Cashelmara (57 page)

“You were right about MacGowan, Thomas” were the first words he said as he entered the room. “He’s quite mad. He talks about nothing but the wrath of God and the Day of Judgment and eternal hell-fire for Catholics. I don’t know what the devil I’m going to do.”

“Get rid of him, of course,” said Thomas promptly.

“Well, I tried to—although God knows the last thing I want to do at this moment is hunt for a new agent—but he simply wouldn’t listen. God, what
am
I going to do?”

“But of course you must dismiss him!” I said, exasperated. “How can you leave estate affairs in the hands of someone who’s insane? Unless you do something soon you’ll have a riot on your hands in no time at all.”

“But, my dear Sarah, after thirty years’ service—”

“Yes, it would be cruel to dismiss him so abruptly,” mused David. “Besides, perhaps the insanity is only temporary. Could you suggest that he consult a doctor?”

“MacGowan doesn’t need a consultation!” exclaimed Thomas. “He needs a strait-jacket!”

“But Patrick doesn’t have the power to commit him to a lunatic asylum.”

“Then he must get hold of someone who has! Doesn’t MacGowan have any relatives?”

“There’s a son,” I said, remembering. “He’s an agent on some Scottish estate—Lochlyall Castle, isn’t it, in Wester-Ross?”

“I could write to him, I suppose,” said Patrick doubtfully.

“I’d write without delay if I were you,” said Thomas.

“I think he should at least know that his father seems to be unlike himself at present,” I said, watering down Thomas’s dogmatic assertions to make them palatable to Patrick. “Then even if he doesn’t wish his father to be committed to an asylum he can at least assume the responsibility for his father’s welfare.”

Patrick heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose that really would be the best thing to do,” he agreed with reluctance, and so it came about that ten days later on a dark misty afternoon Hugh MacGowan arrived at the gates of Cashelmara and rode up the long winding drive into our lives.

Patrick had ridden with the boys to Leenane to leave some letters for the mail car, and I was alone by the drawing-room fire with my sewing. I was embroidering the little dress for Eleanor by this time. I can see it still: pink rosebuds on white muslin over pale-blue silk. I was pleased because it looked so pretty.

“Excuse me, m’lady, your honor,” said Kathleen, the younger of the two precious housemaids, as she poked her head around the door, “but there’s a Mr. MacGowan asking for you, but it’ll not be Mr. MacGowan but someone else.”

After I had deciphered this announcement I told her to show Mr. MacGowan into the blue morning room and inform him that I would see him presently. The blue morning room was the room set aside for receiving guests of lesser quality. It lay at the end of a little passage that led to the servants’ quarters, and after I had put aside my sewing I went downstairs hoping that my message had been delivered correctly and that I wouldn’t find Mr. MacGowan still waiting in the hall. But Kathleen for once had been intelligible. The hall was empty, and when I entered the blue morning room I found the stranger there waiting for me.

He turned as I came into the room. He had been looking out of the window, and as I glanced past him I saw that the clouds were hanging low over the mountains and the rain was brushing lightly against the pane.

“Mr. MacGowan?” I said. “Good afternoon. My husband is out at present, but I’m expecting him to return very soon. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. He’s been most worried about your father.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lady de Salis.” He moved forward, took my extended hand politely and gave a small bow. As he straightened his back I looked at him more closely. Although not strikingly tall, he was above medium height and not an ounce of superfluous flesh marred his muscular frame. He wasn’t dark but he wasn’t fair either. At first glance I thought his coloring made him nondescript, but then I noticed that his gray eyes were very steady, giving him a peculiarly intent expression, and that there was some element in his presence that commanded attention. He had thinning brown hair, a pallid complexion and a wide brutal mouth.

“This must be your first visit to Cashelmara for a long time,” I said to him.

“I was a boy of thirteen when I left,” he said, “and that’s twenty years ago.”

He was well spoken, very civil. He had a Scottish way of clipping his words, but his accent was slight, and apart from his voice I could detect no resemblance to his father.

“Perhaps you would care for some refreshment while you wait for my husband,” I said after a moment.

“No, thank you, my lady. I lunched with my father less than an hour ago.” And he smiled slightly, relaxing the muscles about his mouth.

For some inexplicable reason I turned away. I was just opening my mouth to say, “I’ll ask my husband to see you as soon as he comes back,” when I heard laughter in the hall and knew that Patrick had already returned from Leenane.

“I’ll tell my husband you’re here,” I said abruptly, but the grooms in the stables must have already passed the news to Patrick, for even before I had finished speaking the door was opening as Patrick himself walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, Lord de Salis,” said Hugh MacGowan.

“Hugh! My God, I wouldn’t have recognized you!” He tossed aside his riding crop so carelessly that it fell from the chair to the floor and strode forward with his hand outstretched. “How are you? Welcome back to Cashelmara!”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable! God, it’s good to see you again—it seems only the other day since we were boys together!”

“Indeed, my lord.” He was still standing. He was very quiet, very polite. “My lord, before we start remembering the old days I would prefer we discussed the reason for my visit. I trust you will understand if I say that I’m so concerned about my father’s position that I’ve at present no desire to reminisce about the past.”

“Well, of course,” said Patrick uneasily. “Yes, I quite understand.”

“I’ll leave you, if you’ll excuse me,” I murmured tactfully, but to my fury Patrick said at once, “No, there’s no need for you to go, darling. This is more of a social call than a business appointment, despite what Hugh has said, and besides, he’s one of my oldest friends.”

I knew immediately that he was nervous of telling his old friend unpleasant news, and when I looked at Hugh MacGowan I saw that he knew it too. He was watching Patrick with his peculiar intentness, and I saw the muscles tighten again about his mouth.

“I would prefer to leave,” I heard myself say, and then as I glimpsed Patrick’s expression I added with a note of false gaiety, “Oh, very well. I’ll be happy to stay if you wish.” And I sat down on a chair by the door with every appearance of willingness.

Patrick and MacGowan were still standing.

“Do sit down, Hugh,” said Patrick.

“I’d rather stand.”

Patrick looked taken aback by this show of hostility but recovered himself quickly. “Very well,” he said in a level voice. “Now, in regard to your father—”

“I understand you want to dismiss him,” said MacGowan.

“I did suggest that he might retire, yes. You see—”

“He’s served you and your father for thirty years,” said MacGowan, “yet you’d kick him out without a second thought.”

“No indeed! There would, of course, be a generous pension.”

“My father’s work is his life. He’s not yet ready to retire.”

“But I really feel—”

“What you feel isn’t good enough, Lord de Salis,” said MacGowan. “It’s simply not good enough.”

There was a deathly silence. I was so horrified by the man’s insolence that I couldn’t speak. My mind screamed at Patrick, Answer him! Throw him out! But Patrick was as stunned as I was and could do no more than stare at MacGowan in stupefaction.

“My father is unwell,” said MacGowan quietly at last. “He’s been working himself to death for you, dealing with a famine-ridden estate and tenants who do nothing but listen to the leaders of the Land League. Do you know nothing of what goes on in Ireland? Does it mean nothing to you that Ireland’s political troubles are the worst they’ve been this century and that the entire country’s on the border of anarchy? Charles Stewart Parnell makes speeches telling the Irish peasants to pay only rent they consider fair, but you don’t give a straw about Charles Stewart Parnell, do you? You’re too busy idling away your time in England, so it’s my father who has to carry the entire burden of tenant rebellion, it’s my father who has to decide that mass evictions might after all be unavoidable, it’s my father who has to sleep with a gun by his bedside every night because he has the courage and the moral conviction that he must be loyal to his employer. Yet all you can do when you come back from England is loaf around here and tell my father he must retire! He deserves your gratitude, my lord, not your contempt, and it’s a poor reward for all his loyal service to talk of compulsory retirement and ‘generous’ pensions.”

“But—”

“He’s suffering only from exhaustion. Give him a month’s rest and he’ll be as fit as he ever was.”

“I—I don’t see how you can be certain of that,” said Patrick, stammering in his confusion. “I mean, I think he’s rather ill. Besides, he’s not getting any younger. I really do think it would be best if—”

“There can be no retirement,” said MacGowan.

“But I can’t continue to employ a lunatic!”

“Don’t call my father a lunatic!”

“And don’t come here dictating to me!” yelled Patrick. I was never so glad to see him lose his temper. I was still sitting riveted to my chair, still unable to speak. “Get out of my house and take your crazy old father back to Scotland and damn you both to hell!”

Everything happened very quickly after that. I was still looking at Patrick with relief, and Patrick, trembling with anger, was turning toward me when MacGowan grabbed him by the arm, spun him around and struck him a terrific blow across the mouth.

I screamed. I leaped to my feet just as Patrick righted himself after reeling against a high-backed chair.

“Patrick!” I screamed again, rushing forward instinctively, but he pushed me away.

“Keep back,” he said to me through his teeth and swung his fist at MacGowan’s jaw.

MacGowan dodged, lunged and tried to throw Patrick to the floor by a quick shift of weight, but Patrick was strong enough to drag MacGowan after him as he fell. They began to wrestle, their bodies locked together, their breath rasping like animals, and as I wrenched open the door they both saw Patrick’s discarded riding crop at one and the same moment.

Paralyzed, I stopped on the threshold, but although I tried to scream a third time no sound came. MacGowan had grabbed the crop. I waited, not knowing at first what I was waiting for but finally realizing I was waiting for Patrick to wrest the crop from him. He could have done it. I knew he could have done it. He was taller than MacGowan and surely he was stronger, but all the fight drained out of him—I saw it happen—and MacGowan began to lash out at the prostrate body on the floor.

“Stop, stop!” But it was I who was shouting at MacGowan, not Patrick. Patrick never spoke, and suddenly his silence was blistering in its eloquence.

Memories flashed through my mind. Patrick reminiscing with bizarre nostalgia about the beatings he had received from his father. Patrick’s stimulation when I had struck him during one of our early quarrels. Hadn’t I found out long ago that if I wanted to excite him I had to be violent as well as passionate? I had never stopped to think about this before, and now that I did I knew why. It was because such behavior made no sense. Impossible for anyone to enjoy being an object of violence, impossible for anyone to welcome it.

Yet the impossible was happening before my eyes. I stared, unwilling to believe what I saw, and even when I believed I remained unable to interpret it. It was beyond my understanding, outside the realm of my experience, and because of this the scene took on a new dimension of terror and repulsion.

I backed away, stumbling against the doorframe, and the next moment I was running away down the passage. It was as if I were moving in a nightmare, that familiar nightmare where one’s feet are weighted with lead and the long corridor is never-ending and some unnameable horror lies in the darkness left behind. My mouth opened. I was shrieking for Thomas, for David, even for Hayes, who had never returned from Dublin, and my voice reverberated in my ears as crazily as if I were falling down some bottomless shaft.

The last thing I saw before I fainted was the housemaid’s white, terrified face receding from me as I collapsed onto the cold marble floor of the hall.

When I recovered consciousness Thomas and David were with me, the housemaid had fled and I seemed to be lying in a pool of poteen.

“Drink some of this, Sarah. I can’t find the brandy, but Patrick drinks this, so it must be safe.” It was David. I found myself half sitting, half lying in his arms, the glass of poteen two inches from my nose. I pushed the glass away and tried not to faint again.

“Here comes Patrick,” said Thomas far above me and then exclaimed in a horrified voice, “For God’s sake, Patrick, what the devil’s been going on?”

I opened my eyes wider. The scene ceased to be a blur and became etched in harsh, painful lines. Patrick had a bruise below one eye, a cut lip and a red weal across his cheek, but he was smiling. MacGowan was unmarked. He was smiling too.

“Patrick,” I said. I suddenly realized I was on my feet, although I had no idea how I arrived there. I was still leaning heavily on David. “Patrick …”

“My poor Sarah, whatever’s the matter? You’d better go upstairs and rest. Oh, by the way, Hugh, allow me to present my brothers. Thomas, David, this is Hugh MacGowan. You’ll stay to dinner, Hugh, won’t you?”

“Patrick,” my voice repeated before MacGowan could reply. “I don’t understand. The quarrel, the fight …”

“Fight? Oh, for God’s sake, Sarah, that was just a spot of horseplay! That was all it was, wasn’t it, Hugh?” he added, and as MacGowan smiled I saw that Patrick was gazing at him with that mesmerized enthusiasm he had once reserved exclusively for my old enemy, Derry Stranahan.