“I’ll remember it presently. I know one or two old songs like ‘Irishmen All.’ Do you know that song?”
And she sang it in her gay, unembarrassed way:
“Warm is our love for the island that bore us, Ready are we as our fathers before us, Genial and gallant men, Fearless and valiant men, Faithful to Erin we answer her call. Ulster men, Munster men, Connaught men, Leinster men, Irishmen all we answer her call!”
“Fine!” cried Westmore. “Try it again, Dulcie!”
“Maybe you’ll like this better,” she said:
“Our Irish girls are beautiful, As all the world will own; An Irish smile in Irish eyes Would melt a heart of stone; But all their smiles and all their wiles Will quickly turn to sneers If you fail to fight for Erin In the Irish Volunteers!”
“Hurrah!” cried Westmore, beating time and picking up the chorus of the “Irish Volunteers,” which Dulcie played to a thunderous finish amid frantic applause.
She sang for them “The West’s Awake!”, “The Risin’ of the Moon,” “Clare’s Dragoons,” and “Paddy Get Up!” And after Westmore had exercised his lungs sufficiently in every chorus, he and Thessalie went off to their respective quarters, leaving Barres leaning on the piano beside Dulcie.
“Your people are a splendid lot — given half a chance,” he said.
“My people?”
“Certainly. After all, Sweetness, you’re Irish, you know.”
“Oh.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what I am,” she murmured half to herself.
“Whoever you are it’s the same to me, Dulcie.” ... He took a few short, nervous turns across the room; walked slowly back to her: “Has it come back to you yet — that song of your mother’s you were trying to remember?”
Even while he was speaking the song came back to her memory — her mother’s song called “Asthore” — startling her with its poignant significance to herself.
“Do you recollect it?” he asked again.
“Y-yes ... I can’t sing it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t wish to sing ‘Asthore’ — —” She bent her head and gazed at the keyboard, the painful colour dyeing her neck and cheeks.
When at length she looked up at him out of lovely, distressed eyes, something in his face — something — some new expression which she dared not interpret — set her heart flying. And, scarcely knowing what she was saying in her swift and exquisite confusion:
“The words of my mother’s song would mean nothing to you, Garry,” she faltered. “You could not understand them — —”
“Why not?”
“B-because you could not be in sympathy with them.”
“How do you know? Try!”
“I can’t — —”
“Please, dear!”
The smile edging her lips glimmered in her eyes now — a reckless little glint of humour, almost defiant.
“Do you insist that I sing ‘Asthore’?”
“Yes.”
He seemed conscious of a latent excitement in her to which something within himself was already responsive.
“It’s about a lover,” she said, “ — one of the old-fashioned, head-long, hot-headed sort — Irish, of course! — you’d not understand — such things — —” Her tongue and colour were running random riot; her words outstripped her thoughts and tripped up her tongue, scaring her a little. She drummed on the keys a rollicking trill or two, hesitated, stole a swift, uncertain glance at him.
A delicate intoxication enveloped her, stimulating, frightening her a little, yet hurrying her into speech again:
“I’ll sing it for you, Garry asthore! And if I were a lad I’d be singing my own gay credo! — if I were the lad — and you but a lass, asthore!”
Then, though her gray eyes winced and her flying colour betrayed her trepidation, she looked straight at him, laughingly, and her clear, childish voice continued the little prelude to “Asthore”:
I
“I long for her, who e’er she be —
The lass that Fate decrees for me;
Or dark or white and fair to see,
My heart is hers ‘be n-Eirinn i!
I care not, I,
Who ever she be,
I could not love her more!
‘Be n-Eirin i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!
II
“I know her tresses unconfined,
In wanton ringlets woo the wind —
Or rags or silk her bosom bind
It’s one to me; my eyes are blind!
I care not, I,
Who ever she be,
Or poor, or rich galore!
‘Be n-Eirinn i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!
III
“At noon, some day, I’ll climb a hill,
And find her there and kiss my fill;
And if she won’t, I think she will,
For every Jack must have his Jill!
I care not, I,
Who ever she be,
The lass that I adore!
‘Be n-Eirinn i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i —
‘Be n-Eirinn i Asthore!”
Dulcie’s voice and her flushed smile, too, faded, died out. She looked down at the keyboard, where her white hands rested idly; she bent lower — a little lower; laid her arms on the music-rest, her face on her crossed arms. And, slowly, the tears fell without a tremor, without a sound.
He had leaned over her shoulders; his bowed head was close to hers — so close that he became aware of the hot, tearful fragrance of her breath; but there was not a sound from her, not a stir.
“What is it, Sweetness?” he whispered.
“I — don’t know.... I didn’t m-mean to — cry.... And I don’t know why I should.... I’m very h-happy — —” She withdrew one arm and stretched it out, blindly, seeking him; and he took her hand and held it close to his lips.
“Why are you so distressed, Dulcie?”
“I’m not. I’m happy.... You know I am.... My heart was very full; that is all.... I don’t seem to know how to express myself sometimes.... Perhaps it’s because I don’t quite dare.... So something gives way.... And this happens — tears. Don’t mind them, please.... If I could reach my handkerchief — —” She drew the tiny square of sheer stuff from her bosom and rested her closed eyes on it.
“It’s silly, isn’t it, Garry?... W-when a girl is so heavenly contented.... Is anybody coming?”
“Westmore and Thessa!”
She whisked her tears away and sat up swiftly. But Thessa merely called to them that she and Westmore were off for a walk, and passed on through the hall and out through the porch.
“Garry,” she murmured, looking away from him.
“Yes, dear?”
“May I go to my room and fix my hair? Because Mr. Skeel will be here. Do you mind if I leave you?”
He laughed:
“Of course not, you charming child!” Then, as he looked down at her hand, which he still retained, his expression altered; he inclosed the slender fingers, bent slowly and touched the fragrant palm with his lips.
They were both on their feet the next second; she passing him with a pale, breathless little smile, and swiftly crossing the hall; he dumb, confused by the sudden tumult within him, standing there with one hand holding to the piano as though for support, and looking after the slim, receding figure till it disappeared beyond the library door.
His mother and sister returned from their morning ride, lingered to chat with him, then went away to dress for luncheon. Murtagh Skeel had not yet arrived.
Westmore and Thessalie returned from their walk in the woods by the second lake, reporting a distant view of Barres senior, fishing madly from a canoe.
Dulcie came down and joined them in the library. Later Mrs. Barres and Lee appeared, and luncheon was announced.
Murtagh Skeel
had not come to Foreland Farms, and there was no word from him.
Mrs. Barres spoke of his absence during luncheon, for Garry had told her he was coming to talk to Dulcie about her mother, whom he had known very well in Ireland.
Luncheon ended, and the cool north veranda became the popular rendezvous for the afternoon, and later for tea. People from Northbrook drove, rode, or motored up for a cheering cup, and a word or two of gossip. But Skeel did not come.
By half-past five the north veranda was thronged with a gaily chattering and very numerous throng from neighbouring estates. The lively gossip was of war, of the coming elections, of German activities, of the Gerhardts’ promised moonlight spectacle and dance, of Murtagh Skeel and the romantic interest he had aroused among Northbrook folk.
So many people were arriving or leaving and such a delightful and general informality reigned that Dulcie, momentarily disengaged from a vapid but persistent dialogue with a chuckle-headed but persistent youth, ventured to slip into the house, and through it to the garden in the faint hope that perhaps Murtagh Skeel might have avoided the tea-crush and had gone directly there.
But the rose arbour was empty; only the bubble of the little wall fountain and a robin’s evening melody broke the scented stillness of the late afternoon.
Her mind was full of Murtagh Skeel, her heart of Garry Barres, as she stood there in that blossoming solitude, listening to the robin and the fountain, while her eyes wandered across flower-bed, pool, and clipped greensward, and beyond the garden wall to the hill where three pines stood silver-green against the sky.
Little by little the thought of Murtagh Skeel faded from her mind; fuller and fuller grew her heart with confused emotions new to her — emotions too perplexing, too deep, too powerful, perhaps, for her to understand — or to know how to resist or to endure. For the first vague sweetness of her thoughts had grown keen to the verge of pain — an exquisite spiritual tension which hurt her, bewildered her with the deep emotions it stirred.
To love, had been a phrase to her; a lover, a name. For beyond that childish, passionate adoration which Barres had evoked in her, and which to her meant friendship, nothing more subtly mature, more vital, had threatened her unawakened adolescence with any clearer comprehension of him or any deeper apprehension of herself.
And even now it was not knowledge that pierced her, lighting little confusing flashes in her mind and heart. For her heart was still a child’s heart; and her mind, stimulated and rapidly developing under the warm and magic kindness of this man who had become her only friend, had not thought of him in any other way.... Until to-day.
What had happened in her mind, in her heart, she had not analysed — probably was afraid to, there at the piano in the music-room. And later, in her bedroom, when she had summoned up innocent courage sufficient for self-analysis, she didn’t know how to question herself — did not realise exactly what had happened to her, and never even thought of including him in the enchanted cataclysm which had befallen her mind and heart and soul.
Thessalie and Westmore appeared on the lawn by the pool. Behind the woods the sky was tinted with pale orange.
It may have been the psychic quality of the Celt in Dulcie — a pale glimmer of clairvoyance — some momentary and vague premonition wirelessed through the evening stillness which set her sensitive body vibrating; for she turned abruptly and gazed northward across the woods and hills — remained motionless, her grey eyes fixed on the far horizon, all silvery with the hidden glimmer of unlighted stars.
Then she slowly said aloud to herself:
“He will not come. He will never come again — this man who loved my mother.”
Barres approached across the grass, looking for her. She went forward through the arbour to meet him.
“Hasn’t he come?” he asked.
“He is not coming, Garry.”
“Why? Have you heard anything?”
She shook her head:
“No. But he isn’t coming.”
“Probably he’ll explain this evening at the Gerhardts’.”
“I shall never see him again,” she said absently.
He turned and gave her a searching look. Her gaze was remote, her face a little pale.
They walked back to the house together in silence.
A servant met them in the hall with a note on a tray. It was for Barres; Dulcie passed on with a pale little smile of dismissal; Barres opened the note:
“The pot has boiled over, mon ami. Something has scared Skeel. He gave us the slip very cleverly, leaving Gerhardt’s house before sunrise and motoring north at crazy speed. Where he will strike the railway I have no means of knowing. Your Government’s people are trying to cover Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. On the Canada side the authorities have been notified and are alert I hope.
“Gerhardt’s country house is a nest of mischief hatchers. One in particular is under surveillance and will be arrested. His name is Tauscher.
“Because, mon ami, it has just been discovered that there are two plots to blow up the Welland Canal! One is Skeel’s. The other is Tauscher’s. It is a purely German plot. They don’t intend to blow themselves up these Huns. Oh no! They expect to get away.
“Evidently Bernstorff puts no faith in Skeel’s mad plan. So, in case it doesn’t pan out, here is Tauscher with another plan, made in Germany, and very, very thorough. Isn’t it characteristic? Here is the report I received this morning:
“‘Captain Franz von Papen, Military Attaché on the ambassadorial staff of Count von Bernstorff, and Captain Hans Tauscher, who, besides being the Krupp agent in America, is also, by appointment of the German War Office, von Papen’s chief military assistant in the United States, have plotted the destruction of the Welland Canal in Canada.
“‘Captain Hans Tauscher will be arrested and indicted for violation of Section 13 of the United States Criminal Code, for setting on foot a military enterprise against Canada during the neutrality of the United States.
“‘Tauscher is a German reserve officer and is subject to the orders of Captain Franz von Papen, Military Attaché of Count von Bernstorff. His indictment will be brought about by reason of an attempt to blow up parts of the Welland Canal, the waterway connecting Lakes Erie and Ontario. A small party of Germans, under command of one von der Goltz, have started from New York for the purpose of committing this act of sabotage, and, incidentally, of assassination of all men, women and children who might be involved in the explosion at the point to be selected by the plotters.
“‘Tauscher bought and furnished to this crowd of assassins the dynamite which was to be used for the purpose. The fact that Tauscher had bought the dynamite has become known to the United States authorities and he will be called upon to make an explanation.
“‘Captain Tauscher is said to be an agreeable companion, but he had the ordinary predilection of a German officer for assassinating women and children.’
“Now, then, mon ami, this is the report. I expect that United States Secret Service men will arrest Tauscher to-night. Perhaps Gerhardt, also, will be arrested.
“At any rate, at the dance to-night you need not look for Skeel. But may I suggest that you and Mr. Westmore keep your eyes on Mademoiselle Dunois. Because, at the railway station to-day, the German agents, Franz Lehr and Max Freund, were recognised by my men, disguised as liveried chauffeurs, but in whose service we have not yet been able to discover.
“Therefore, it might be well for you and Mr. Westmore to remain near Mademoiselle Dunois during the evening.
“Au revoir! I shall see you at the dance.
“RENOUX.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE MOONLIT WAY
Barres whistled and sang alternately as he tied his evening tie before his looking glass.
“And I care not, I, Who ever she be I could not love her more!”
he chanted gaily, examining the effect and buttoning his white waistcoat.
Westmore, loitering near and waiting for him, referred again, indi
gnantly, to Renoux’s report concerning the presence of Freund and Lehr at the Northbrook railway station.
“If I catch them hanging around Thessa,” he said, “I’ll certainly beat them up, Garry.
“Deal with anything of that sort directly; that’s always the best way. No use arguing with a Hun. When he misbehaves, beat him up. It’s the only thing he understands.”
“Well, it’s all right for us to do it now, as long as the French Government knows where Thessa is,” remarked Barres, drawing a white clove-carnation through his buttonhole. “But what do you think of that dirty swine, Tauscher, planning wholesale murder like that? Isn’t it the fine flower of Prussianism? There’s the real and porcine boche for you, sombre, savage, stupidly ferocious, swinishly persistent, but never quite cunning enough, never sufficiently subtle in planning his filthy and murderous holocausts.”
Westmore nodded:
“Quite right. The Lusitania and Belgium cost the Hun the respect of civilisation, and are driving the civilised world into a common understanding. We’ll go in before long; don’t worry.”
They descended the stairs together just as dinner was announced.
Mrs. Barres said laughingly to her son:
“Your father is still fishing, I suppose, so in spite of his admonition to me by letter this morning, I sent over one of the men with some thermos bottles and a very nice supper. He grumbles, but he always likes it.”
“I wonder what Mr. Barres will think of me,” ventured Dulcie. “He left such a pretty little rod for me. Thessa and I have been examining it. I’d like to go, only—” she added with a wistful smile, “I have never been to a real party.”
“Of course you’re going to the Gerhardts’,” insisted Lee, laughing. “Dad is absurd about his fishing. I don’t believe any girl ever lived who’d prefer fishing on that foggy lake at night to dancing at such a party as you are going to to-night.”
“Aren’t you going?” asked Thessalie, but Lee shook her head, still smiling.
“We have two young setters down with distemper, and mother and I always sit up with our dogs under such circumstances.”
Personal devotion of this sort was new to Thessalie. Mrs. Barres and Lee told her all about the dreaded contagion and how very dreadful an epidemic might be in a kennel of such finely bred dogs as was the well-known Foreland Kennels.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 888
