No Defense | Page 7

A MESSENGER
When Dyck entered the library of Playmore, the first words he heard
were these:
"Howe has downed the French at Brest. He's smashed the French fleet
and dealt a sharp blow to the revolution. Hurrah!"
The words were used by Miles Calhoun, Dyck's father, as a greeting to
him on his return from the day's sport.
Now, if there was a man in Ireland who had a narrow view and kept his
toes pointed to the front, it was Miles Calhoun. His people had lived in
Connemara for hundreds of years; and he himself had only one passion
in life, which was the Protestant passion of prejudice. He had ever been
a follower of Burke--a passionate follower, one who believed the
French Revolution was a crime against humanity, a danger to the future
of civilization.

He had resisted more vigorously than most men the progress of
revolutionary sentiments in Ireland. He was aware that his son had far
less rigid opinions than himself; that he even defended Wolfe Tone and
Thomas Emmet against abuse and damnation. That was why he had
delight in slapping his son in the face, whenever possible, with the hot
pennant of victory for British power.
He was a man of irascible temperament and stern views, given to fits of
exasperation. He was small of stature, with a round face, eyes that
suddenly went red with feeling, and with none of the handsomeness of
his son, who resembled his mother's family.
The mother herself had been a beautiful and remarkable woman. Dyck
was, in a sense, a reproduction of her in body and mind, for a more
cheerful and impetuous person never made a household happier or
more imperfect than she made hers.
Her beauty and continual cheerfulness had always been the joy of
Dyck's life, and because his mother had married his father--she was a
woman of sense, with all her lightsome ways--he tried to regard his
father with profound respect. Since his wife's death, however, Miles
Calhoun had deteriorated; he had become unreasonable.
As the elder Calhoun made his announcement about the battle of Brest
and the English victory, a triumphant smile lighted his flushed face,
and under his heavy grey brows his eyes danced with malicious joy.
"Howe's a wonder!" he said. "He'll make those mad, red republicans
hunt their holes. Eh, isn't that your view, Ivy?" he asked of a naval
captain who had evidently brought the news.
Captain Ivy nodded.
"Yes, it's a heavy blow for the French bloodsuckers. If their ideas creep
through Europe and get hold of England, God only knows what the end
will be! In their view, to alter everything is the only way to put things
right. No doubt they'll invent a new way to be born before they've
finished."

"Well, that wouldn't be a bad idea," remarked Dyck. "The present way
has its demerits."
"Yes, it throws responsibility upon the man, and gives a heap of trouble
to the woman," said Captain Ivy with a laugh; "but they'll change it all,
you'll see."
Dyck poured himself a glass of port, held it up, sniffed the aroma, and
looked through the beautiful red tinge of the wine with a happy and
critical eye.
"Well, the world could be remade in a lot of ways," he declared. "I
shouldn't mind seeing a bit of a revolution in Ireland--but in England
first," he hastened to add. "They're a more outcast folk than the Irish."
His father scoffed.
"Look out, Dyck, or they'll drop you in jail if you talk like that!" he
chided, his red face growing redder, his fingers nervously feeling the
buttons on his picturesque silk waistcoat. "There's conspiracy in Ireland,
and you never truly know if the man that serves you at your table, or
brings you your horse, or puts a spade into your ground, isn't a traitor."
At that moment the door opened, and a servant entered the room. In his
hand he carried a letter which, with marked excitement, he brought to
Miles Calhoun.
"Sure, he's waiting, sir," he said.
"And who's he?" asked his master, turning the letter over, as though to
find out by looking at the seal.
"Oh, a man of consequence, if we're to judge by the way he's clothed."
"Fit company, then?" his master asked, as he opened the heavily sealed
letter.
"Well, I'm not saying that, for there's no company good enough for us,"
answered the higgledy-piggledy butler, with a quirk of the mouth; "but,

as messengers go, I never seen one with more style and point."
"Well, bring him to me," said Miles Calhoun. "Bring him to me, and I'll
form my own judgment--though I have some confidence in yours."
"You could go further and fare worse, as the Papists say about
purgatory," answered the old