Liam O'Flaherty - Land

Fenton had not gone far in search of Barbara when he was button-holed by the irascible Major Fitzwilliam, who had been so critical of the Government on the day of the ambush.

“Splendid!” Fitzwilliam said. “This sort of thing, I mean the invitation to the Constabulary, is exactly the gesture that we needed. Mongoole has done the right thing. The rebels now know that one landowner at least is not timid. More power to him. We must be firm, all of us, in our respective counties. If the government were equally so, things would speedily improve. Why the devil don’t you arrest Parnell?”

He turned aside to address an aged man that was walking past.

“Just a moment, Sir James,” he said. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

Sir James O’Connor-Kelly, the famous barrister, came over with his two granddaughters and nodded to Fenton. The two girls, dressed in identical blue frocks, ogled the handsome District Inspector as he bowed to them stiffly from the hips.

“Repeat that quotation from Parnell’s speech at Clash,” Fitzwilliam said to Sir James. “I mean those remarks that you told me were seditious just a few minutes ago.”

“Delighted to repeat them,” Sir James said, “especially to an officer of Constabulary.”

He glared at Fenton, just as if he considered the District Inspector to be his personal enemy. Though now over eighty, he still looked formidable as a man. A great duellist in his early youth, his face bore three deep scars from having been slashed by sword thrusts.

“At Clash,” he said, “Parnell made the following seditious statements: ‘I advise you to stick to your farms. Don’t let the English intimidate you by their threats. Let each one of you hold firmly to his plot of ground. Your physical courage is proverbial. Learn discipline and you will be invincible.’”

“Hear that?” Fitzwilliam cried in triumph to Fenton. “Every word of it is treason. It’s a call to arms. Pure Fenianism.”

“I quite agree with Fitzwilliam,” Sir James said to Fenton. “Parnell should be put in jail. The whole country is rapidly becoming engulfed by the rebellion. He is chiefly responsible. A gentleman, Mr. Fenton, is always dangerous at the head of a lower-class uprising. St. George is another man that should be put in jail. In my humble opinion, he is quite as dangerous as Parnell. Perhaps even more dangerous, in the long run, because he is far more intelligent. Ideas can do incalculable harm. The evil that they do grows with the years, like an ever-spreading cancer.”

“St. George is a rotter,” cried Fitzwilliam in a most passionate tone. “I think jail is too good for that renegade. He should be horsewhipped and stoned out of the county.”

Without making any reply to these remarks, Fenton bowed curtly and walked away. He heard the two old men indignantly criticise his manners as he passed out of earshot. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I no longer care what people say about me,” he muttered.

Finding that Barbara had not yet arrived, he took up a position on the outskirts of the crowd to watch for the approach of her carriage. There was a break in the trees that lined the drive some distance away. He fixed his gaze on the strip of gravelled roadway visible at that point.

Presently he saw Butcher’s pair of black carriage horses go prancing arrogantly past the open space, their forelegs arched high in the acquired movement of the trot. While the spinning yellow wheels followed the horses over the white gravel, he caught a glimpse of Barbara’s head above the dark body of the carriage. A thrill of passionate delight passed through him as he saw her little black straw hat, with a white ostrich plume waving from it, perched gaily on the very brink of her forehead.

“My love!” he whispered. “Oh! My love!”

He waited, with wildly beating heart, until the carriage reappeared on the wide courtyard before the castle. The horses slackened pace as they circled a large flower-bed. Then they halted at a flick of the coachman’s whip between two white-stockinged footmen, who stood on either side of the steps leading down into the garden. He rushed forward as she emerged from the carriage. He took up a position at a point that she would have to pass on her way to the host and hostess. As she came walking slowly towards him, down the long flight of broad steps, with her white-gloved hand on Neville’s arm and her melancholy eyes staring into the distance, he thought that he had never seen her look so beautiful.

“Oh! God!” he whispered. “How I love her!”

She glanced at him as she went past. Their eyes met. Although her expression did not change and her eyes remained half-closed, he felt certain that she had signalled to him, during the instant that they looked at one another. As a result, he passed at once from the depths of despair to a foolish height of happiness. With his knees trembling, he wandered down to a tiled path that ran parallel with the pool.

“Great God!” he muttered. “Suppose she really looked at me with tenderness! What then?”

He kept her in sight as she walked back and forth along the path. Soon his spirits began to sink once more, as the minutes passed and she made no effort to come in search of him. Indeed, she appeared to be unusually gay and talkative, laughing repeatedly as she went from one group to another of her friends, twirling her black lace parasol above her head like a flirtatious girl.

“It was just an illusion,” he said to himself, as despair again gripped him. “I was deceiving myself. That was all.”

Then he saw her come. She suddenly broke away from some people and walked towards him rapidly.

“Jim!” she said in a low voice as she approached.

He threw back his head, opened his lips and stared at her in rapture. It was the first time that she had ever addressed him by his Christian name and she was looking at him with tenderness. His own eyes grew dim with tears of joy.

“Do you forgive me?” she said.

“Barbara!” he whispered hoarsely.

“I was beastly to you,” she said.

“Barbara!” he said again.

“You do forgive me,” she said.

“There was never anything to forgive,” he said.

“Walk with me a little way,” she said. “There is something I must tell you. I have a confession to make.”

They walked in silence along the path for a little way.

“Do you remember my telling you about a third fire?” she said at length.

“I remember,” he said.

“That was a stupid thing to say,” she said with emotion. “It was stupid and cruel. I’m terribly ashamed of myself. That fire is dead, shamefully dead.”

He halted and turned towards her, drawing himself to his full height and bringing his heels together.

“For me everything is dead except my love for you,” he cried.

“I wanted to hurt you,” she said, “because I thought you were afraid of your love for me.”

“I am no longer afraid,” he said.

“Jim,” she said, “I want you terribly.”

“My darling!” he muttered, bending towards her.

She drew back and he restrained himself.

“We must be careful,” she whispered. “I’ll come to you as soon as possible. You’ll wait?”

“Forever,” he said.

“You do love me,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“My God!” he said. “Need you ask?”

“You’ll let nothing stand in the way of our love?” she said.

“Nothing at all,” he said.

“It won’t be long,” she said. “I can’t endure this much longer. I’ll come and prove my love. I’ll prove it, Jim.”

She touched his arm with her gloved hand, looked into his eyes intently and added:

“Wait for me. It will be as soon as possible.”

Then she turned and walked away from him. Trembling and with his eyes on the ground, he stood listening to the rustle of her skirts. Then there was only the fragrance of her perfume. He raised his eyes and smiled foolishly.