On hearing that he had been summoned to Tlachtga, the Historian placed a motor-car at his service, and gave him a letter for the Princess, and one for Sorcha.
Schliemann was not surprised to find that the young man who had driven him to Tlachtga on his first visit to that palace was again his chauffeur. MacSuibne, he saw, meant to keep him under surveillance. His own mind was ill at ease; he was conscious that he had not followed the high principles that had always guided his life. Under normal conditions, he would have scorned to betray a trust, and been incapable of deceiving any one as he had deceived MacFirbis. The dual part forced upon him had created two standards of conduct: one that he had practised from his youth; the other that a new environment, together with an unique opportunity, had driven him to follow. But his conscience clamoured, and his self-respect questioned the spirit of deceit. Added to this weight of thought was the knowledge of his lost identity and the absurd charge of spy. His letters and his telegrams flung into his own world remained unanswered. He might have been dead, vainly trying to communicate with the living. But if there was a Kaiser—his Kaiser—reason told him that Anna must exist, unless, indeed, she had died under some sudden visitation.
But the courage which had never failed him in his life, presently stirred again in his heart. He would defy MacSuibne and the cold-blooded Tanist; and his fear lessened as the motor carried him east. The journey was swift and unbroken, except for a short pause at Athluain. It was still twilight as the car sped up the west avenue of Tlachtga, and stopped before the visitors’ entrance. He was led to a room in which refreshments were laid; and as soon as he had finished his meal, he was invited to the Princess’s presence.
She received him in the Ivory Room, and greeted him in a manner which showed him that she, at least, did not suspect his honour. She thanked him for coming at once, and said that she had invited him to Tlachtga because, though a foreigner, he had taken a special interest in a feud between two Irish families, and had seen with her the importance of effecting a reconciliation. She was anxious, she added, that his part in the matter should be fully understood, and no blame attached to him for the kind help he had given. ‘A detective from Baile-Atha-Cliath had asked an audience of the Prince that day,’ she said. ‘And the Ard-Flaith’ (her tone was calm and dignified) ‘has heard from me everything about the books, and of your action in the matter, and of Geoffrey’s.’
‘May I ask,’ said Schliemann, ‘if your Royal Highness is aware of what MacSuibne—for I conclude the detective was he—said to the Ard-Flaith (the Prince, I perceive, and it is interesting to note, is not called Righ as the ancient Princes of Midhe were). Does MacSuibne charge me or young Keating with the theft of the books?’
‘He has charged no one, I believe, but the American,’ the Princess answered. ‘To arrest Geoffrey would mean the end of his career in the army. Geoffrey acted from a high motive, and you from the kindliest spirit. He and Sorcha are married. The marriage took place two hours ago in St. Finan’s chapel, in the Prince’s presence and mine.’
‘Here? I am delighted to hear it.’
‘You must see them,’ she said, and touched a bell by her side. The door from the study opened, and Lady Clanrickard appeared. ‘Brighid, a ghradh,’ the Princess said as the Countess courtesied, ‘Sai Schliemann, you see, has come. Geoffrey and Sorcha must speak to him.’
‘They are here, madam, waiting for your summons,’ the Countess replied. She looked across her shoulder and beckoned, and Geoffrey and Sorcha instantly stood in the doorway. Taking his bride’s hand, Keating led her into the room. Both bowed to the Princess. Drawing her hand from his clasp, Sorcha ran to the Professor, clasped his, and bent her golden-haired head over it. ‘God your life! dear Sai,’ she said, sweetly. ‘You will save Geoffrey?’ A soft kiss fell on his hand.
‘Save him, my child? How? I hear you are his wife,’ he replied.
‘Yes, she is my wife,’ said Keating. ‘We were married two hours ago in the Prince’s private chapel.’
‘I am glad you changed your mind, child, though he gave his father the wrong books.’
‘It is different now,’ came the girl’s voice. ‘He is in danger.’
‘Have you got the books?’ the Professor asked. He looked at Keating.
‘No. Moss has hidden them,’ the young man replied. ‘He was arrested last night. MacSuibne has been here. And,’ Keating looked at the Princess, ‘her Royal Highness graciously telegraphed for me, and the Ard-Flaith gave permission for our marriage to take place in his private chapel.’
‘Her Royal Highness has told me you are, she thinks, in no danger,’ said the Professor.
‘It is a delicate, but not dangerous position,’ said the Princess. ‘And under the circumstances I thought it right the marriage should take place at once. My little Sorcha was frightened and thought Geoffrey was going to prison.’
‘And if he does,’ said the girl, raising her head. ‘I shall demand to be arrested, too. I, not he, took the books from Sai Schliemann’s room, though I meant they should be given back to my father.’
‘Your connection with the books, Captain Keating, is known to MacSuibne?’ the Professor asked.
‘MacSuibne evidently has got one of the papers I wrote. How, I cannot imagine. There are only three: yours, Sorcha’s, and the one I mean to place in the archives of the College of Ollamhs. As Sorcha has hers, and I have the third, he has got possession in some way of yours.’
‘I put it in my notebook,’ the Professor paused.
‘You have acted so kindly, and been our friend,’ continued Keating, ‘that Sorcha and I should be deeply grieved if through MacSuibne’s discovery you were placed in an unpleasant position. And to prevent that, I intend to see MacSuibne and lay the whole blame upon myself.’
‘And I shall go with you,’ said Sorcha. She left the Professor, and stood by Keating’s side.
The Princess, who had been silent as if reflecting, invited them all to be seated. When they had obeyed, she looked at Sorcha with a smile. ‘Neither you nor Geoffrey shall be arrested,’ she said, and glanced at the others. Then continuing, with a graver expression, she added: ‘It is necessary that we should consider this matter and find a solution for a complicated situation. The union of the two houses is now accomplished, and we who helped to bring about this happy event must consider what other steps are necessary in order to reconcile the parents. I should like your advice, Herr Professor.’
‘I can only suggest time,’ Schliemann answered; and for a moment his eyes seemed to stare at something objective, concrete, that a man’s hand might grasp.
‘It will, no doubt, do much,’ she replied. ‘But it is obvious that the first step is to find the books. The man, Moss, it appears, says he does not know where they are, but I do not credit that statement for a minute. Geoffrey must find them. He must set out on the search at once. I will also ask you, Herr Schliemann, to help us, if you will. As soon as they are found, I shall invite both parents here, and reconcile, with God’s help, those two high-minded and learned old men one with the other. I shall then induce them, I hope, to leave the vellums in my private library, where they shall have access to them at all times, or failing that, I shall advise the Historian to leave them in your father’s care, Geoffrey, for his life, on the condition that they are given to the Hereditary Historian of Connacht on the Ollamh’s death.’
‘Madam, may I see MacSuibne first?’ Keating asked. ‘Sorcha and I wish to clear Sai Schliemann.’
‘His honour is untouched,’ said the Princess; she glanced graciously at Schliemann. ‘I must ask you, Geoffrey, to act in this matter as I suggest. Neither the Ard-Flaith nor I wish you to meet MacSuibne till the books are found. We are considering your interests.’
The young man bowed. ‘Your Royal Highness will permit me to say that I have no fear of MacSuibne or the whole detective department, he replied.
‘There are other issues,’ said the Princess. ‘The important point is to find the books,’ and she went on to unfold her plan. Eventually the interview was brought to an end by all present accepting it. Keating was to leave Tlachtga without delay, and visit the little hostel in the wood where one of Moss’s agents had given him a message in mistake. As the inn was remote from traffic and used chiefly by persons whose business led them to the forest, it was thought that because it was so little known the art thieves employed by Moss used it as their headquarters. He might fall in with one of these men there and gain important information. The Professor was to return to Tir-da-glas on the morrow, and give what help he could in the search. Presenting the Princess with the letter MacFirbis had placed in his care, he gave the other letter to Sorcha, and then silently awaited his dismissal. As the Princess broke the seal, she bade Sorcha open hers.
‘The Staruidhe sends you his blessing,’ she said presently, looking up and smiling,’ and forgives you and Geoffrey.’
Tears of joy gathered in the girl’s eyes; she kissed her father’s letter, and giving it to Keating, approached the Princess.
‘You have been our gracious friend, daughter of kings,’ she exclaimed, courtesying low. ‘A thousand thanks, and may the blessing of God rest on you! My father invites Geoffrey and me to Tir-da-glas.’
The Princess raised her, kissed her affectionately, and held out her hand to Keating. He went on one knee, and kissed it. ‘You have made us happy, madam,’ he said, ‘and my heart is proud and full.’
‘And we do not forget the kind Sai, nor you, dear Lady Clanrickard,’ Sorcha cried, a lovely colour on her face.
‘Your happiness gives me great pleasure, children,’ said the Princess. ‘And I foresee the feud between your parents healed. And now, Geoffrey, you must say farewell to your bride, and go forth to your adventure as the champions of valour did, as Conall Cearnach or Cuchullain.’
‘Ah, madam, and this fellow Moss shall be Fat Neck, son of Short Head,’ said Keating, gaily; ‘and my battleaxe shall sever his head, and I shall win precedence for Sorcha—my Emer—in all the palaces of Erin.’
‘But you have first to put your head on the block, like Cuchullain,’ said the Professor, ‘before you win the Champion’s Portion, and MacSuibne and Moss are more wily than the giant.’
‘Well, death with honour,’ said the young man laughing. ‘I am not afraid of the block.’
‘You go with high courage,’ said the Princess smiling, ‘and now say farewell to your Emer.’
Turning to the Professor and Lady Clanrickard she invited them to attend her to her study, leaving the lovers alone to bid each other good-bye. Having conversed with Schliemann for some time on literature and social reforms, she at length permitted him to retire. As he walked down the corridor he was accosted by a gentleman who said that the Prince wished to see him. It appeared to Schliemann that he had been waiting for him in the corridor.
The Prince was sitting in a large, brilliantly-lighted room. Books and papers on mechanics lay on the tables, and some models of machinery stood about. There was a grave expression on his good-humoured face. He curtly returned the Professor’s bow; signed to the gentleman to retire, and did not ask Schliemann to sit down. ‘He knows more than he told the Princess,’ the Professor thought. ‘MacSuibne has told him his suspicions.’
‘You are probably aware, Herr Schliemann, why I requested your presence,’ the Prince said gravely. ‘I am assured by the Princess that the part you played in the deception practised on the Historian of Connacht was due to a good-natured desire to help two young people who in spite of the feud between their families had been foolish enough to fall in love with each other. Her Royal Highness assures me this was your reason for taking the books.’
‘I thank her Royal Highness for this warranty,’ said the Professor. ‘But there is an error. I did not take the books. And it gives me great pleasure to be able to speak openly to your Highness, as I have heard that the detective, MacSuibne, has already given his version of the story. The Historian allowed me to look at the two vellums, leaving them in my charge. The lovers on hearing that the books would be in my care for a few days, asked me to allow them to take them for a certain space of time. I very reluctantly, and only on the understanding that they would be returned in three days, consented that they should be taken to the Ollamh Keating, so that young Keating might fulfil his vow—an interesting survival of the Heroic and Medieval Ages—and then be free to marry the young lady to whom he had given his heart. However, before I could examine the vellums, they were stolen by Moss before my eyes in the library of Tir-da-glas, and two other and much less valuable manuscripts were given by the young lady to Geoffrey.’
The Prince listened to these words with his usual courteous air, but his expression was still grave.
‘There is a paper that young Keating signed and gave you,’ he said. ‘That paper was his bond that the books should be ultimately restored to the Historian of Connacht if his father kept them. How MacSuibne got this paper I cannot conceive.’
‘It is the desire of the Government,’ said the Prince, after a moment’s silence, ‘that the two books should be quietly given up. There will be no prosecution if this is done. The detective department in Baile-Atha-Cliath, Herr Schliemann, entertain suspicions that may be—and I am ready to believe—utterly groundless. I, personally, shall hear with pleasure that the books have been found and quietly restored to MacFirbis; any recompense that the person who restores them requires, I shall pay, and in view of this I should like now to hear what sum is required.’
The Professor threw back his head and folded his arms. He had been offered a bribe to give up what it was supposed he had stolen as Moss’s agent. The Prince, no doubt, had heard he was a possible spy as well as a thief. But, because the Princess had helped the lovers and known about the books, her husband was ready to pay any sum to prevent her name coming before the public in connection with the affair. Then the sense of injured honour lessened, the pugnacious expression he had assumed passed, and he determined to appeal as a man to one who was calm, sagacious, persevering in his scientific pursuits, and consequently open to reason. In the chance, in the hope that he might be believed, he would, with one exception, be absolutely candid, tell him his object in coming to Ireland, of his fall in the ruins of O’Neill’s castle, of his real work, and of the extraordinary series of events through which he had passed, keeping silent alone upon the Ambassador’s mistake.
So, breaking the pause that followed the Prince’s offer, he began. First he told him that from his words he understood that the Prince believed that he had taken the books. He must again make an emphatic denial. He would earnestly ask him to listen attentively to his story, and help an elderly man, a foreigner, one held in some honour in his own land, and who now found himself in an extraordinary and even frightful position.
The Prince, seeing the pallor of his face, invited him to sit down. Schliemann obeyed, and half scorning himself for his own fears, yet unable to banish them entirely from his mind, began to give an account of his life. Referring to his birth, the honours he had won in his own University, his studies, the distinctions conferred upon him, his position as a philologist in Europe, his friends, the first scholars on the Continent, he went on to tell why he had come to Ireland. He then described Dublin as he had seen it, his journey North, his stay in an anglicised country town, his visit to the ruins of Hugh O’Neill’s Castle, his fall, and return to consciousness in the archives of a strange palace. After that all had been marvellous to him, for he found himself in an Ireland absolutely different from the Ireland he had been in before he fell. Feeling himself in a world of unreality and almost of magic, he had determined on seeking the two vellums so long lost to Ireland and the Celtic world, to take them to the Continent, and after he had shown them to the Celtic scholar, de Narbonne—of whom his Highness must have heard to photograph each page, and send them back to MacFirbis—if, indeed, he found on his return to the Continent, such a person existed as the Hereditary Historian of Connacht.
Pausing after he had made this statement slowly and calmly, the Professor awaited the Prince’s reply. That the latter’s expression had altered during the speech he had seen, and now the Prince’s face, losing its cold and grave aspect, took something of an air of compassion.
‘I have listened to your story, and shall give it attention,’ he remarked. ‘And as soon as the books are returned, any influence I possess shall be used to see you are sent back to your country. I advise you to confide in me and let me share your secret of their hiding place.’
‘Your Highness does not then believe the account I have given of myself and my friends?’ Schliemann asked.
‘When the books are found, my poor man, you shall return to your honours and your friends. If you remember any one now with whom you would like to communicate, I will instruct my secretary to see your message is duly despatched. Meanwhile, you will be my guest, and may photograph the pages of the vellums in my palace.’
The Professor sprang to his feet, driven erect by the desperation of his thoughts. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you not believe in the existence of de Narbonne? Of my sister Anna? Of my wide circle of friends? Of my European reputation? In my identity?’
The Prince fixed a clear and thoughtful gaze upon him. His tone was soothing yet also slightly authoritative as he replied. ‘These persons may exist, and I must ask you to be calm. You shall see them all,’ he added. ‘Every one of them, if you are patient, Anna, de Narbonne, your circle of friends, when the books are restored.’
He touched an electric button, and the gentleman who had led Schliemann to the room appeared. The Prince wrote a few words on a piece of paper and gave them to him. ‘Telephone that,’ he said.
‘There has been a communication, sir,’ said the gentleman, and he handed the Prince a sheet of paper. The Prince frowned slightly as he read it. ‘I will answer this myself,’ he said, and rose. ‘Herr Schliemann, I commit you to Ua Cahan’s care. I shall see you later when we can make arrangements about photographing the books.’
The Professor bowed and walked to the door. There he paused in the tumult of his thoughts; the Prince’s secretary passed out before him. A high screen hid him from the Prince’s sight, and the secretary, thinking he was following, did not look back. The Prince’s voice presently reached the Professor’s ears, but the words for some moments were as sounds unheeded; far away in the storm of his mind.
‘Midhe,’ the Prince was saying. ‘Which man? MacSuibne?’ A pause followed, then the Prince’s voice again: ‘You say the Tanist urges that young Keating be arrested . I thought we settled that. Let the Tanist know I disapprove. Treason . . . . Yes, here . . . . Mad, quite mad.’
Schliemann stirred, and his pulses suddenly quickened like a young man’s. In a moment his own position seemed to alter and no longer take the foremost place in his mind. His mood changed; with erect head and firm step he went into the ante-room. He had learnt two things. Geoffrey Keating was to be arrested on a charge of treason; and the Prince believed him (Schliemann) mad. His ever ready courage kindled again. Sentiment and chivalry urged him to help Sorcha and Keating; and the hope of defeating the malice of the Tanist gave a keen pleasure to the task.
He asked the secretary to conduct him to the Princess’s private corridor. The secretary took the trouble to lead him thither himself; and having spoken to an attendant, went away. Schliemann knocked at the door of the Ivory Room, and receiving no answer, opened it and walked in. Sorcha was sitting at a table writing a letter. There was no one else in the room. She looked round as he came in, and pushing back her chair sprang up. The light of a globe falling on her face showed him its pallor and the look of resolution in her eyes.
‘Geoffrey is to be arrested,’ said the Professor. ‘It is the Tanist’s doing.’
‘I know it,’ she replied. ‘The Tanist has written to me,’ her eyes flashed a blue gleam. I received the letter after Geoffrey had gone. It came by the hand of a messenger. It has not been through the post. The date is to-day. The address Tir-da-glas. Read it.’ She pointed to a sheet of paper torn in two that lay on the floor.
The Professor stooped and took up the pieces. ‘It is as well to know what the Tanist has said,’ he thought. He put the pieces together, and read the writing with compressed lips.
‘Sorcha, my cousin, my friend,’ the words ran, ‘my deep affection for your father and my duty as his Tanist, urge me to write to you. I am also impelled by feelings of sincere affection for the cousin whose life has been connected with my own since her birth. Though you may not forgive me now for warning you of a danger hidden for the moment from your eyes, yet I have faith to believe that some day you will do I can at this minute only thank God that you have held back from marrying a man whom the clearest evidence proves to have sold his country in order that he might marry you. Geoffrey Keating is a traitor; I grieve to write it. His charm of manner, I know. That his face is handsome is evident to every woman’s eyes. I acknowledge his good points; his generosity, courage and skill. I lament his fall. He is a traitor to Ireland, to our Motherland. In order that he might secure the two vellums and keep his fantastic vow, and at the same time induce you to be his wife, he sold, for these books, important information about our military forts and other service-secrets to a German spy, who has moved about this kingdom openly, and who shortly will be arrested. By this time Captain Keating is under arrest, and his sentence I fear will be a heavy one. Thanks be with God, for your father’s sake, and above all for your own, Sorcha, my cousin, you have been saved the pain and disgrace of being the wife of a man who for his own gains, and for the sake of a private revenge, was dastard enough to sell his country.—Your cousin and friend,
‘MAELMUIRE MACFIRBIS.’
Schliemann looked up from the letter. ‘Lies, a tissue of lies,’ he said. ‘Lies told for his own end. But, my dear, I fear Geoffrey will be arrested.’
‘Yes, I fear that. I am going to follow him.’
The Professor looked at her for a moment, and he carried the memory of her lovely face with him for the rest of his years. The colour had come back to her cheeks; her eyes seemed to look into the distance; the poise of her head was that of a queen.
‘No, no, not you,’ he said. ‘I will follow and save him.’ He walked to the door leading on the loggia, opened it, and went out.