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  “You torture me,” he said in a whisper.

  Then he made another sound in his throat like a sob, threw his arms about her waist, reached forward and sought her lips.

  “Ugh!” Barbara exclaimed in disgust.

  She had stood motionless and unresisting until he sought to kiss her. Then she struck him on both ears with her open palms, with great force. He was stunned by the double blow. He would have fallen if she had not caught him. She led his sagging body back to his chair. There she seated him. She held him upright for a little while, until he regained his strength.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that,” she said quietly, “but I loathe being approached by a drunken man.”

  “I owe you an abject apology, Mrs. Butcher,” Fenton said with grave dignity.

  Barbara put her hand on his shoulder and restrained him as he tried to rise.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said. “I don’t want you to leave here with the idea that I am a heartless creature.”

  Fenton nodded.

  “I’m not the sort of woman to whom a man can come for sympathy,” she continued. “Furthermore, I have reached the point where a woman begins to be afraid of getting old. Fear of oncoming age brings out whatever is evil in a woman like me. I have lit my third fire. I tell you this frankly, because it is best that you should have no further illusions.”

  “Your third fire?” Fenton said.

  “Don’t you know the local superstition?” Barbara said.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Fenton.

  “The peasants say that a childless woman,” Barbara said, “when she seeks her third man, lights a fire in her heart that devours everything. My third fire is already lit, Mr. Fenton. I have thrown everything on to it. I have nothing left. Neither pity, nor kindness, nor love. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  Fenton got to his feet slowly and pulled at his uniform.

  “If I may, Mrs. Butcher,” he said, bowing with ceremony, “I would like to take my leave.”

  “Did you ride or drive?” Barbara said coldly as she walked to the door with him.

  “I rode,” Fenton said. “Please accept my most humble apologies for having taken up so much of your time.”

  She walked very erect, slightly in front of Fenton and to one side. Her full bosom rose with each forward movement of her body, like a swan breasting water in amorous pursuit.

  Fenton glanced towards her once as they crossed the floor. Then he shuddered, drew in a deep breath, threw back his shoulders and tried to brace himself against the tragedy of his passion.

  “Please don’t accompany me further,” he said as they entered the hall.

  “I insist,” Barbara said.

  Fitzgerald, the new groom, brought Fenton’s horse to the hall door. He was a tall, lean man of thirty-two. He had narrow hips, wide shoulders and sombre dark eyes that were not without beauty. He had recently been discharged from a cavalry regiment, on completion of service, after having fought both in India and Africa. His countenance had the cruel assurance that comes from drawing enemy blood on the battle-field. His broad horseman’s hand, as hard as metal, helped Fenton into the saddle. Then he walked over and stood beside Barbara on the bottom step before the door.

  Fenton turned in the saddle and saluted as he rode away. Daikness descended on his soul, as he caught a hurried glimpse of Barbara, standing on the bottom step beside the groom.

  Chapter X

  Night had long since fallen. Yet birds warbled diowsily, seduced from sleep by the first voluptuous heat of summer. The moon was full. Its ghostly radiance made a shimmering white lane across the smooth surface of the ocean, to the far horizon, like a road from earth to heaven. There was a feeling of intense rapture in the air.

  Julia McNamara was indifferent to the night’s tender beauty, as she waited for Michael O’Dwyer in the grassy lane that ran across the base of the peninsula, south of Raoul St. George’s land. She walked back and forth like a caged animal, between the high stone fences that bounded the lane. Her fists were pressed hard against her sides. The skirt of her orange dress swayed rhythmically to and fro, sweeping the grass like a broom. A black shawl was thrown loosely about her arms and shoulders. A Spanish comb glistened in the moonlight above the coil of her jet black hair.

  Now in her twenty-third year, she had the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in the district. She certainly had a magnificent carriage. The movement of her tall and slender body was like a subtle dance. The shining darkness of her hair, her flashing blue eyes, the immaculate whiteness of her arched neck and the passionate music of her voice all had the quality of beauty. Yet her loveliness was marred to a certain extent by the almost lunatic intensity of her expression. At one time she had entered a convent with the intention of becoming a nun. She was sent home after a few months, owing to an illness brought on by mystical exaltation. She used to faint in chapel after receiving the Blessed Eucharist. She was the daughter of Bartly McNamara, the shopkeeper that spat at the District Inspector on the day of the ambush.

  She halted now and again to look over the top of the fence towards Manister Lodge, which stood out clear against the eastern horizon in the brilliant moonlight. It was about five hundred yards from where she stood, within a ring of trees, beyond the upward-sloping flat fields. The moonlight lent elegance to its shabby granite walls and to the storm-battered trees that surrounded it. In this light, it assumed the dignity of a steepled church, with its tall chimneys rising from steep, converging roofs and the uneven tree-tops crowding to its eaves like a misty cloud of incense.

  Julia hated the house, just as if it were a living creature armed with occult power. She felt that it was in some way responsible for removing the man she loved from conversation with her. He was within its walls at this moment. Through the trees, she could see the light from the study in which he sat with Raoul. For almost a month now, he had been a daily visitor at Manister Lodge. She had been unable to speak to him in private during all that time. Even though Annie Fitzpatrick assured her that it was Raoul he came to visit, the poor girl was tormented by frantic jealousy. She was jealous of Lettice, “the red-haired French girl” of whose charm the whole village was talking.

  Julia had come to this lane nearly every night during the past month, to wait until he emerged from the Lodge and came hurrying down the sloping flat fields, on his way to Mag Jordan’s cottage. She was always taken by a violent fit of shame when she saw him. When he approached her position in the lane, she always took to her heels. She would run all the way home, go to her bedroom, lock her door, throw herself face downwards on her bed and spend the night in wakeful agony. Sometimes she was able to cry and feel sorry for herself. Mostly, however, she just lay on her bed without tears, contemplating the anguish of her soul.

  To-night she stood her ground when she saw him come towards her across the fields. A letter that she had been asked to give him lay within the bosom of her dress. Even though shame made her cheeks look on fire, the presence of the letter within her dress gave her courage to stand fast.

  He did not see her until he was climbing across the stile into the lane. He halted halfway across and looked at her in angry surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” he said curtly.

  Julia did not reply. He jumped down, took her by the arms and drew her to a crouching position against the fence.

  “Didn’t I tell you to keep away from me?” he whispered.

  “I was given a letter for you,” Julia said, with her eyes on the ground.

  “Why didn’t you send it over to Mag Jordan’s house?” Michael said. “Why did you come here with it?”

  “I went over to Mag Jordan’s,” Julia said. “Mag told me you had gone to the Lodge. I rushed over to Mag’s house with it, as soon as I came home from Clash. I ran with it at once, because the man told me it was so important.”

  “Why didn’t you leave it with Mag?” Michael said.

  “I promised the man not to part with it e
xcept to yourself,” said Julia.

  “What man?” Michael cried angrily. “What man are you talking about?”

  Julia looked up at him suddenly, trembling and with tears in her eyes.

  “What has come between us, Michael?” she cried in a tremulous voice. “Why did you suddenly turn cruel? Why do you keep away from me? What have I done to make you change like this all of a sudden. Is it something you heard about me?”

  Michael stared at her in silence for a few moments. Then he gripped her arm.

  “I told you that I didn’t want you to come near me,” he said harshly.

  “You want other people to come near you, though,” Julia cried hysterically. “You want that red-haired French girl to come near you, all right.”

  “Shut up,” Michael said, “if you know what is good for you. Give me that letter.”

  Julia shuddered. Instead of giving him the letter, she covered her face with her hands.

  “So that’s it?” Michael said. “All this talk about having a letter was just an excuse to come here and annoy me.”

  Julia sobbed, took the letter from her bosom and gave it to him. He held the envelope close to his eyes and peered at the inscription.

  “Where did you get this?” he said.

  “A man gave it to me in the streets of Clash,” she said bitterly.

  She had now recovered from her fit of shame. She hated him intensely. Her voice had turned harsh.

  “Who was the man?” Michael said, turning the envelope round and round between his fingers suspiciously.

  “I don’t know who he was,” Julia said. “I was going down Shop Street when he spoke to me. ‘Are you Julia McNamara?’ he said. ‘I am,’ said I. Then he gave me the letter. ‘Give this to Michael O’Dwyer,’ he said. ‘There’s information in it that may save his life. It’s a matter of life and death for him to get this information at once. Hurry to him with it.’ Then he made me promise, on my soul, several times, not to give the letter to anybody but yourself. After I promised, he tipped his hat and made off down Simon’s Lane. So I hurried back home and went to Mag Jordan’s to find you. For all the thanks I got, I needn’t have been in such a hurry.”

  “What kind of man was he?” Michael said.

  “He had only one eye,” Julia said, “and there was a yellow muffler twisted round his neck. He was thin and he wore a blue suit. That’s all I remember about him.”

  Michael put the envelope into his pocket and said:

  “Why should a stranger give you a message for me?”

  “And who would be more entitled to get a message for you?” Julia cried.

  “Are you trying to make out that you have a claim on me?” Michael said.

  She shuddered and remained silent.

  “Be on your way, Julia,” he said in a menacing tone. “I’m in no humour for your foolishness.”

  “It wasn’t foolishness last winter,” Julia cried, speaking very rapidly. “You lay out on the mountain all day, with hailstones falling, waiting for Captain Butcher to pass. You came back home sadly without seeing him, sick to the marrows of your bones. You got pneumonia. For five days I didn’t close an eye. I was there beside your bed, listening to each breath that came from your labouring throat. When the fear of death was on you, I used to get into bed beside you and take you in my arms and fondle you. You didn’t think it was foolishness then. Mag Jordan is there to prove that I’m telling no lie. For five days and nights you lay there. It was touch and go with you. Oh! No, Michael, it was no foolishness then. You wouldn’t let me go more than a foot away from the side of your bed. Then you got better. That was in January. For a month after that, while you were gathering your strength, you would take my hand and look into my eyes and swear that you would never forget what I had done for you.”

  “Be on your way now, Julia,” Michael said in a low voice.

  Julia suddenly threw herself against his chest. Hatred of him had given way to an overpowering longing. She clutched at his clothes and rubbed her cheek against his chest, like a dog fondling its owner.

  “Oh! God!” she moaned. “Don’t send me from you. I can’t live without you. I put mortal sin on my soul because of you. I’m damned on account of the way I love you. I was pure before I met you. Now I’m tormented night and day. Have pity on me. Speak kindly to me, Michael, like you would to a beggar out of charity. I have no pride left. There isn’t even fear of God left in me. I’ll do anything for you … anything … anything.”

  Her voice became inarticulate. Now only her sobbing was distinct. She twisted about a little while longer like a wounded creature. Then she lay still against him. Her luxuriant black hair had broken loose from its coils. It streamed down about her face in disorder. She lay with her right cheek against his chest and her arms hanging limp, one on either side of him. Her face looked white and very beautiful as she lay that way, with her eyes closed and her black hair tumbling down in billowing folds.

  Michael’s face showed no emotion. He sat rigidly against the base of the fence, one leg thrust straight out from him, until her outburst had come to an end. Then he took her gently in his arms.

  “Listen to me, Julia,” he said.

  She raised her head, looked at him arrogantly and began to arrange her hair.

  “What did you mean by saying I put mortal sin on your soul?” he said.

  “Leave me alone,” Julia said, drawing farther away from him.

  “I can’t let you tell a lie of that sort,” Michael said. “I never laid a hand on you. How could I put mortal sin on your soul?”

  “You fool!” she cried bitterly. “What would a person like you know about such things?”

  “All right, then,” Michael said, “Be on your way.”

  Julia got to her feet and walked across the lane. She leaned her arms against the top of the opposite fence and looked out over the sea.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Michael said, coming over to her. “I told you to be on your way.”

  Julia swung round and faced him, with her hands on her hips and her head thrown back. In this posture she looked very proud and beautiful.

  “What you say from now on, Michael O’Dwyer,” she said, “makes no difference to me. No difference at all.”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders and walked down the lane towards the fishermen’s hamlet of tiny thatched cabins, that lay huddled together by the pier. She watched him go. The sound of his retreating footsteps on the grass gave her intense pain. Then only the top of his head was visible and his feet no longer made any sound. A few moments later, she had lost sight of him altogether.

  “God have mercy on me!” she muttered, putting her arms on the fence and looking out to sea once more. “Ah! God help me!”

  A homing cormorant was flying down the silver lane made by the moonlight on the water. The long black wings almost touched the waves, as they strained to bear in flight the fish-laden gullet of the bird. All was still. Even the wind made no sound, as it flowed steadily from the west, bearing the first voluptuous heat of summer on its breath.

  She stayed there for a long time, looking out over the sea without thought. She had come to a decision that would make dreamy thought a pain for evermore.

  Chapter XI

  Mag Jordan’s cottage, where Michael lodged, stood on a knoll above the western end of the pier, on the outskirts of the fishermen’s hamlet. It was a slate-roofed building of one story, surrounded by a little stone-walled garden. Its black door and black-framed windows threw the whiteness of its walls into relief against the yellow background of the peninsula’s faded shore grass.

  As Michael’s feet crunched on the path of coloured sea-pebbles that ran through the garden to the door, the sound of excited conversation ceased abruptly within the house.

  “Get my supper ready,” he said gruffly to Mag Jordan as he entered the kitchen.

  There were five men in the kitchen. He nodded casually to them as he crossed the floor to the door of his bedroom.

  “
I have the tea drawing,” Mag Jordan said. “I have only to put the eggs in the boiling water.”

  “Be quick about it, then,” Michael said.

  He went into his room and closed the door after him.

  “Prut!” Mag Jordan said. “He’s in a temper this evening.”

  She was a red-faced little woman of middle age, very stout, wearing a man’s low-necked shirt of white frieze over her blue dress.

  “That French girl doesn’t seem to be doing him much good,” she muttered on her way to the hearth.

  Michael lit a candle at a small table by the window of his bedroom and read the letter that Julia had given him. It took him a long time to understand it, owing to the many errors in grammar and spelling.

  “A man with one eye,” it said in effect, “is waiting for you at Sabina Hart’s eating-house in the town of Clash. That’s me, Liverpool Joe Crimmins. Come as soon as you read this. Bring five sovereigns. Spare yourself the journey unless you have the sovereigns. I have information for you about the man that got your father hanged. The same man is plotting to hang you as well. He is paid by Butcher and the English. He is high up in the Fenians. I have the proof written down. Don’t delay. He’ll strike any minute now. Ask for Liverpool Joe.”

  Michael put the letter in his pocket, quenched the candle and stared out of the window at the masts of boats that were moored at the pier down below. The tapering spars seemed to be within arm’s reach.

  “Your supper is ready now,” Mag Jordan called to him.

  He got to his feet and continued to stare out the window. Girls were singing on the yellow strand below the village. Their song of yearning love came gently over the water.

  “Come and eat your supper,” Mag Jordan called out again.

  He went into the kitchen and sat down to table. After he had drunk a little tea, he turned to a man that sat on a three-legged stool to the left of the hearth.

  “Did you come from Grealish in your pucaun, Pat?” he said.

  The man whom he addressed was Patrick Lynch, a blacksmith from the island of Grealish and second to Michael in command of the Fenian organisation of that district. He was thirty years old, of stocky build, with a thick neck, a round face and grey eyes that were set wide apart. He held his head to one side, with one eye closed, like a man taking aim. His right hand was buried to the wrist in the pocket of his frieze jacket.