; allfelt his sway over mind and heart, nor cared to analyse it, there inthe soft light of candles and the scent of old-fashioned flowers.
There arose some question concerning Sir Roger Casement.
Murtagh Skeel spoke of him with the pure enthusiasm of passionatebelief in a master by a humble disciple. And the Teutons gruntedassent.
The subject of the war had been politely avoided, yet, somehow, itcame out that Murtagh Skeel had served in Britain's army overseas, asan enlisted man in some Irish regiment--a romantic impulse of themoment, involving a young man's crazy plan to foment rebellion inIndia. Which little gem of a memoire presently made the fact of hisexile self-explanatory. Yet, he contrived that the ugly revelationshould end in laughter--an outbreak of spontaneous mirth through whichhis glittering wit passed like lightning, cauterising the running soreof treason....
* * * * *
Coffee served, the diners drifted whither it suited them, together orsingly.
Like an errant spirit, Dulcie moved about at hazard amid the softenedlights, engaged here, approached there, pausing, wandering on, nowherein particular, yet ever listlessly in motion.
Encountering her near the porch, Barres senior had paused towhisper that there was no hope for any fishing that evening; and shehad lingered to smile after him, as, unreconciled, he took hisstiff-shirted way toward the pallid, bejewelled, unanimated mass ofMrs. Gerhardt, settled in the widest armchair and absorbing cordial.
A moment later the girl encountered Garry. He remained with her for awhile, evidently desiring to be near her without finding anything inparticular to say. And when he, in turn, moved elsewhere, obeying somehazy mandate of hospitality, he became conscious
of a reluctance toleave her.
"Do you know, Sweetness," he said, lingering, "that you wear adelicate beauty to-night lovelier than I have ever seen in you? Youare not only a wonderful girl, Dulcie; you are growing into anadorable woman."
The girl looked back at him, blushing vividly in her sheersurprise--watched him saunter away out of her silent sphere ofinfluence before she found any word to utter--if, indeed, she had beenseeking any, so deeply, so painfully sweet had sunk his words intoevery fibre of her untried, defenceless youth.
Now, as her cheeks cooled, and she came to herself and moved again,there seemed to grow around her a magic and faintly fragrant radiancethrough which she passed--whither, she paid no heed, so exquisitelyher breast was thrilling under the hurrying pulses of her littleheart.... And presently found herself on the piano bench, quitemotionless, her gaze remote, her fingers resting on the keys.... And,after a long while, she heard an old air stealing through thesilence, and her own voice,--_a demi-voix_--repeating her mother'swords:
I
"Were they as wise as they are blue-- My eyes-- They'd teach me not to trust in you!-- If they were wise as they are blue.
But they're as blithe as they are blue-- My eyes-- They bid my heart rejoice in you, Because they're blithe as well as blue.
Believe and love! my gay heart cries; Believe him not! my mind replies; What shall I do When heart affirms and sense denies All I reveal within my eyes To you?
II
"If they were black instead of blue-- My eyes-- Perhaps they'd prove unkind to you! If they were black instead of blue.
But God designed them blithe and blue-- My eyes-- Designed them to be kind to you, And made them tender, gay and true.
Believe me, love, no maid is wise When from the windows of her eyes, Her heart looks through! Alas! My heart, to its surprise, Has learned to look; and now it sighs For you!"
She became conscious of somebody near, as she ended. She turned andsaw Murtagh Skeel at her elbow--saw his agitated, ashen face--lookedbeyond him and discovered other people gathered in the tinted lightbeyond, listening; then she lifted her clear, still gaze again to thewhite-faced man beside her, and saw his shaken soul staring at herthrough the dark windows of _his_ eyes.
"Where did you learn it?" he asked with a futile effort at thatcontrol so difficult for any Celt to grasp where the heart isinvolved.
"The song I sang? 'Blue Eyes'?" she inquired.
"Yes--that."
"I have the manuscript of the composer."
"Could you tell me where you got it--and--and who wrote those wordsyou sang?"
"The manuscript came to me from my mother.... She wrote it.... I thinkyou knew her."
His strong, handsome hand dropped on the piano's edge, gripped it; andunder his pale skin the quick blood surged to his temples.
"What was your--your mother's name, Miss Soane?"
"She was Eileen Fane."
The throbbing seconds passed and still they looked into each other'seyes in silence. And at last:
"So you did know my mother," she said under her breath; and the hushedfinality of her words set his strong hand trembling.
"Eileen's little daughter," he repeated. "Eileen Fane's child.... Andgrown to womanhood.... Yes, I knew your mother--many years ago....When I enlisted and went abroad.... Was it Sir Terence Soane whomarried your mother?"
She shook her head. He stared at her, striving to concentrate, tothink. "There were other Soanes," he muttered, "the Ellet Waterfolk--no?----But there were many Soanes among the landed gentry inthe East and North.... I cannot seem to recollect--the suddenshock--hearing a song unexpectedly----"
His white forehead had grown damp under the curly hair now clinging toit. He passed his handkerchief over his brow in a confused way, thenleaned heavily on the piano with both hands grasping it. For the ghostof his youth was interfering, disputing his control over his own mind,filling his ear with forgotten words, taking possession of his memoryand tormenting it with the distant echoes of a voice long dead.
Through the increasing chaos in his brain his strained gaze sought tofix itself on this living, breathing face before him--the child ofEileen Fane.
He made the effort:
"There were the Soanes of Colross----" But he got no farther that way,for the twin spectres of his youth and _hers_ were busy with hissenses now; and he leaned more heavily on the piano, enduring withlowered head the ghostly whirlwind rushing up out of that obscurityand darkness where once, under summer skies, he had sowed a zephyr.
The girl had become rather white, too. One slim hand still rested onthe ivory keys, the other lay inert in her lap. And after a while sheraised her grey eyes to this man standing beside her:
"Did you ever hear of my mother's marriage?"
He looked at her in a dull way:
"No."
"You heard--nothing?"
"I heard that your mother had left Fane Court."
"What was Fane Court?"
Murtagh Skeel stared at her in silence.
"I don't know," she said, trembling a little. "I know nothing aboutmy mother. She died when I was a few months old."
"Do you mean that you don't know who your mother was? You don't knowwho she married?" he asked, astounded.
"No."
"Good God!" he said, gazing at her. His tense features were workingnow; the battle for self-control was visible to her, and she sat theredumbly, looking on at the mute conflict which suddenly sent the tearsflashing into his dark eyes and left his sensitive mouth twitching.
"I shall not ask you anything now," he said unsteadily; "I shall haveto see you somewhere else--where there are no people--to interrupt....But I shall tell you all I know about--your mother.... I was introuble--in India. Somehow or other I heard indirectly that yourmother had left Fane Court. Later it was understood that she hadeloped.... Nobody could tell me the man's name.... My people inIreland did not know.... And I was not on good terms with yourgrandfather. So there was no hope of information from Fane Court.... Iwrote, indeed, begging, beseeching for news of your mother. SirBarry--your grandfather--returned my letters unopened.... And that isall I have ever heard concerning Eileen Fane--your mother--with whomI--fell in love--nearly twenty years ago."
Dulcie, marble pale, nodded.
"I knew you cared for my mother," she said.
"How did you learn it?"
"Some letters of hers written to you. Letters from you to her. I havenothing else of hers except some verses and little songs--like the oneyou recognised."
"Child, she wrote it as I sat beside her!----" His voice choked,broke, and his lips quivered as he fought for self-control again...."I was not welcome at Fane Court.... Sir Barry would not tolerateme.... Your mother was more kind.... She was very young. And so was I,Dulcie.... There were political troubles. I was always involved. Godknows which was the stronger passion--it must have been love ofcountry--the other seeming hopeless--with the folk at Fane Court mybitter enemies--only excepting your mother.... So I went away.... Andwhich of the Soanes your mother eloped with I have never learned....Now, tell me--for you surely know that much."
She said:
"There is a man called Soane who tells me sometimes that he was once agamekeeper at what he calls 'the big house.' I have always supposedhim to be my father until within the last year. But recently, when hehas been drinking heavily, he sometimes tells me that my name is notSoane but Fane.... Did you ever know of such a man?"
"No. There were gamekeepers about.... No. I cannot recall--and it isimpossible! A gamekeeper! And your _mother_! The man is mad! What inGod's name does all this mean!----"
He began to tremble, and his white forehead under the clustering curlsgrew damp and pinched again.
"If you are Eileen's daughter----" But his face went dead white and hegot no further.
People were approaching from behin
d them, too; voices grew distinct inconversation; somebody turned up another lamp.
"Do sing that little song again--the one you sang for Mr. Skeel," saidLee Barres, coming up to the piano on her brother's arm. "Mrs.Gerhardt has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to askyou."