Part 17

Only fragments of the music are left to her—death and exile were the penalties for giving shelter to a bard, or giving ear to his harping. An old man of Laherdane told me a human life had been paid twice over for every note of every ancient Irish song preserved to us in this day. All that is left are a few airs to which the moderns strive to fit words, or a few verses to which they strive to fit music, yet the beauty of the fragments are worth all the strivings.

By this you will see that, as a lad, I was overswept by the great wave of ancientness of the land—and the charm of it. You have seen Raymond, and you will know without any telling that he lived beside me for years, yet never saw the Ireland I was enthralled by. We had the different eyes and the different heart for its reading.

I thought often enough how strange it was that while he was near double the years of me, yet it was the new things of today he was alive to: the trading of nations, and the financing of American mines, and such like, with never a thought of even the policies of kingdoms further in the past than his own generation; while I lay hidden from my English tutor on the cliffs above the bay, and tried to picture the gray-blue mist by which the magical Danaans made a wall between themselves and the foreign invaders while their hidden palaces under the green hills were being made ready for their using.

I knew the magical and majestic Danaans of the land had dwindled in earth-power with the centuries, until in our day they are spoken of as fairies, or earth-spirits, but that lessened none of their interest to me. They had, for some mystic reason, drawn the veil of the invisible over their life. But the life did endure, and was often close akin to certain living mortals.

For hours I would lie thus in the grasses, listening to the whisper of winds and waves, singing with them at times, listening for echoes, until the soft flight of velvet-winged bats from the cliff caves sent me home in the dark to tell my mother and my tutor the many echoes of ancient years I had heard out there with only sea and sky, bird and wind voices for my telling.

I did not mean to speak falsely when I averred, despite lectures from my tutor and scoldings from my mother, that the birds did speak, and that the wind did bring whispering voices which none but I could hear. I heard them, felt their presence, and at times the veil between this and that other life was so thin that I could see the glad sunlight on faces that came—I knew not whence! Slowly, as I grew older, they faded—as do the many other dreams that come to children.

But the echo of the whispers remained; through all of life they have seemed to prepare me for what was to come. And if my sentence from the court is death, I feel that the same voices will greet me again, and will say: “Rest you now; the time has been long to you since you wandered away. Your work in that life is over. Rest you with us.”

So I grew up, my mind full of fancies; and they were odd and foolish, and frightening to my mother.

“Sorrow of me,” she would say, scoldingly. “You are like a changeling of different blood. You do naught but dream in idleness, and see unchristian things that are the outgrowth of lazy brains.”

It would be of no use in the world to tell her that at times I dreamed true—like the secret stairway, and the lost underground hall to which I had found the lichen-covered door. To say aught to her of these things in argument only sent her to her prayers—or to her priest, who deemed me but a hopeless liar, and an unrepentant one.

Only Raymond did not scold. “Never you mind, mother, he is but a boy,” I have often heard him say; “and why should he do aught but dream and sing old songs if his happiness is in that? He has income enough to be at no one’s expense but his own.”

In our house were many old books of the tribes of the Cumanac, and quaint old pictures of our people. My mother never looked at them. She only had care of them because her mother had known them as treasures. Kings had been of our family in the past, and mystical druid rulers in the dim shadow ages. The old legends and traditions over which I pored as I grew older told me of the beauty of our women, the bravery of our men, and the high esteem in which they were held even by their enemies of the east and north. They lived in the feudal grandeur of those days—kings in their own territory.

Then the curse came!

All those tales of a life so different to that around me made a lasting impression on my imagination. I seemed to live in the lives of those who were gone centuries before I was born. And when alone in some old room of the castle with my books about me, or alone in the hills in the night with my memories of dreams about me, I had strange temptings at times. If my self-confidence had equaled my convictions, I would have turned scribe and supplied many missing chapters in the old histories. Strangely enough, it was not history at all that I wanted to write, but it was the lost songs of Ancient Ireland, and they held themselves high in the air—the words never came near—only fugitive melodies and the thrilling harp!

I think now I should have written the history as it came clear in my mind, and at times in scribbling idleness to my pen’s point. The flashes of the ancient life were as a schooling for my mind and my hand. I think the songs would have followed if I had done good work.... It is my grief that I have lost the chance for this life. They come not again to a closed door.

When I was seventeen my mother died. That left Raymond and me all alone, for his father had already gone the Way. He was like a father to me always in his care and the quietness of his love. One day he came to me with some papers he had found in an old desk. My mother, and her mother before her, had taken no heed to them; but they concerned a property in Scotland to which he said I was the heir through an ancient branch of our family.

“What will we do?” I asked him. Scotch cousins did not seem near to me. That people had helped break the harps.

“I must go myself and see about it,” he said; “it is not a large property and may have gone to the Crown through being unclaimed. But by going I may at least find in it some old books such as you fancy, or some old pictures for you to dream over.”

That is what he said: “some old books or old pictures for you to dream over.”

Aye! The dreams he made true for me by that going!

In that way he went from me to be back in a month, but letter after letter came, pleading business details to be arranged. My claim was made good, but it required much attention to settle the matters connected with it. So time went on until many weeks had passed. Then at last came a letter which explained all, and it said:

“Fergal, my brother—

“I have news to tell you—news I hope you will be glad to hear. Tomorrow I am to be married. It all seems very sudden to send you word thus, but she has been left alone in the world by death—herself the last of the ancient family of the Galway castle, who, I have heard you say, were your forefathers’ enemies ages ago. Her name is Ednah; she is the last of their line, and you the last of yours. I give her to you as a sister, and thus we will bury the old hates of Erin and Albion.”

I read this letter as in a dream. I had never thought of the marrying of Raymond. I re-read it, trying to remember all the tales of our old feud with her people. Why did that one of Randuff and White Enora come first and keep uppermost in my mind? Parts of the others were forgotten It alone remained undimmed in my memory. I tried to put it aside and think only of Raymond. I thought I succeeded, at least in the daytime.

I was out on the cliffs when they arrived, and did not see them at once. I came in vexed with myself for forgetting the hour he was to come. I found them in a room where our family portraits were hung. I could see them through the door—he so large and massive, she so slight and fair. His arm was about her shoulders.

I hesitated; I was only a lad, and our family had been one with family affections, but little of outward sign given of them—no kisses, no embraces, even from my mother; and the sight of that half-embrace was a strange one to me. It made me feel more keenly my own aloneness. Because of the shyness on me I waited until they should move. They had stopped before my picture.

“Who is that?” she asked, and her voice was music.

“It is my brother Fergal,” said Raymond. “He should be here now—the idle, dreaming fellow. He has forgotten. Come, we will go and look for him.”

“Wait,” she said. “I want to look at his picture. How different from all the rest it is. Somewhere, sometime ... I have seen a face like that, or a picture, but where—where?”

“I have no doubt there are many such happy, careless faces among boys,” said Raymond.

“But is it quite careless?” she asked. “When one looks at it long it grows sad, then stern—and the eyes—ah, those eyes! If he looks at me in that way I shall fear him, Raymond.”

Raymond put his hand over her eyes, and laughed and kissed her on the mouth. I went chill in the heart at that kiss.

“What a foolish child you are,” he said. “You and Fergal are alike in your imaginings.”

Then they turned and saw me. Raymond looked so happy and so different that I was glad. But I do not know if I can find words to tell how she looked.

She was fair and babyish, with little ways and movements like a white kitten. Her hair was the yellow of the cornsilk, and her eyes as blue as the violet which grows always in the shade. She reached out her hands to me in a pretty childish way.

“We are to be brother and sister,” she said. “I hope we shall all be very happy together.”

I barely touched the hands of her—such pretty hands—but that touch tingled through all my blood. I stammered and blushed with embarrassment. I had known so few women, and none well, and I had never seen any as beautiful as my brother’s wife. She was dainty and delicate as the snow maiden that fades when brought down to the level where humanity lives.

Perhaps that was why I feared to touch her, even. If I did by chance, my hand would tremble and my face flush. She laughed over it to Raymond.

“He will never be my brother,” she said. “He is as shy of me as if I were still a stranger.”

One day Raymond spoke to me of it:

“Why are you so foolish,” he asked. “Ednah wonders why you have dislike of her. You are almost of an age—born in the same year—and should be better friends. Yet you range the mountains alone more than ever. Even the books are forgotten by you.”

In answer I asked to go away to school, or to travel. I had never before cared for anything but our old house and the forest near, or the musty books in the time-worn cases. Now the air had grown close; all the quiet of the forest, all the hum in the grasses, could not bring to me their old, drowsy rest; and the wind no more carried echoes of whispering voices!

“Perhaps it is best that you should go,” said Raymond. “Travel may cure you of this strangeness and shyness. I shall give up this place for a while and cross seas. Ednah has horror of these old walls, and will stay in no room of them alone. When you join us again you will find us in some sunnier place.”

So I made my farewells and went wandering. For three years I never saw Ireland. All that time I was going, going—never at rest. And though through every hour of it I longed to go back, and feared to, I could not explain whence the fear came.

Then Raymond wrote to me in Spain to join them here. I was almost twenty-two. There were property matters to be arranged, and my presence was required. I am not sure if I was glad or not. I did not sleep at all, and I sailed on the first ship.

Once on the sea the fear fell away. Almost the music of dreams came back to me. The three years of wandering had driven out the dreams and remembrance had not been happiness.

But the ship to the west brought me into starry nights of sweetness and wonderful dreams when all the world was of hope, for the fear was gone on the waves.

Raymond did not expect me so soon, and I found their new home all alone. Only Ednah was there. She ran down the steps to meet me. Back of her was a tall hound.

“Fergal, Fergal!” she said, and the blue eyes of her were bright as if with tears.

I am not knowing if I spoke to her—I think I did not. But I took her hand. She offered her cheek as if for a brother’s caress, but I did not touch it. I only looked at her, and we walked up the steps together, and the hound followed.

“I am glad it is today you came,” she said. “I am all alone. Ah, we have wanted you so often! The world felt so empty—empty as all my life used to be! Now all will be different—you are here.”

She showed me a portrait lately finished of her with the hound at her knee. The artist had asked that one be secured for the painting, and Raymond had tried to find one to look most like an Irish wolfhound for the harsh note of contrast with her own whiteness. She told this frankly as a child, and laughed because the dog would not follow Raymond when she was near. Then she showed me all their wonderful new home, and the Italian garden above the river, and a wonderful pergola where yellow roses and crimson roses burned like flame.

We sat in that dream place through the sunset. I listened and said little. Her glad voice was as cool, sweet rain that falls on sun-scorched sands. I was beside her until the dusk, drinking in tones of music, but never once did I look in her eyes.

And Raymond came when the night fell.

I scarce know how to tell of the days to follow. The fear and shyness came back to me. But I was older and could hide it more than when she first came to my sight, and Raymond had pleasure to think I was feeling more friendly toward the lovely wife. But I avoided being alone with her, and with the tall hound ever her shadow.

Even when she rode horseback above the cliffs of the river the hound was at the heels of her horse, and was known widely by the new friends of Raymond. The portrait was shown in a great gallery, and was called “Beauty and the Beast.” But you have seen that, and know the pride of Raymond that she was his. He housed and dressed and adored her as queen of the world.

But it was herself gave long, strange looks to me, and looks of question they were, too. Everyone sought her except myself, and she was noting that, even though the eyes of Raymond were blind by his love for us both.

One day I came in with scarlet blossoms for which she had asked.

She was coming down the great stairs and smiled at me.

“How lovely,” she said; “we have dinner-guests tonight, but I shall wear no jewels. I want only those scarlet blossoms in my hair; bring them in here to the musicroom.”

I followed her, and stood there holding the flowers; but she did not take them. She only looked at me and laughed a little.

“One would think me an old witch-wife of your Irish hills, you shun me so, brother Fergal,” she said, “and I think I shall make you do penance here. You must fasten the blossoms in my hair with your own hands. You should learn to be gallant, Fergal, else when you meet your ladylove you will never know how to woo her.”

I held the flowers in silence and tried to fasten them. My fingers were shaking. The perfume of her hair made me drunk as wine.

“Your hands are nervous doing work so new to them,” she said, and laughed. “You foolish boy, what can I do more than to fit up this room for you only, with its Irish harp and its Irish music and a pot of Shamrock in each window. It is enough to make any other man love me—but not Fergal!” she said, and sighed, and then laughed.

I could not answer her words of light mocking, and the great hound, stretched at her feet, arose and the bristles on his neck stood upright as my hands touched her hair. He was ever on guard for her, and it was a jest that she had to put chain on him for the lessons with a dancing-master. He would allow no stranger to touch her, and me he was ever watching in jealousy.

Raymond’s wife noted it, and laughed.

“He has the jealousy of a man in love,” she said, “but you know nothing of that jealousy, for it is only books and old music you have in your mind. You are almost a year older than I, and have traveled around the world, yet are afraid of women. And to think I once dreamed of fearing you—or your picture—that is amusing to me now! I have never once seen your eyes look in a rage as I thought they might. But it is seldom you favor me even with a glance. I doubt if you could tell the color of my eyes.”

So she chattered on, smiling up at me, mocking at my silence and at my shaking hand.

“I have fear that this will not be done to your pleasure,” I said at last.

She laughed again. “Fergal,” she said, “is it all women you are fearing, or only me?”

As she spoke her head was turned to look up at me. I still held the flowers in her hair. My wrist was near her cheek. In turning, her lips touched it. Perhaps it was accident. I do not know.

The golden hair of her was over my hands, her red mouth on my wrist, and the wonderful child-eyes of her looking into my own. She raised one hand and clasped my arm. I threw it from me with a force that staggered her back to the wall, and the tall hound pressed close to her and growled deep threat to me. The flowers in my hand I dashed to the floor, and I left her there like that. As I went down the steps I heard my name called by her, but I never looked back.

That night I spent in the forest.

When morning came again I told Raymond that my wandering years were not over. The Foreign Legion of France might need another sabre. I was willing to offer one to her—or to Ireland, if need arose in the south. And it was not a time for youth to be easy in comfort in any house.

Raymond laughed, and said I could send money enough to buy them a seasoned soldier instead of myself, and told me he would take it ill if I sailed before Ednah’s birthday, for it was in his mind to give an entertainment that I might meet their many new friends. His wife joined us in silence and clasped his arm and stood with eyes downcast. She looked very white and very childish. We had not spoken.

“You young people have been dull here,” her husband said. “Suppose we have a ball for your birthnight; something to repay the great hospitality of the people. What do you say, my child? I must not have you lonely.”

She spoke her pleasure, and, the choice of entertainment being left to her, it was a masquerade she made choice of. “It is more gaiety,” she said.

“A masque it shall be, then,” said Raymond. “And you, Fergal, must have no thought of leaving us until after that.”

“Are you going again?” she asked, and her blue eyes had pleading in them.

I could make her no answer.

“So he threatens,” said Raymond. “You must help me to persuade him to be sensible and stay where he is. Perhaps we can find him a sweetheart at the ball. You must get a fine dress, Fergal, and we shall have it the night Ednah is twenty-two.”

I was arranging some books in a case while they talked. I did not want to look in her eyes and see the appeal there. One of the volumes slipped from my hand to the floor. It was our old book of legends, and it lay open at the tale of Randuff and White Enora.

“Here is my dress,” I said, and tried to laugh. “What was good enough for our ancestors centuries ago is good enough for me now. I shall wear the dress of Randuff of Cumanac. Here is a description of it in the legend.”

Ednah stared at me. “Randuff of Cumanac,” she half whispered, “do you mean that ‘Randuff’ of the Lady Enora’s song?”

“Yes, if that is what you are calling him,” I said, “but the song I never heard.”

“How do you know of him?” asked Raymond.

“I heard the rhyme of the killing often when I was a child,” she said. “My grandmother never tired repeating the old tales of our ancestors. It gave me fear of the wild Irish. How bitter those old traditions made the people! The Lady Enora was sung as a very brave maid. Grandmother always spoke of the Cumanac as our enemy. Had she lived she would not have allowed me to be under the same roof with a descendant of theirs—never!”

“How ridiculous in this age to remember the old feudal hates,” said Raymond. “I do not think the mother of Fergal knew even the legend. She read only books of piety, and was too sensible to take heed of hates so unchristian.”

“It may seem silly to you,” said his wife, “but my grandmother was thought a wise woman.”

“What will be your dress?” asked Raymond, stroking her hair in a caress.

“I think I shall not tell either of you that,” she said. “It will be much more amusing to puzzle you. I shall receive my guests in evening dress and then mask in whatever I decide upon. You must not coax me to tell. On my birthnight you must let me have my own way.”

My friend, this story may seem strangely long to you, but when I write of it, every word, every look, is coming back to me.

No persuasions could induce Raymond to mask the night of the ball. “I am too old,” he protested. “At forty-five, people lose zest for masques.”

My dress they called a success, but Ednah said:

“There is one thing needed for that costume: you have no dagger.”

“It was forgotten by the costumer,” I told her, “and I had none that would answer.”

“Wait,” she said, “I have one—an heirloom. How old it is I do not know. We had several in an old chest. Grandmother knew the history of each, but I never could remember them. I kept a very ancient Spanish one for a paper knife: I am sure it will do.”

She left us, running along the hall, the great hound leaping beside her in play, her white ball dress fluttering like wings; to see her thus none would have thought such a childish butterfly could be the hostess of the evening.

Raymond looked after her in pride and great content.

“Like a child she is,” he said. “Just as thoughtless and innocent; twenty-two today, and does not look seventeen. Ah, Fergal, there is only one life for a man: you must also get a wife. You will be more content to stay home from wars then.”

I had no answer for him, and he laughed at me as he watched her come back with the dagger. It swung by a silver chain and there were jeweled clasps to the chain. The handle formed a cross, and the sheath was oddly carved and inlaid; the blade ... but you have seen it!

I tried to clasp it, but the fastenings were difficult to manage.

“Clasp it for him, Ednah,” said Raymond. “I must have this hound chained for you, else no mask will serve you or no stranger be let dance with you.” So he spoke and laughed and left us alone.

The chain of the girdle was in her hand and her eyes on mine. “Shall I?” she asked.

“If you please,” I answered, “since your husband bids.”

“I am more kind to you than you are deserving,” she said, and sighed. “You have not even said you were sorry for hurting me that day.”

“If ever I have hurt you, I am sorry,” I said as coldly as I could, but I feared while I spoke that she would know the tremble in my throat. I might have been brutal that day, but to tell her so I did not dare; I was afraid. And looking down at the bent golden head of her, I told myself that never another day should see me under the roof with my brother’s wife.

“You are hurting me now,” she whispered. “Fergal, you are hurting me always when you speak to me with that ice in your voice.”

“Never will you hear it after tonight,” I answered. “I am going tomorrow.”

She stared at me, and put out her hand as if about to speak, then dropped it and walked away.