Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“I feel utterly exhausted,” she said after they had drawn apart. “Help me remove this greatcoat. It’s a ton weight.”

After he had taken the greatcoat, she went to the fire and put her hands to the blaze.

“The wind was piercing,” she said. “I feel chilled to the marrow of my bones.”

“I’ll get you some wine,” Fenton said.

She put her back to the fire, spread her booted legs wide on the hearth rug and said to him:

“You are annoyed with my uniform.”

Fenton looked back at her over his shoulder, just as he was about to pour wine from the decanter. The highly-ornamented tunic, the tight-fitted breeches and the shining jack boots made her sensual beauty more than usually alluring. At the same time, the warlike male dress brought the latent cruelty of her features into relief. Even her lovely golden eyes, normally sombre and melancholy, were now puckishly alert, as if intent on vulgar mischief.

“You look ravishing as a Dragoon,” he said coldly. “Where did you get the uniform?”

“It belonged to my first husband,” she said excitedly. “He was in the Inniskillings. He and I were almost exactly the same size. We often exchanged clothes and showed ourselves in public. We were always taken for granted. It was wonderful sport. I kept this uniform when he died, as a memento of those adventures. I think I told you that I was once an actress. I adore masquerade.”

“How very interesting!” Fenton said still more coldly, as he handed her a glass of wine.

With a quick turn of her wrist she put the wine to her lips and drank it all at once. Then she laughed and put the empty glass on the mantelpiece.

“You are angry with me, Jim,” she said, going to the sofa. “Tell me what is troubling you.”

She sat down and stretched out her legs to their full length.

“We must leave nothing unsaid,” she added, “at the beginning of our great adventure.”

“Adventure?” Fenton said. “Is that all it means to you, Barbara?”

“Sit down, please,” Barbara said, suddenly becoming very serious. “I, too, have found it hard to wait. So you must forgive me for having been a little silly just now. You must be considerate of a woman’s failings, Jim.”

She allowed her voice to become very tender as she uttered the last sentence. The result on Fenton was immediate. He threw himself on his knees before her, seized her right hand and kissed it frantically. Then he looked up into her face and began to speak in a very agitated fashion.

“I have been living on memories of that day,” he cried passionately. “I have kept recalling every word you said, over and over again, sometimes all through the live-long night. Every word has become sacred to me. Everything you wore on that day, every ringlet of your hair, every gesture you made is stored in my memory. They are all still there, fresh and clear, like precious gems that I take out from time to time, when I am alone, to caress and fondle.”

He rose abruptly and sat close to her on the sofa, still clasping her hand.

“Oh! Barbara,” he continued, “what you said to me that day ennobled me and washed away my dishonour. I implore you to tell me now that they came from your heart. Tell me that you haven’t changed since then and that you spoke sincerely that day.”

Barbara shuddered and said in a low voice:

“I assure you that I spoke sincerely and that I have not changed since then. You should know by now that I’m not a fickle person, Jim.”

“Thank God,” Fenton said with fervour. “My love for you is now my whole life. I have nothing else left.”

Again he began to kiss her hand frantically.

“Calm yourself, Jim,” Barbara said. “Of course I have not changed. Not in the least.”

Fenton raised his head and looked at her wildly.

“You must come away with me at once,” he cried. “We must go away from here, far away from all this infamy.”

“Be calm, Jim,” Barbara said. “Not at once. We must be practical.”

“Every moment that I stay here is a torture,” Fenton said. “I detest having to live in a lie. It was difficult for me to make up my mind. As a man of honour, I found it hard to break with everything that I had been taught to reverence. That’s why I want to leave at once, now that I’ve made a clean sweep. I can’t bear to go on deceiving people. Deception is one of the most dishonourable of crimes.”

“I insist that we must wait a little longer,” Barbara said. “I’m just as anxious to leave as you are, but we must be practical.”

“How long?” Fenton said.

“It won’t be long now,” Barbara said.

Fenton brooded a moment. A startled look came into his eyes.

“Good Heavens!” he said. “Supposing your husband were to discover our plan at the last moment, as the result of this dallying? Do you realise that he is a desperate man?”

“You needn’t worry about Neville,” Barbara said. “He knows very well that we love one another, but he would never suspect us of planning to elope. Even if I told him, he still wouldn’t believe it. He doesn’t think you are that sort of man and he thinks I’m far too shrewd to throw in my lot with you under these circumstances.”

“That sort of man?” Fenton said in a hurt tone. “What do you mean by that?”

Barbara ignored the question.

“Neville is far more subtle than most people think,” she said.

Fenton leaned against the back of the sofa and let his head droop. He now looked exhausted after his recent passionate outburst.

“I know he is subtle,” he said gloomily. “I also know he is merciless and entirely without scruple. How can you be sure that he won’t act against us suddenly, when we least expect it?”

“When a woman has lived for three years with a man she hates,” Barbara said, “she gets to know him thoroughly. If love is blind, then hatred has a thousand eyes. At this moment, he is fighting for his life and he knows it. You and I are not the enemies he is fighting. His enemy is Michael O’Dwyer. Therefore, we don’t have to be in the least concerned with him, unless he should suddenly dispose of O’Dwyer, a most unlikely event because of the Fenian’s shrewdness. Neville is like our English bulldog. When he gets his teeth in an enemy, he is indifferent to everything else.”

Fenton sat forward, put his hands on his knees and said with force:

“How I hate this senseless disorder! You mention the savagery of the bull dog. That’s exactly what it is, savagery. Everything noble and refined is condemned. The most base instincts in man are glorified, under the names of courage and determination. The other day in court, when they sentenced St. George to a term of imprisonment, I realised this for the first time. The prisoner was one of the most dignified men it has ever been my privilege to see. There was no mistaking the nobility of his countenance. Yet he was jailed as a menace to the realm. How could such a man be a menace, unless the realm has become corrupt and unjust? He is a menace, perhaps, to something that is about to fall because of its corruption. He could only be an ornament and a source of added power in a realm based on a secure foundation of justice. The magistrate offered a most striking contrast. He was a brutish lout, one of those illiterate drunkards that disgrace our provincial courts. He blundered several times while passing sentence, obviously being ill at ease in St. George’s presence. Even such a degraded man was unable to condemn a superior without feeling shame. By Jove! It’s a horrible experience to find that the gods one worshipped have feet of clay.”

“May I ask you to remove my boots?” Barbara said. “They are becoming very uncomfortable.”

“Pardon me,” Fenton said.