The Moonlit Way Part 54

"Is it so?" grinned Soane.

"It surely is."

"Well, then, be aisy, Misther Barres, dear. Av there's hangin' to be done this time, 'twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!"

Barres slowly shook his head:

"This is German work. You're sticking your neck into the noose."

"Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an' 'twill shqueeze no Irish neck!"

"You're a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting such men as you.

Where's your common sense? Can't you see you're playing a German game?

What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?"

Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.

But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin's wrongs. And this tragic inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him the memory of the personal and pathetic.

The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged.

And now he meant to make the world disgorge--pay up the living that it owed him.

Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly became a torrent.

n.o.body knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked them for its own. As for himself--once a broth of a boy--he had been torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a loveless, unhappy marriage.

Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane became vague at that point. Veiled references to being "thrampled on,"

to "th' big house," to "thim that was high an' shtiff-necked,"

abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a servant at the fireside of his own wife--a footstool on the hearth of his own home--other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.

Then Barres said:

"Who is Dulcie, Soane?"

The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage as though he had not comprehended.

"Is Dulcie your daughter?" demanded Barres.

Soane's blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:

"Did I say she was _not_, sorr?" he faltered. "Av I told ye that, may the saints forgive me----"

"Is it true?"

"Ah, what was I afther sayin', Misther----"

"Never mind what you said or left unsaid! I want to ask you another question. Who was Eileen Fane?"

Soane bounded to his feet, his blue eyes ablaze:

"Holy Mother o' G.o.d! What have I said!"

"Was Eileen Fane your wife?"

"Did I say her blessed name!" shouted Soane. "Sorra the sup I tuk that loosed the tongue o' me this cursed day! 'Twas the dommed whishkey inside o' me that told ye that--not me--not Larry Soane! Wurra the day I said it! An' listen, now, f'r the love o' G.o.d! Take pride to yourself, sorr, for all the goodness ye done to Dulcie.

"An' av I go, and I come no more to vex her, I thank G.o.d 'tis in a gintleman's hands the child do be----" He choked; his marred hands dropped by his side, and he stared dumbly at Barres for a moment.

Then:

"Av I come no more, will ye guard her?"

"Yes."

"Will ye do fair by her, Misther Barres?"

"Yes."

"Call G.o.d to hear ye say ut!"

"So--help me--G.o.d."

Soane dropped on to the bed and took his battered face and curly head between his hands.

"I'll say no more," he said thickly. "Nor you nor she shall know no more. An' av ye have guessed it out, kape it locked in. I'll say no more.... I was good to her--in me own way. But ye cud see--anny wan with half a c.o.c.k-eye cud see.... I was--honest--with her mother....

She made the bargain.... I tuk me pay an' held me tongue.... 'Tis whishkey talks, not me.... I tuk me pay an' I kept to the bargain....

Wan year.... Then--she was dead of it--like a flower, sorr--like the rose ye pull an' lave lyin' in the sun.... Like that, sorr--in a year.... An' I done me best be Dulcie.... I done me best. An' held to the bargain.... An' done me best be Dulcie--little Dulcie--the wee baby that had come at last--_her_ baby--Dulcie Fane!..."

XIX

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

A single shaded lamp illuminated the studio, making the shapes of things vague where outline and colour were lost in the golden dusk.

Dulcie, alone at the piano, accompanied her own voice with soft, scarcely heard harmonies, as she hummed, one after another, old melodies she had learned from the Sisters so long ago--"The Harp,"

"Shandon Bells," "The Exile," "Shannon Water"--songs of that sort and period:

"_The Bells of Shandon, Then sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee._"

Thessalie sat by the open window and Westmore squatted at her feet on the sill of the little balcony, doing, as usual, all the talking while she lay deep in her armchair waving her fan, listening, responding with a low-voiced laugh or word now and again.

Dulcie sang:

"_On the banks of the Shannon When Mary was nigh._"

From that she changed to a haunting, poignant little song; and Barres looked up from his desk under the lamp. Then he sealed and stamped the three letters which he had written to his Foreland kinfolk, and, holding them in one hand, took his hat from the table with the other, as though preparing to rise. Dulcie half turned her head, her hands still idling over the shadowy keys: