Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (34 page)

“You mean kill her?”

“That may have been what they intended. Daibheid would never tell me. But she got wind of it and suddenly disappeared, fled for her life. Nobody ever saw her again, and no one was sorry. Morvern’s daughter was the last child she delivered in Ireland. Daibheid said a curse was on the girl because of it. Even when she came back, though she was our own kin and my own sister’s granddaughter, he wouldn’t let us have anything to do with her.”

“What do you mean, when she came back? Who came back?”

“Morvern’s baby, my own niece—though she’s grown into a woman now, of course. I haven’t laid eyes on her myself, but I’ve spoken with them who have.”

“She is back in Arklow?” said Percy.

“Not in the town. In the hills to the west, I believe. I don’t know her exact whereabouts.”

“I need to find her.”

“She is not of this world. She is not one your uncle would want to claim as his own.”

“But if she is his heir, as Morvern’s daughter, then I must find her. She must know it.”

“They say she is one of strange ways. There is truth to what Daibheid has always said, that evil has followed her because a witch brought her into the world. But when she is married, I hope to see her again. She is to be married soon, you see. There are those who know, and they tell me about her because I am her aunt.”

“Do you know when the marriage is to take place?”

“In a week, I believe, though her husband-to-be is an older man in his thirties and she is still young.”

“I must talk to this girl.”

“I can’t tell you where to find her even if I dared. All I can tell you is what I hear, that every Sunday morning, rain or shine, her habit is to climb to the top of Lugnaquilla, unless it is covered in snow. No one knows why.”

“Lugnaquilla—what is that?”

“It is the highest mountain in County Wicklow. It is inland and north, about fifteen miles from here. It is easily visible on a clear day. As she goes, they say the girl plucks wildflowers along the path. They say she gathers them into a bouquet and leaves them at the top.”

“There would not be many flowers at this time of the year.”

“They say if there are no flowers, she makes her bouquets of weeds and grasses.”

“What is the name of the mountain again?”

“Lugnaquilla. It is most often known by the name given to its peak.”

“What is that?”

“It is called Percy’s Table.”

Percy smiled.
An interesting coincidence
, he thought. He had not known that he had a mountain named after him in Ireland!

The room fell silent.

“It seems that perhaps it is time for us to take our leave, Vanora,” said Father Abban. “We do not want to presume on your kindness. I know you are concerned for the time.”

Mrs. Maloney smiled, again nervously, and nodded.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Maloney,” said Percy as they rose. “I appreciate everything you have told me. You have been most helpful.”

“And have no worries, Vanora,” added Father Abban. “When the time comes, I will speak with Daibheid.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The three men walked toward the door.

“Oh,” said Percy, pausing and turning back to Mrs. Maloney, “I meant to ask about this before when you mentioned it, but it slipped my mind. What did you mean when you said that the instant your husband laid eyes on Morvern’s baby, his first words were that the curse of the woman’s evil had come upon the family? Was it because of what you said about the look in her eyes?”

“No, not her eyes. That couldn’t be seen until later, until she began to look about and you had the uncanny feeling she was seeing into you.”

“What was it then?”

“It was her hair, you see.”

“What about it?”

“All the O’Sullivan girls that anyone can remember had red hair, the girl’s mother and grandmother, my sister and myself, and her great-grandmother.”

“But Morvern’s baby did not?”

“That’s why the sight of it struck fear into my Daibheid’s very soul. The moment she was born, the child’s hair was white as my Mum’s, you see.”

F
IFTY
-S
IX

The Heart of the Factor

S
teven Muir was beside himself.

The primary source of his anxiety was not Courtenay’s imminent assumption to the viscountcy and the loss of his job. He was worried neither for himself nor his mother. The house on Mochras Head, Katherine had already assured him, would contain quarters for them both, and their employment was assured. If Lady Katherine went to her brother’s in Glasgow until its completion, a dozen or more homes in Llanfryniog or the surrounding hills would happily take him in, and his mother, until that time.

His anxiety was rather for Lady Florilyn. The thought of her marrying Colville Burrenchobay was so odious in his mind as to have rendered him physically sick for two weeks.

Steven’s feelings were born in no petty human jealousy but rather in a lifelong acquaintance with the eldest son of Gwynedd’s parliamentarian. He knew something of what Burrenchobay was. He had also gained more than a passing glimpse of what Florilyn
could be
and was on her way to becoming. That
was
and that
becoming
could not be united without one of the two destroying the other.

Light and darkness cannot coexist. One must be extinguished in the triumph of its opposite. God will triumph. Sin will be extinguished from the universe.

But the light that had been newly growing in Florilyn was not strong enough to illuminate a soul so consumed with itself as that of Colville Burrenchobay. A tender growing human plant can too easily wither in the overpowering presence of one who is far too pleased with himself. Nothing is so lethal to the need to “become” as self-satisfaction. Falling under the spell of his alluring blandishments, Florilyn was not even aware of the thousand subtleties by which he encouraged her to nourish the self rather than kill it. Like her ancient Mother of Life, she had eaten of the fruit, so pleasing to the eye. And it had done its work.

Though he had not been an intellectual standout at Cambridge, Colville Burrenchobay was bright enough instinctively to know that to control her he must divide Florilyn from her past. Nothing accomplishes that end so readily as feeding pride, while offering tantalizing innuendos of derogation against any and all who were part of that past.

Steven hoped, however, that what he thought of as the “new Florilyn” was not altogether dead yet.

But what could
he
do to reawaken her? He had again become as nothing in her eyes. What had seemed a genuine friendship blossoming between them had evaporated as if it had never been. To all appearances, she despised him. Whether this was due to Colville’s whispered lies into her willing ear or from a deeper change in her own heart … he had not inquired too deeply. Indeed, perhaps the two were not so very different. That her ear had proved willing to listen to his subtle disseverations and gradually accept them as her own, perhaps revealed as much about her own insecurity as it did Colville’s motives to lure her away from all former affections.

The evening was late as Steven stood at his window. The countryside of Wales glowed in the pale light of a full moon coming in and out from behind turbulent clouds in the night sky. It had rained most of the afternoon. Though the storm had passed inland toward England, its windy retreat was still evident overhead. The tumultuous sky mirrored the turmoil in Steven’s own soul.

He had never paused to analyze his feelings for Florilyn to their depths. As a youth he had merely noticed her from afar and felt a strange sense of protectiveness over her. Hired by her father, then her mother, and brought into sudden and daily proximity to the family, his devotion had been as a servant who desired her best and sought to serve. That deeper feelings occasionally stirred within him, he took as merely a natural response of the human animal. He attached no great significance to them. That she had begun to reciprocate his friendship, that they had been able to laugh and talk together, these moments he treasured as among the manifold privileges of his job, but little more.

All the feelings—had he been another sort of young man, or from a higher social standing, that he might have looked at more closely and questioned where they might possibly lead—were subserved in his consciousness to the love that Florilyn had once carried toward his friend, Percy Drummond. Even the suspension of their engagement he assumed was but temporary. He considered nothing to be gained by it for himself other than the continued opportunity to serve his young mistress.

From the very day Florilyn began seeing Colville Burrenchobay, however, something new awoke in the heart of Steven Muir. A giant was born in the gentle young man. He knew what it was. He loved her more deeply than he had allowed himself to admit. But with the realization came the horrifying thought that his love might be born in jealousy toward Colville. If such were true, he would give Lady Katherine his notice and leave this place and never lay eyes on Florilyn again. Nothing was more hateful to him than even the merest possibility that he might succumb to such an evil emotion as jealousy.

And yet … was his concern for her future only for
himself
?

No, he knew it was not. He cared for
her
and desired her
best
. For her best, he would turn and walk away. Likewise … for her best he would come against any threat to her well-being. Not to possess her, but that the true Florilyn might emerge victorious over the Florilyn that Colville would attempt to control. Though she never laid eyes on him again, though she might hate him, he must still do his
best
for her and try to prevent her making a terrible mistake.

But how? What was his responsibility? How was he to do right for her, to do his best for her? How could things be set right again in Florilyn’s life? Could
he
, such as he was in her eyes, assist in such a setting-right? What was he to do?

For several more minutes he stood gazing out upon the windy night. He was too agitated to sleep. At length he turned, lit a small candle, and left his room. With quiet step he crept through the darkened corridors of the great house. A few minutes later, he found himself at the doors of the library. However strange it may seem for the hired servants in a house of ancient title and property to have full access to such regions, it was Lady Katherine’s will that everyone connected with Westbrooke Manor, from lowest to highest, consider the library his or her own personal region of dreams, rest, escape, retreat, learning, study, and imagination. Anyone might borrow any book or use the library at any time a schedule permitted.

As quietly as he could, he opened the double doors and swung them back wide enough to enter. His mother and Lady Katherine were forever talking about the author MacDonald. He was an avid reader himself, but his tastes in recent years had tended to run in different currents than were found in fiction. He knew what they all said, that MacDonald’s fiction was unlike any other. The only thing of MacDonald’s he had yet read himself was his volume of
Unspoken Sermons
.

He went to the shelf and stood before it. Everyone in the house by now knew where the MacDonald books were located. It was the most frequently used part of the library, and its contents grew yearly. Randomly he pulled out one volume after another, flipping through each, allowing his eyes to rest on one passage or another, hoping perhaps to discover some nugget of written gold buried within the pages between the decorated boards … something that would illuminate his way in this dark hour of his soul.

For half an hour he tried one book, then another, then another, returning to several a second, even a third time, also flipping slowly through his own favorite book of MacDonald’s sermons.

He had nearly begun to despair when suddenly his eyes fell on a passage whose words seemed to compel him, even as they spoke of the compulsion of God’s love toward the setting right of wrong in human life.

The words arrested Steven’s attention as if he had been struck in the face. That God would be
compelled
to do terrible things toward those he loves was a concept altogether new. He continued on.

The words perfectly described exactly what he had been thinking about Florilyn—that she must not be allowed to have her own way to the ruin of everything good that had been growing in her.

Steven’s eyes continued down the page.

With a finger between the pages, Steven took the book and candle to one of the library’s reading chairs and sat down. He turned to the beginning of the chapter and read it in its entirety in order to gain more of the context of the passage that had drawn his attention. Before he retired for the night two hours later, the book lay on the table in his own room. He had completed its first fifty pages before sleep overtook him.

The single word
compel
remained with him in sleep. By the time he awoke the following morning, his way had begun to become clear. If love required
compulsion
to do what was best for the beloved and set things right, then he would not shy away from it.