No Defense

Chapter 7

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

"I don't believe he's guilty, mother."

The girl's fine eyes shone with feeling--with protest, indignation,

anguish. As she spoke, she thrust her head forward with the vigour of a

passionate counsel. Sheila Llyn was a champion who would fight to the

last gasp for any cause she loved.

A few moments before, she had found her mother, horror-stricken, gazing

at a newspaper paragraph sent from Dublin.

Sheila at once thought this to be the cause of her mother's agitation,

and she reached out a hand for it. Her mother hesitated, then handed the

clipping to her. Fortunately it contained no statement save the bare

facts connected with the killing of Erris Boyne, and no reference to the

earlier life of the dead man. It said no more than that Dyck Calhoun must

take his trial at the sessions.

It also stated that Dyck, though he pleaded "not guilty," declared

frankly, through Will McCormick, the lawyer, that he had no memory of

aught that happened after he had drunk wine given him by Erris Boyne. He

said that he and Boyne had quarrelled, but had become reconciled again,

and that the drink was a pledge of their understanding. From the time he

had taken the drink until he waked in the hands of the king's constables,

he had no memory; but he was sure he had not killed Boyne. The fact that

there was no blood on his sword was evidence. Nevertheless, he had been

committed for trial.

Mrs. Llyn was sorely troubled. She knew of her daughter's interest in

Dyck Calhoun, and of Dyck's regard for Sheila. She had even looked

forward to marriage, and she wished for Sheila no better fate, because

nearly all she knew of Dyck was to his credit. She was unaware that his

life in Dublin had been dissipated.

If Dyck was guilty--though she could not believe it--there would be an

end of romance between him and Sheila, and their friendship must be

severed for ever. Her daughter did not know that Erris Boyne was her

father, and she must not know--in any case not yet; but if Dyck was

condemned, it was almost sure he would be hanged.

She wondered about Boyne's widow, whose name did not appear in the

paragraph she had seen. She knew that Noreen was beautiful, but that he

had married far beneath him socially. She had imagined Erris Boyne living

in suburban quiet, not drawing his wife into his social scheme.

That is what had happened. The woman had lived apart from the daily

experiences of her husband's life in Dublin; and it had deepened her

bitterness against him. When she had learned that Erris Boyne was no more

faithful to her than he had been to his previous wife, she had gone mad;

and Dyck Calhoun was paying the price of her madness.

Mrs. Llyn did not know this. She was a woman of distinguished bearing,

though small, with a wan, sad look in her eyes always, but with a

cheerful smile. She was not poor, but well-to-do, and it was not

necessary to deny herself or her daughter ordinary comforts, and even

many of the luxuries of life.

Her hair was darker than her daughter's, black and wavy, with here and

there streaks of grey. These, however, only added dignity to a head

beautifully balanced, finely moulded, and, in the language of the day,

most genteelly hung. She was slender, buoyant in movement yet composed,

and her voice was like her daughter's, clear, gentle, thrilling.

Her mind and heart were given up to Sheila and Sheila's future. That was

why a knowledge of the tragedy that had come to Dyck Calhoun troubled her

as she had not been troubled since the day she first learned of Erris

Boyne's infidelity to herself.

"Let us go to Dublin, mother," said Sheila with a determined air, after

reading the clipping.

"Why, my dear?"

The woman's eyes, with their long lashes, looked searchingly into her

daughter's face. She felt, as the years went on, that Sheila had gifts

granted to few. She realized that the girl had resources which would make

her a governing influence in whatever sphere of life she should be set.

Quietly, Sheila was taking control of their movements, and indeed of her

own daily life. The girl had a dominating skill which came in part from

herself, and also to a degree from her father; but her disposition was

not her father's-it was her mother's.

Mrs. Llyn had never known Sheila to lie or twist the truth in all her

days. No one was more obedient to wise argument; and her mother had a

feeling that now, perhaps, the time had come when they two must have a

struggle for mastery. There was every reason why they should not go to

Dublin. There Sheila might discover that Erris Boyne was her father, and

might learn the story of her mother's life.

Sheila had been told by her mother that her father had passed away abroad

when she was a little child. She had never seen her father's picture, and

her mother had given her the impression that their last days together had

not been happy. She had always felt that it was better not to inquire too

closely into her father's life.

The years had gone on and then had come the happy visit to Loyland

Towers, where she had met Dyck Calhoun. Her life at that moment had been

free from troublesome emotions; but since the time she had met Dyck at

the top of the hill, a new set of feelings worked in her.

She was as bonny a lass as ever the old world produced--lithe, with a

body like that of a boy, strong and pleasant of face, with a haunting

beauty in the eyes, a majesty of the neck and chin, and a carriage which

had made Michael Clones call her a queen.

She saw Dyck only as, a happy, wild son of the hilltop. To her he was a

man of mettle and worth, and irresponsible because he had been given no

responsibility. He was a country gentleman of Ireland, with all the

interest and peril of the life of a country gentleman.

"Yes, we ought to go to Dublin, mother. We could help him, perhaps,"

Sheila insisted.

The mother shook her head mournfully.

"My child, we could do him no good at all--none whatever. Besides, I

can't afford to visit Dublin now. It's an expensive journey, and the

repairs we've been doing here have run me close."

A look of indignation, almost of scorn, came into the girl's face.

"Well, if I were being tried for my life, as Dyck Calhoun is going to be,

and if I knew that friends of mine were standing off because of a few

pounds, shillings, and pence, I think I'd be a real murderer!"

The mother took her daughter's hand. She found it cold.

"My dear," she said, clasping it gently, "you never saw him but three

times, and I've never seen him but twice except in the distance; but I

would do anything in my power to help him, if I could, for I like him.

The thing for us to do--"

"Yes, I know--sit here, twist our thumbs, and do nothing!"

"What more could we do if we went to Dublin, except listen to gossip,

read the papers and be jarred every moment? My dear, our best place is

here. If the spending of money could be of any use to him, I'd spend

it--indeed I would; but since it can't be of any use, we must stay in our

own home. Of one thing I'm sure--if Dyck Calhoun killed Erris Boyne,

Boyne deserved it. Of one thing I'm certain beyond all else--it was no

murder. Mr. Calhoun wasn't a man to murder any one. I don't believe"--her

voice became passionate--"he murdered, and I don't believe he will be

hanged."

The girl looked at her mother with surprise. "Oh, dearest, dearest!" she

said. "I believe you do care for him. Is it because he has no mother, and

you have no son."

"It may be so, beloved."

Sheila swept her arms around her mother's neck and drew the fine head to

her breast.

At that moment they heard the clatter of hoofs, and presently they saw a

horse and rider pass the window.

"It's a government messenger, mother," Sheila said.

As Sheila said, it was a government messenger, bearing a packet to Mrs.

Llyn--a letter from her brother in America, whom she had not seen for

many years.

The brother, Bryan Llyn, had gone out there as a young man before the

Revolutionary War. He had prospered, taking sides against England in the

war, and become a man of importance in the schemes of the new republican

government. Only occasionally had letters come from him to his sister,

and for nearly eleven years she had not had a single word from him.

When she opened the packet now, she felt it would help to solve--she knew

not how--the trouble between herself and her daughter. The letter had

been sent to a firm in Dublin with which Bryan Llyn had done business,

with instructions that it should be forwarded to his sister. It had

reached the hands of a government official, who was a brother of a member

of the firm, and he had used the government messenger, who was going upon

other business to Limerick, to forward it with a friendly covering note,

which ended with the words:

"What is it, mother dear?" Sheila asked eagerly. "Tell me!"

The mother made a passionate gesture of astonishment and joy; then she

leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, with the letter--which was

closely written, in old-fashioned punctiliousness--in her hands.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said. "How strange it all is! Your Uncle

Bryan is immensely rich. He has no children and no family; his health is

failing."

She seemed able to get no further.

"Well, what is it, mother?" asked Sheila again.

For an instant Mrs. Llyn hesitated; then she put the letter into Sheila's

hands.

"Read it, my child," she said. "It's for you as much as for me--indeed,

more for you than for me." Sheila took the letter. It ran as follows:

"Sheila, when shall we go?"

With frightened eyes Sheila sprang up.

"I said we must go to Dublin!" she murmured.

"Yes, we will go to Dublin, Sheila, but it will be on our way to Uncle

Bryan's home."

Sheila caught her mother's hands.

"Mother," she said, after a moment of hesitation, "I must obey you."

"It is the one way, my child-the one thing to do. Some one in prison

calls--perhaps; some one far away who loves you, and needs us,

calls--that we know. Tell me, am I not right? I ask you, where shall we

go?"

"To Virginia, mother."

The girl's head dropped, and her eyes filled with tears.