“And isn’t that the truth, Father?” he added indignantly to the priest at the end of his peroration.
“Indeed it is, Sean Denis Joyce,” said the priest doubtfully and shot me a troubled look.
“I see,” I said before Joyce could begin another speech. “What you’re both saying is this: Roderick Stranahan, who happens to be not only your kinsman, Sean Denis Joyce, but also my protégé, seduced the wife of Seamus O’Malley—your kinsman, Maxwell Drummond. O’Malley, rightly or wrongly, believed Stranahan’s reputation to be bad and suspected the worst when he saw his wife talking to Stranahan one day earlier this week. Yesterday he followed his wife to the ruins of the Stranahan cabin on the other side of the lough and found his wife and Stranahan in certain circumstances. Neither of you can agree on the exact nature of those circumstances, but whatever they were neither of you dispute that O’Malley became so inflamed that he tried to kill Stranahan with a knife. At this point my son Patrick rushed from some hiding place in the ruins and knocked down O’Malley to give Stranahan the chance to escape. O’Malley quickly recovered, but when he saw that Stranahan and my son were already some way off he was so distraught that he proceeded to stab first his wife and then himself. By some miracle his wife survived and was able to crawl to the nearest cabin for help.” I paused. “Do both of you agree that this is a fair summary of your stories?”
They had to admit it was. Finishing my tea, I stood up. “I would like to speak to the widow,” I said to Father Donal. “Take me to her, if you please.”
Seamus O’Malley’s cabin stood on the south shore of the lough within sight of Clonagh Court and the paddocks where Annabel’s husband reared race horses. The memory of Annabel and her advice was at that moment intolerable to me. Turning my back on Clonagh Court, I dismounted from my horse again and followed Father Donal past the piles of peat and pig manure into the dark smoky interior of the cabin.
The woman lay in fever on a straw pallet. Since she still had all her teeth, I judged her to be in her early twenties. After Father Donal had explained gently that I wished to speak to her, I asked one or two questions and listened to her pathetic halting replies. I did not stay long. I soon heard all that I needed to hear, and, leaving Father Donal with the poor woman, I retreated to the bohereen where Drummond and Joyce were waiting with my horse.
I swung myself into the saddle again. “Before reaching a decision I must speak to my son and Roderick Stranahan,” I told them abruptly. “But you can be certain that once I’ve heard all the evidence I shall see that justice is done.”
“If you find Derry Stranahan’s to blame, will you banish him from your house, my lord?” demanded Drummond in his uncannily good English. “Will you tell him never to darken your door again?”
“Hold your tongue, boy,” I snapped at him. “I’ve given you a fair hearing and promised you justice. To demand more than that is the height of insolence. Good day to you both.” And feeling sick at heart, my limbs aching with weariness, I began my ride to my nephew George’s house at Letterturk.
III
My nephew George was a bachelor, a bluff, hearty, good-natured fellow devoted to shooting, fishing and striding around his small estate with a masterful expression on his face. Once a year he went to Dublin to present himself at the Castle, but otherwise his social habits consisted of visits to Cashelmara to see me and the occasional dinner with other squires who lived on the shores of Lough Mask. I had always thought it a pity that my brother David had fathered such a dull son, but such thoughts made me feel I was being uncharitable to George, who, whatever his shortcomings, was a very dutiful nephew.
“My dear uncle,” he gasped, steaming to meet me as soon as I reined in my horse outside his front door. “Thank God you’ve come!”
“Is Patrick here?”
“Yes—and that insolent puppy Stranahan, by God! Uncle, if you hadn’t arrived I swear I would have turned him out of the house. There’s a limit after all to what a man can be expected to—”
“I’m damned tired, George. Is there a groom for this horse?”
“Yes—yes, of course, Uncle. Forgive me. Peter! Lord de Salis’s horse! Come inside, Uncle, sit down, rest …”
I managed to extract a glass of brandy from him, and as soon as I felt better I told him I wanted to see Patrick alone. It was ten minutes before Patrick summoned the courage to creep into the room. He looked pale, and before I could even open my mouth to reprove him he had started to cry.
“For God’s sake, Patrick, pull yourself together and stop behaving like a child in petticoats!” I spoke more sharply than I should have done, but nothing could have exasperated me more than this readiness to burst into tears. “We’ll start at the beginning,” I said, restraining myself with an effort and speaking in a calm voice. “Why did you run away from school?”
“I hated it,” he sobbed, weeping harder than ever. “I tried to like it but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It was like a prison. I didn’t see why I had to be shut up in a place like that. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
I ignored this attempt to wallow in self-pity. “Did you have difficulty with your lessons?”
“I can’t do Latin and Greek. I’ve tried and I can’t.” More sobs.
“Didn’t you make any friends among the other boys?”
“None of them liked the sort of things I like.”
Considering his artisan interests and his other unsuitable pastimes, I was hardly surprised. “I suppose some of them were unkind to you,” I said, trying not to be unsympathetic. “But, Patrick, you must learn to defend yourself and stand on your own two feet! I dare say school is a rough place at first, but—”
“Yes, you can only guess!” he cried, obviously too distraught to care how rudely he interrupted me. “You’ve never been to school! You don’t know what it’s like!”
“The only reason why I didn’t go to school was that when I was growing up the public schools had a poor reputation and were patronized exclusively by the middle classes. But the educational system has altered in the last thirty years, and since I believe in keeping abreast of the times—”
“I won’t go back there! I won’t!”
“No indeed,” I said. “They won’t have you.” I tried not to despair, wished I felt less tired and wondered what on earth I was going to do with him. “Since it seems pointless to discuss your education further at present,” I said steadily, pouring myself some more brandy, “let us return to the subject of your extracurricular activities. Whose idea was it that you should come to Ireland?”
“Derry wrote and said his school had closed early because of an outbreak of typhoid fever.”
“Did he suggest you should run away and join him?”
“No.” He shook his head vigorously. “He only said he wished I was with him at Cashelmara.”
“So that you could applaud his latest exploits in adultery!”
“Papa, I didn’t do anything wrong. I never touched any of the women. All I did was watch sometimes when he …he kissed them. The only thing I ever did was hit Seamus O’Malley on the head. But, Papa, I had to do that because otherwise he would have killed Derry. He had a knife and was running berserk.”
“Quite,” I said dryly. “I suppose I must be thankful that you are at least loyal to your friends. Very well, Patrick, leave me now, if you please, and tell Derry I want to see him at once.”
“Yes, Papa. But … but, Papa, aren’t I to be punished?”
It was almost as if he were disappointed. Hastily dismissing this impression as a bizarre illusion, I decided he was merely incredulous at the prospect of escaping scot-free.
“Certainly you’re to be punished,” I said at once. “You’re to be sent to a new school at the earliest opportunity. Now do as I tell you and send Derry to me immediately.”
He stumbled from the room. I was just wondering whether I should pour myself a third glass of brandy when the door opened again and I was face to face
with Derry Stranahan.
He wore exactly the right expression; even the movements of his body seemed penitent. Pausing six feet from the armchair in which I was sitting, he stared humbly at his toes as he waited for the inevitable wrath to fall.
“Well, Roderick,” I said evenly, determined not to demean myself by losing my temper and depriving him of a fair hearing, “I’ve listened to Sean Denis Joyce, I’ve listened to Maxwell Drummond, I’ve listened to Patrick and now I suppose I must listen to you. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m innocent, my lord,” he said at once, the words rolling off his tongue as readily as melted butter from a tilted dish. “I’m only sorry if in my innocence I’ve caused you embarrassment.”
“I see,” I said. “A man is dead, his wife may be dying, men have been maimed in a faction fight, my son has been obliged to resort to violence on your behalf, but you are innocent. Continue.”
“My lord, there was no adultery—and the assignation was none of my doing! The woman begged me to meet her—”
“In the ruins of your old home?”
“Yes, my lord. You see …”
My patience snapped at last. “That’s enough!” I shouted, rising to my feet so swiftly that he jumped. “Tell me the truth this instant, for I’ll not listen to another word of your lies! You seduced that woman, didn’t you?”
“No, my lord,” he said, and then as he saw my expression: “Yes, my lord.”
“This woman was in fact only the latest victim of your escapades with the opposite sex. Isn’t that true?”
He began to look frightened. I saw his actor’s mask slip. “I … I meant no harm.”
“You meant no harm! You deprived a proud, possessive, violent man like Seamus O’Malley of his wife, you thoughtlessly set out on a course which was certain to wreck the wretched woman’s life, and yet you meant no harm?”
All his glibness was gone. He was ashen.
“Listen to me, Roderick,” I said, forcing myself to speak in a calmer tone of voice. “As I told Patrick recently, I’m not unsympathetic to young men who find the opposite sex irresistible. But I have no sympathy for a young man who thinks only of his own needs, who treats a woman—no matter what kind of woman—without humanity and decency and who doesn’t give a damn how many lives are ruined so long as he may go his own selfish way. Seamus O’Malley died by his own hand. That at least is clear, but it’s also clear to me that the O’Malleys are justified in holding you partly responsible for the tragedy. Think again, Roderick! Can you truthfully tell me with a clear conscience that you’re innocent of all blame?”
He could not, of course. After a moment’s struggle he said haltingly that he wished he could undo the harm he had done.
“No doubt you do,” I said, “but what’s done is done, as we both know. Well, there’s only one solution to the situation as it stands at present. You can’t stay in the valley or the O’Malleys would soon make your life intolerable. You’ll have to leave Cashelmara.”
Nothing I said could have frightened him more.
“Please, my lord,” he stammered, hardly able to speak, “please don’t turn me out into the world without a shilling.”
“My dear Roderick,” I said coldly, “foolishly or otherwise I’ve spent a great deal of time and money on your upbringing, and there’s nothing I dislike more than wasting time and money. You’ve been very irresponsible and have certainly gone to great lengths to prove your immaturity to me, but you’ve done well at your school and there’s no doubt that you do show promise. I still intend to send you to a university, but I also intend to remove you from Ireland for several years.”
I could see him thinking that he was to be sent to Oxford and allowed to spend his vacations at Woodhammer Hall. He had never been to England. By keeping him at Cashelmara, where Hayes and his wife had looked after him in my absence, I had underlined to him that despite my charity he was not to regard himself as a member of my family.
“That’s very generous of you, my lord.” He was so overjoyed that his eyes shone with tears. “I know I have no right to expect you to send me to the university after this.”
“Oh, you’ll go to a university,” I said. “You’ll go to Germany and study at the University of Frankfurt. And what’s more you’ll stay there and not show your face either in England or in Ireland for three years. Is that clear?”
It was. He was appalled. “Frankfurt! But, my lord, I don’t speak German!”
“Learn it,” I said.
That silenced him. I watched him as he gradually realized I had handed out a judgment that would be acceptable to both the Joyces and the O’Malleys: banishment but not total disgrace. I had washed my hands of him while still continuing to promote his welfare.
“It’ll be an interesting experience for you,” I said after a while. “Make the most of it.”
“But …” He looked very young suddenly. “I don’t know a soul there.” But he was recovering himself. I saw him slip behind his actor’s mask again and assume a pathetic woebegone expression. “I’ll be all alone.”
“Better all alone in Frankfurt with my money in your pocket,” I said, “than all alone in the world without a penny to your name. Very well, Roderick, the incident is closed, but remember that if you ever get into such trouble again you needn’t look to me when you start wondering where your next penny is coming from.”
He nodded, still shaken, and told me soberly that he would remember all I had said. But I wondered how far I could believe him, and before George returned to the drawing room to insist that I stay the night I wished I had never set eyes on that emaciated little orphan who had crawled long ago through the back door of Cashelmara to beg for a spoonful of gruel.
Chapter Six
I
“SOMETIMES I THINK SPRING will never come,” wrote Marguerite, and suddenly that sentence, repeated by her throughout the winter, seemed mechanical and cold. I read the letter again and again, and each time I became more convinced that the careful lines masked some troubled state of mind that she dared not reveal to me. She had written the letter in February, six months after she had last seen me, and she wrote as if she could not quite remember who I was.
I was in London by this time. Before leaving Cashelmara I had dispatched Derry to stay with some of his more distant relatives and had told him to stay there until I had made the necessary arrangements for him to travel to Germany. As for Patrick, I had decided that he should go to Eton when the new term started. I had been told once that Eton was the school that favored boys of gentler inclinations, and I hoped Patrick would find it easier to settle down there than at Rugby. Meanwhile, I was again obliged to spend time supervising his activities, but although this curtailed some of my attendances at Westminster, I was relieved; domestic issues were beginning to revolve around Parliamentary Reform again, a subject far removed from my interest in agriculture, and foreign affairs seemed to consist of nothing but a romantic but impracticable sympathy for Italian unification coupled with a hysterical Francophobia. Marguerite had asked me in her letter what was being said in England about the American crisis, but I could hardly tell her that despite last summer’s armistice people in England were still so terrified of a militant France once more stalking Europe that they would hardly have noticed if America had been wiped from the face of the earth.
Even Marguerite’s paragraph about politics seemed out of character. She wrote as if copying one of the letter-writing textbooks she had professed to despise, and the free, bright style of her first letters, in which she had skipped nimbly from subject to subject, had now disappeared beneath the leaden weight of formality.
In April, a week after I had received this disturbing letter, I had a birthday. Fortunately no one remembered. I spent the day trying to occupy myself as fully as possible, but that evening after Patrick had retired I drank so much port that for the first time in weeks I was able to sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
The next morning I f
elt ashamed of myself for my weakness, and after taking some salts for my headache I tried to reason myself into a sensible frame of mind. Even if Marguerite no longer wanted to marry me, there was no reason why I should not enjoy her company during her visit to England. Why should we not remain on friendly terms? I would treat her as a daughter, and, besides, had I not insisted on the long engagement and separation so that either of us might change our minds later if we wished? I had been worrying about Marguerite ending the engagement, but perhaps when I saw her again I too would have second thoughts about marriage. Why not? It was possible. Duneden might have been right when he had hinted that my American surroundings could have impaired my judgment, and although I had believed Marguerite was suitable for me, I might have been so anxious to find a new wife that I had attributed to her qualities she had never possessed.
But the more I reasoned to myself in this sensible vein the closer I felt to despair, and finally, unable to do anything but sit by the window of my room in numbing idleness, I noticed that outside in the square the leaves were in bud on the trees and the daffodils were beginning to bloom.
“Sometimes I think spring will never come,” Marguerite had written time and again throughout that endless winter, but spring had come at last, just as it always did, and now in less than six weeks I would be face to face with her once more.
I was dreading it.
II
Of course I made no arrangements for the wedding. That would have been tempting fate. I could hardly even bring myself to speak of Marguerite for fear the mention of her name would somehow cast a shadow over the future, and when Duneden inquired politely when she was due to arrive I could do no more than tell him the date and quickly change the subject. Fortunately I had no such inquiries from my daughters. Annabel had not communicated with me since our quarrel, and although Katherine wrote dutifully every month from St. Petersburg, she never mentioned Marguerite’s name. As for Madeleine, I was hardly surprised when I heard no further word from the convent where she had incarcerated herself. No doubt she was too busy remembering me in her daily prayers.
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