Читать книгу A Garden of Girls; Or, Famous Schoolgirls of Former Days - Thomas Mrs. Concannon - Страница 7

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Across the plain, in the twilight, rode Flann with his noble guest-friends by his side, and his hunting train behind him. They had hunted all day in the woods to the south of the plain—on foot, as the old Irish custom was, while their horses grazed free in the forest glades, and the gillies guarded their masters’ trappings. Now, weary of limb themselves, they were astride their fresh steeds, and the miles that lay between them and the banqueting hall within the white Dún above the Liffey were miles of soft, springy turf. Even the trappers felt their heavy burdens light, as their feet touched it. They raced in time to the joyous concert of the beagles, and the tinkling of the horse-bells—every man of them with his great wolf-dog at his side.

The red sunset filled the West, and, in the glow of it, splendid mantles—purple and yellow, and green, and red—were yet more splendid. Gleams of fire were struck from great jewelled brooches, from the gold on bits and bridles, from richly-wrought horse-cloths. Flann himself, a glowing splendid figure, rode at the head of that splendid company, the pride of life in his heart, and crowning his haughtily carried head.

They came to a point from which a great oak tree was visible. It seemed to Flann, all at once, as if another hand than his were laid on the bridle, and his horse were being urged out of its straight course for the home stable. He lifted his echlasc,[1] and with it tried to turn the horse’s head back again. But in vain. One way only the horse would go, and that was towards the great oak tree, which spread a wide dark net against the red background of the sunset.

“Let it thus be,” said Flann, yielding. “Let us lay the wolf’s head at the holy maiden’s feet, that she may know how her cattle may henceforth graze in peace.” He called out the word to his followers, and presently they were all—horsemen, and runners, and dogs—thundering across the turf due westward.

They came to the door of the Lios, which surrounded the cells of the holy maiden, Brigid, and her companions. “Knock loudly,” cried Flann; and a gillie stooped and found the knocker in a niche by the door, and struck the wood heavily with it.

The sound of the sliding bolt followed speedily. The door opened, and a white figure stood framed in the door-porch.

“Prince Flann,” said a woman’s clear voice, with a note of wonder in it, “a blessing on thee and on thy company. Is it aught of ill befallen Etain, thy wife, which brings thee so late to the door of Brigid’s cell?”

Flann shouted a word back to the Cuchairi,[2] and one of them came forward, a tall man in a rough, frieze mantle, and laid a dead wolf at the nun’s feet.

“This is what brings us to Brigid’s cell, so far out of our way,” said Flann, pointing with jewelled “echlasc” to the gaunt, stark figure, stretched on the grass before the immdorus.[3] “Now, oh! Blathnata, may the flocks of Brigid, and you her sisters, graze in peace.”

He met the eyes of the little pale nun, and found them fixed on him with a strange compassion. The red of the sunset had suddenly faded from the sky, and a quick fear clutched his heart as the chill, grey shadows followed it. What word was that Blathnata had spoken of an ill that may have befallen Etain, his wife?

His gaze went past the slim, white figure in the immdorus. Behind her he could see, over the darkling lawn, the pale glimmer of the little lime-washed wattle cells, where Brigid and her sisters dwelt. The oak tree was stirring with a queer moaning sound, and the voice of the brook that ran past it, and out under the Lios into the plain, held a sob. Then suddenly the smell of wet grass and running water was lost in the acrid smell of blood. The spear-wound in the wolf’s heart was bleeding again.

Prince Flann could feel beneath him how his horse was trembling in every limb. From behind came the nervous neighing of steeds, the soothing words of the riders, the frightened yelp of a dog, suddenly silenced. Then a burst of music came floating out from over the Lios—and horses and dogs quieted. Flann looked again, and saw the windows of the little wooden church, where the holy virgins were gathered for the vesper hymn, streaming with a faint but steady light.

How was it that Flann could only hear in the vesper music wherewith the Church, the kind Mother, soothes and comforts her tired and frightened children, before the coming of the darkness, the echoes of the death-song of Cineal Cearbhail? How was it that the lights of the Church burned before him like corpse-candles? Not he alone of that splendid company felt the joy and pride of life yield to an eerie sense of inevitable death.

“Must we wait until her evening prayer is ended, before we may speak with Brigid?” said Flann at last, mastering himself with a strong effort.

It was too dark to see the expression of Blathnata’s face. But the tone of her voice made the fear that was clutching at Flann’s heart take a tighter grip. “Our Mother knew (by what means I may not say) that Etain, thy wife, had need of her. Nathfraich, the charioteer, drove her over the plain, to-day, to thy Dún by the Liffey, and there she yet bides.”

What a ride was that over the plain in the darkness when the sun had burned itself out of the sky, and the world was black with its ashes. Never a word had Flann spoken since he turned his horse away from the door of Brigid’s Lios. Never once did he lift his head from his breast, until the neighing of his horse made him conscious of the scent of river-water. Then he looked, as his habit was, for the lights of his Dún, and saw them laid like a crown of jewels on the brow of the hill.

But what lights were they? Small need to ask that question when the wailing of women came to him already over the glimmering white palisade, towards which he and his company were climbing.

He was off his horse before a gillie could come to him. He had no thought of his guests as he hurried past the banqueting-hall, where their shields hung in order above the spread tables. Their feet had hardly touched the ground, when he had climbed the outer staircase which led to the grianan—and saw what it held for him.

In the centre of it, on a rich couch of beaten bronze, lay the white form of a girl. The little golden head was pressed deep into the thick deerskin cushion. On the breast, beneath the delicate white hands, joined for the supreme prayer, the fold of the embroidered coverlet was ominously still. The light of tall wax candles, grouped around the couch, fell on the chiselled beauty of a high-bred white, young face.

Around the circular, tapestry-covered walls women were seated, making lament for the passing away of so much beauty, and love, and youth. “It is low your yellow head lies to-night, oh, Etain of the golden locks, you that were wont to hold it high at the Feastings of Kings and Heroes, when poets sang the high deeds of Flann, your Lord. It is cold and still your hands are, that were wont to be stretched out for the relieving of the wants of the stranger, and the poor; for the pouring out of wine for guests; for the rewarding of learned men, and men of valour. No colder and stiller than your heart, that was once warm with the noble blood of the race of Con! Ochone! Ochone! for the cold, still heart that can never feel the warmth of the little child nestling against it.”

The “keeners” were suddenly silent—for a cry more heartrending than theirs was filling the death-chamber. It was the cry of a little motherless baby. A tall woman, dressed from head to foot in spotless white, with a white veil thrown over her long, dark hair, had entered the room, and, coming straight to where Flann knelt by the couch of his dead wife, she stooped and tried to lay in his empty arms, what she was carrying in the shelter of her white mantle.

“See, Prince Flann,” she said, “what Etain, thy wife, has left thee for thy consolation until the day comes when she may stretch out her hands to thee again—and welcome thee home for ever.”

But Flann would not lift his face. “Take it away, oh! Brigid!” he said, “and let me not look on that which has cost me the loss of my one treasure. Let the God you serve keep the child, and give me back Etain, my wife.”

There was a moment’s silence, for Brigid had the child anew in the folds of her mantle, and its cries had ceased. Then there came a deep groan, followed by a sudden, horrified cry from the women. Brigid knelt down quickly, the child in her arms, and lifted one of the hands, which Flann had flung in his passion of despair across the dead body of his wife. Heavy as lead it dropped from her grasp. It was the hand of a dead man.

She rose then, the sorrow of the world darkening her grey eyes. “Methinks the wish of Flann has been fulfilled,” she said. “Now he stands with Etain, his wife—and their little child shall be consecrate to God.”