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diff --git a/8941-0.txt b/8941-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e71693 --- /dev/null +++ b/8941-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24101 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lord Kilgobbin, by Charles Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Lord Kilgobbin + +Author: Charles Lever + +Release Date: February 2, 2007 [EBook #8941] +First posted August 14, 2004 +Last Updated: September 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD KILGOBBIN *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders. + + + + + + +[Illustration: She suffered her hand to remain] + +LORD KILGOBBIN + +by + +Charles Lever + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF ONE +WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP MADE THE HAPPINESS OF A LONG LIFE, +AND WHOSE LOSS HAS LEFT ME HELPLESS, +I DEDICATE THIS WORK, +WRITTEN IN BREAKING HEALTH AND BROKEN SPIRITS. +THE TASK, THAT ONCE WAS MY JOY AND MY PRIDE, +I HAVE LIVED TO FIND ASSOCIATED WITH MY SORROW: +IT IS NOT, THEN, WITHOUT A CAUSE I SAY, +I HOPE THIS EFFORT MAY BE MY LAST. + +CHARLES LEVER. + +TRIESTE, _January 20, 1872_. + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE + + +‘Lord Kilgobbin’ appeared originally as a serial, (illustrated by Luke +Fildes) in ‘The Cornhill Magazine,’ commencing in the issue for October +1870, and ending in the issue for March 1872. It was first published in +book form in three volumes in 1872, with the following title-page: + +LORD KILGOBBIN | A TALE OF IRELAND IN OUR OWN TIME | BY | CHARLES LEVER, +LL.D. | AUTHOR OF | ‘THE BRAMLEIGHS OF BISHOP’S FOLLY,’ ‘THAT BOY OF +NORCOTT’S,’ | ETC., ETC. | IN THREE VOLUMES | [VOL. I.] | LONDON | SMITH, +ELDER, AND CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE | 1872. | [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS +RESERVED.] + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAP. I. KILGOBBIN CASTLE + II. THE PRINCE KOSTALERGI + III. THE CHUMS + IV. AT ‘TRINITY’ + V. HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE + VI. THE ‘BLUE COAT’ + VII. THE COUSINS + VIII. SHOWING HOW FRIENDS MAY DIFFER + IX. A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG + X. THE SEARCH FOR ARMS + XI. WHAT THE PAPERS SAID OF IT + XII. THE JOURNEY TO THE COUNTRY + XIII. A SICK-ROOM + XIV. AT DINNER + XV. IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK + XVI. THE TWO ‘KEARNEYS’ + XVII. DICK’S REVERIE + XVIII. MATHEW KEARNEY’S ‘STUDY’ + XIX. AN UNWELCOME VISIT + XX. A DOMESTIC DISCUSSION + XXI. A SMALL DINNER-PARTY + XXII. A CONFIDENTIAL TALK + XXIII. A HAPHAZARD VICEROY + XXIV. TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST + XXV. ATLEE’S EMBARRASSMENTS + XXVI. DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS + XXVII. A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR + XXVIII. ‘ON THE LEADS’ + XXIX. ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN + XXX. THE MOATE STATION + XXXI. HOW THE ‘GOATS’ REVOLTED + XXXII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR PLEASURE + XXXIII. PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES + XXXIV. AT TEA-TIME + XXXV. A DRIVE AT SUNRISE + XXXVI. THE EXCURSION + XXXVII. THE RETURN + XXXVIII. O’SHEA’S BARN + XXXIX. AN EARLY GALLOP + XL. OLD MEMORIES + XLI. TWO FAMILIAR EPISTLES + XLII. AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM + XLIII. SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS + XLIV. THE HEAD CONSTABLE + XLV. SOME IRISHRIES + XLVI. SAGE ADVICE + XLVII. REPROOF + XLVIII. HOW MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE + XLIX. A CUP OF TEA + L. CROSS-PURPOSES + LI. AWAKENINGS + LII. A CHANCE AGREEMENT + LIII. A SCRAPE + LIV. HOW IT BEFELL + LV. TWO J.P.’S + LVI. BEFORE THE DOOR + LVII. A DOCTOR + LVIII. IN TURKEY + LIX. A LETTER-BAG + LX. A DEFEAT + LXI. A CHANGE OF FRONT + LXII. WITH A PASHA + LXIII. ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS + LXIV. GREEK MEETS GREEK + LXV. IN TOWN + LXVI. ATLEB’S MESSAGE + LXVII. WALPOLE ALONE + LXVIII. THOUGHTS ON MARRIAGE + LXIX. AT KILGOBBIN CASTLE + LXX. ATLEE’S RETURN + LXXI. THE DRIVE + LXXII. THE SAUNTER IN TOWN + LXXIII. A DARKENED ROOM + LXXIV. AN ANGRY COLLOQUY + LXXV. MATHEW KEARNEY’S REFLECTIONS + LXXVI. VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION + LXXVII. TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY + LXXVIII. A MISERABLE MORNING + LXXIX. PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS + LXXX. A NEW ARRIVAL + LXXXI. AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT + LXXXII. THE BREAKFAST-ROOM + LXXXIII. THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT + LXXXIV. NEXT MORNING + LXXXV. THE END + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +SHE SUFFERED HER HAND TO REMAIN + +‘WHAT LARK HAVE YOU BEEN ON, MASTER JOE?’ + +‘ONE MORE SITTING I MUST HAVE, SIR, FOR THE HAIR’ + +‘HOW THAT SONG MAKES ME WISH WE WERE BACK AGAIN WHERE I HEARD IT FIRST’ + +HE ENTERED, AND NINA AROSE AS HE CAME FORWARD + +‘YOU ARE RIGHT, I SEE IT ALL,’ AND NOW HE SEIZED HER HAND AND KISSED IT + +KATE, STILL DRESSED, HAD THROWN HERSELF ON THE BED, AND WAS SOUND ASLEEP + +‘IS NOT THAT AS FINE AS YOUR BOASTED CAMPAGNA?’ + +‘YOU WEAR A RING OF GREAT BEAUTY--MAY I LOOK AT IT?’ + +‘TRUE, THERE IS NO TENDER LIGHT THERE,’ MUTTERED HE, GAZING AT HER EYES + +HE KNELT DOWN ON ONE KNEE BEFORE HER + +NINA CAME FORWARD AT THAT MOMENT + +NINA KOSTALERGI WAS BUSILY ENGAGED IN PINNING UP THE SKIRT OF HER DRESS + +THE BALCONY CREAKED AND TREMBLED, AND AT LAST GAVE WAY + +‘JUST LOOK AT THE CROWD THAT IS WATCHING US ALREADY’ + +‘I SHOULD LIKE TO HAVE BACK MY LETTERS’ + +WALPOLE LOOKED KEENLY AT THE OTHER’S FACE AS HE READ THE PAPER + +‘I DECLARE YOU HAVE LEFT A TEAR UPON MY CHEEK,’ SAID KATE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +KILGOBBIN CASTLE + + +Some one has said that almost all that Ireland possesses of picturesque +beauty is to be found on, or in the immediate neighbourhood of, the +seaboard; and if we except some brief patches of river scenery on the Nore +and the Blackwater, and a part of Lough Erne, the assertion is not devoid +of truth. The dreary expanse called the Bog of Allen, which occupies a +tableland in the centre of the island, stretches away for miles--flat, +sad-coloured, and monotonous, fissured in every direction by channels of +dark-tinted water, in which the very fish take the same sad colour. This +tract is almost without trace of habitation, save where, at distant +intervals, utter destitution has raised a mud-hovel, undistinguishable from +the hillocks of turf around it. + +Fringing this broad waste, little patches of cultivation are to be seen: +small potato-gardens, as they are called, or a few roods of oats, green +even in the late autumn; but, strangely enough, with nothing to show +where the humble tiller of the soil is living, nor, often, any visible +road to these isolated spots of culture. Gradually, however--but very +gradually--the prospect brightens. Fields with inclosures, and a cabin or +two, are to be met with; a solitary tree, generally an ash, will be seen; +some rude instrument of husbandry, or an ass-cart, will show that we are +emerging from the region of complete destitution and approaching a land of +at least struggling civilisation. At last, and by a transition that is not +always easy to mark, the scene glides into those rich pasture-lands and +well-tilled farms that form the wealth of the midland counties. Gentlemen’s +seats and waving plantations succeed, and we are in a country of comfort +and abundance. + +On this border-land between fertility and destitution, and on a tract which +had probably once been part of the Bog itself, there stood--there stands +still--a short, square tower, battlemented at top, and surmounted with a +pointed roof, which seems to grow out of a cluster of farm-buildings, so +surrounded is its base by roofs of thatch and slates. Incongruous, vulgar, +and ugly in every way, the old keep appears to look down on them--time-worn +and battered as it is--as might a reduced gentleman regard the unworthy +associates with which an altered fortune had linked him. This is all that +remains of Kilgobbin Castle. + +In the guidebooks we read that it was once a place of strength and +importance, and that Hugh de Lacy--the same bold knight ‘who had won all +Ireland for the English from the Shannon to the sea’--had taken this +castle from a native chieftain called Neal O’Caharney, whose family he had +slain, all save one; and then it adds: ‘Sir Hugh came one day, with three +Englishmen, that he might show them the castle, when there came to him a +youth of the men of Meath--a certain Gilla Naher O’Mahey, foster-brother +of O’Caharney himself--with his battle-axe concealed beneath his cloak, +and while De Lacy was reading the petition he gave him, he dealt him such +a blow that his head flew off many yards away, both head and body being +afterwards buried in the ditch of the castle.’ + +The annals of Kilronan further relate that the O’Caharneys became adherents +of the English--dropping their Irish designation, and calling themselves +Kearney; and in this way were restored to a part of the lands and the +castle of Kilgobbin--‘by favour of which act of grace,’ says the chronicle, +‘they were bound to raise a becoming monument over the brave knight, Hugh +de Lacy, whom their kinsman had so treacherously slain; but they did no +more of this than one large stone of granite, and no inscription thereon: +thus showing that at all times, and with all men, the O’Caharneys were +false knaves and untrue to their word.’ + +In later times, again, the Kearneys returned to the old faith of their +fathers and followed the fortunes of King James; one of them, Michael +O’Kearney, having acted as aide-de-camp at the ‘Boyne,’ and conducted the +king to Kilgobbin, where he passed the night after the defeat, and, as the +tradition records, held a court the next morning, at which he thanked the +owner of the castle for his hospitality, and created him on the spot a +viscount by the style and title of Lord Kilgobbin. + +It is needless to say that the newly-created noble saw good reason to keep +his elevation to himself. They were somewhat critical times just then for +the adherents of the lost cause, and the followers of King William were +keen at scenting out any disloyalty that might be turned to good account +by a confiscation. The Kearneys, however, were prudent. They entertained +a Dutch officer, Van Straaten, on King William’s staff, and gave such +valuable information besides as to the condition of the country, that no +suspicions of disloyalty attached to them. + +To these succeeded more peaceful times, during which the Kearneys were +more engaged in endeavouring to reconstruct the fallen condition of their +fortunes than in political intrigue. Indeed, a very small portion of the +original estate now remained to them, and of what once had produced above +four thousand a year, there was left a property barely worth eight hundred. + +The present owner, with whose fortunes we are more Immediately concerned, +was a widower. Mathew Kearney’s family consisted of a son and a daughter: +the former about two-and-twenty, the latter four years younger, though to +all appearance there did not seem a year between them. + +Mathew Kearney himself was a man of about fifty-four or fifty-six; hale, +handsome, and powerful; his snow-white hair and bright complexion, with his +full grey eyes and regular teeth giving him an air of genial cordiality at +first sight which was fully confirmed by further acquaintance. So long as +the world went well with him, Mathew seemed to enjoy life thoroughly, and +even its rubs he bore with an easy jocularity that showed what a stout +heart he could oppose to Fortune. A long minority had provided him with a +considerable sum on his coming of age, but he spent it freely, and when it +was exhausted, continued to live on at the same rate as before, till at +last, as creditors grew pressing, and mortgages threatened foreclosure, he +saw himself reduced to something less than one-fifth of his former outlay; +and though he seemed to address himself to the task with a bold spirit and +a resolute mind, the old habits were too deeply rooted to be eradicated, +and the pleasant companionship of his equals, his life at the club in +Dublin, his joyous conviviality, no longer possible, he suffered himself +to descend to an inferior rank, and sought his associates amongst humbler +men, whose flattering reception of him soon reconciled him to his fallen +condition. His companions were now the small farmers of the neighbourhood +and the shopkeepers in the adjoining town of Moate, to whose habits and +modes of thought and expression he gradually conformed, till it became +positively irksome to himself to keep the company of his equals. Whether, +however, it was that age had breached the stronghold of his good spirits, +or that conscience rebuked him for having derogated from his station, +certain it is that all his buoyancy failed him when away from society, +and that in the quietness of his home he was depressed and dispirited to +a degree; and to that genial temper, which once he could count on against +every reverse that befell him, there now succeeded an irritable, peevish +spirit, that led him to attribute every annoyance he met with to some fault +or shortcoming of others. + +By his neighbours in the town and by his tenantry he was always addressed +as ‘My lord,’ and treated with all the deference that pertained to such +difference of station. By the gentry, however, when at rare occasions he +met them, he was known as Mr. Kearney; and in the village post-office, the +letters with the name Mathew Kearney, Esq., were perpetual reminders of +what rank was accorded him by that wider section of the world that lived +beyond the shadow of Kilgobbin Castle. + +Perhaps the impossible task of serving two masters is never more palpably +displayed than when the attempt attaches to a divided identity--when a man +tries to be himself in two distinct parts in life, without the slightest +misgiving of hypocrisy while doing so. Mathew Kearney not only did not +assume any pretension to nobility amongst his equals, but he would have +felt that any reference to his title from one of them would have been an +impertinence, and an impertinence to be resented; while, at the same time, +had a shopkeeper of Moate, or one of the tenants, addressed him as other +than ‘My lord,’ he would not have deigned him a notice. + +Strangely enough, this divided allegiance did not merely prevail with the +outer world, it actually penetrated within his walls. By his son, Richard +Kearney, he was always called ‘My lord’; while Kate as persistently +addressed and spoke of him as papa. Nor was this difference without +signification as to their separate natures and tempers. + +Had Mathew Kearney contrived to divide the two parts of his nature, and +bequeathed all his pride, his vanity, and his pretensions to his son, +while he gave his light-heartedness, his buoyancy, and kindliness to his +daughter, the partition could not have been more perfect. Richard Kearney +was full of an insolent pride of birth. Contrasting the position of his +father with that held by his grandfather, he resented the downfall as +the act of a dominant faction, eager to outrage the old race and the old +religion of Ireland. Kate took a very different view of their condition. +She clung, indeed, to the notion of their good blood; but as a thing +that might assuage many of the pangs of adverse fortune, not increase or +embitter them; and ‘if we are ever to emerge,’ thought she, ‘from this +poor state, we shall meet our class without any of the shame of a mushroom +origin. It will be a restoration, and not a new elevation.’ She was a fine, +handsome, fearless girl, whom many said ought to have been a boy; but this +was rather intended as a covert slight on the narrower nature and peevish +temperament of her brother--another way, indeed, of saying that they should +have exchanged conditions. + +The listless indolence of her father’s life, and the almost complete +absence from home of her brother, who was pursuing his studies at the +Dublin University, had given over to her charge not only the household, but +no small share of the management of the estate--all, in fact, that an old +land-steward, a certain Peter Gill, would permit her to exercise; for Peter +was a very absolute and despotic Grand-Vizier, and if it had not been that +he could neither read nor write, it would have been utterly impossible to +have wrested from him a particle of power over the property. This happy +defect in his education--happy so far as Kate’s rule was concerned--gave +her the one claim she could prefer to any superiority over him, and his +obstinacy could never be effectually overcome, except by confronting him +with a written document or a column of figures. Before these, indeed, he +would stand crestfallen and abashed. Some strange terror seemed to possess +him as to the peril of opposing himself to such inscrutable testimony--a +fear, be it said, he never felt in contesting an oral witness. + +Peter had one resource, however, and I am not sure that a similar +stronghold has not secured the power of greater men and in higher +functions. Peter’s sway was of so varied and complicated a kind; the duties +he discharged were so various, manifold, and conflicting; the measures +he took with the people, whose destinies were committed to him, were +so thoroughly devised, by reference to the peculiar condition of each +man--what he could do, or bear, or submit to--and not by any sense of +justice; that a sort of government grew up over the property full of +hitches, contingencies, and compensations, of which none but the inventor +of the machinery could possibly pretend to the direction. The estate being, +to use his own words, ‘so like the old coach-harness, so full of knots, +splices, and entanglements, there was not another man in Ireland could make +it work, and if another were to try it, it would all come to pieces in his +hands.’ + +Kate was shrewd enough to see this; and in the same way that she had +admiringly watched Peter as he knotted a trace here and supplemented a +strap there, strengthening a weak point, and providing for casualties even +the least likely, she saw him dealing with the tenantry on the property; +and in the same spirit that he made allowance for sickness here and +misfortune there, he would be as prompt to screw up a lagging tenant to +the last penny, and secure the landlord in the share of any season of +prosperity. + +Had the Government Commissioner, sent to report on the state of +land-tenure in Ireland, confined himself to a visit to the estate of Lord +Kilgobbin--for so we like to call him--it is just possible that the Cabinet +would have found the task of legislation even more difficult than they have +already admitted it to be. + +First of all, not a tenant on the estate had any certain knowledge of how +much land he held. There had been no survey of the property for years. ‘It +will be made up to you,’ was Gill’s phrase about everything. ‘What matters +if you have an acre more or an acre less?’ Neither had any one a lease, +nor, indeed, a writing of any kind. Gill settled that on the 25th March and +25th September a certain sum was to be forthcoming, and that was all. When +‘the lord’ wanted them, they were always to give him a hand, which often +meant with their carts and horses, especially in harvest-time. Not that +they were a hard-worked or hard-working population: they took life very +easy, seeing that by no possible exertion could they materially better +themselves; and even when they hunted a neighbour’s cow out of their wheat, +they would execute the eviction with a lazy indolence and sluggishness that +took away from the act all semblance of ungenerousness. + +They were very poor, their hovels were wretched, their clothes ragged, and +their food scanty; but, with all that, they were not discontented, and very +far from unhappy. There was no prosperity at hand to contrast with their +poverty. The world was, on the whole, pretty much as they always remembered +it. They would have liked to be ‘better off’ if they knew how, but they did +not know if there were a ‘better off,’ much less how to come at it; and if +there were, Peter Gill certainly did not tell them of it. + +If a stray visitor to fair or market brought back the news that there was +an agitation abroad for a new settlement of the land, that popular orators +were proclaiming the poor man’s rights and denouncing the cruelties of +the landlord, if they heard that men were talking of repealing the laws +which secured property to the owner, and only admitted him to a sort of +partnership with the tiller of the soil, old Gill speedily assured them +that these were changes only to be adopted in Ulster, where the tenants +were rack-rented and treated like slaves. ‘Which of you here,’ would he +say, ‘can come forward and say he was ever evicted?’ Now as the term was +one of which none had the very vaguest conception--it might, for aught they +knew, have been an operation in surgery--the appeal was an overwhelming +success. ‘Sorra doubt of it, but ould Peter’s right, and there’s worse +places to live in, and worse landlords to live under, than the lord.’ +Not but it taxed Gill’s skill and cleverness to maintain this quarantine +against the outer world; and he often felt like Prince Metternich in a like +strait--that it would only be a question of time, and, in the long run, the +newspaper fellows must win. + +From what has been said, therefore, it may be imagined that Kilgobbin was +not a model estate, nor Peter Gill exactly the sort of witness from which +a select committee would have extracted any valuable suggestions for the +construction of a land-code. + +Anything short of Kate Kearney’s fine temper and genial disposition would +have broken down by daily dealing with this cross-grained, wrong-headed, +and obstinate old fellow, whose ideas of management all centred in craft +and subtlety--outwitting this man, forestalling that--doing everything by +halves, so that no boon came unassociated with some contingency or other by +which he secured to himself unlimited power and uncontrolled tyranny. + +As Gill was in perfect possession of her father’s confidence, to oppose him +in anything was a task of no mean difficulty; and the mere thought that the +old fellow should feel offended and throw up his charge--a threat he had +more than once half hinted--was a terror Kilgobbin could not have faced. +Nor was this her only care. There was Dick continually dunning her for +remittances, and importuning her for means to supply his extravagances. ‘I +suspected how it would be,’ wrote he once, ‘with a lady paymaster. And when +my father told me I was to look to you for my allowance, I accepted the +information as a heavy percentage taken off my beggarly income. What could +you--what could any young girl--know of the requirements of a man going out +into the best society of a capital? To derive any benefit from associating +with these people, I must at least seem to live like them. I am received as +the son of a man of condition and property, and you want to bound my habits +by those of my chum, Joe Atlee, whose father is starving somewhere on the +pay of a Presbyterian minister. Even Joe himself laughs at the notion of +gauging my expenses by his. + +‘If this is to go on--I mean if you intend to persist in this plan--be +frank enough to say so at once, and I will either take pupils, or seek a +clerkship, or go off to Australia; and I care precious little which of the +three. + +‘I know what a proud thing it is for whoever manages the revenue to come +forward and show a surplus. Chancellors of the Exchequer make great +reputations in that fashion; but there are certain economies that lie close +to revolutions; now don’t risk this, nor don’t be above taking a hint from +one some years older than you, though he neither rules his father’s house +nor metes out his pocket-money.’ + +Such, and such like, were the epistles she received from time to time, and +though frequency blunted something of their sting, and their injustice gave +her a support against their sarcasm, she read and thought over them in a +spirit of bitter mortification. Of course she showed none of these letters +to her father. He, indeed, only asked if Dick were well, or if he were soon +going up for that scholarship or fellowship--he did not know which, nor +was he to blame--‘which, after all, it was hard on a Kearney to stoop to +accept, only that times were changed with us! and we weren’t what we used +to be’--a reflection so overwhelming that he generally felt unable to dwell +on it. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE PRINCE KOSTALERGI + + +Mathew Kearney had once a sister whom he dearly loved, and whose sad fate +lay very heavily on his heart, for he was not without self-accusings on +the score of it. Matilda Kearney had been a belle of the Irish Court and a +toast at the club when Mathew was a young fellow in town; and he had been +very proud of her beauty, and tasted a full share of those attentions which +often fall to the lot of brothers of handsome girls. + +Then Matty was an heiress, that is, she had twelve thousand pounds in her +own right; and Ireland was not such a California as to make a very pretty +girl with twelve thousand pounds an everyday chance. She had numerous +offers of marriage, and with the usual luck in such cases, there were +commonplace unattractive men with good means, and there were clever and +agreeable fellows without a sixpence, all alike ineligible. Matty had +that infusion of romance in her nature that few, if any, Irish girls are +free from, and which made her desire that the man of her choice should be +something out of the common. She would have liked a soldier who had won +distinction in the field. The idea of military fame was very dear to her +Irish heart, and she fancied with what pride she would hang upon the arm +of one whose gay trappings and gold embroidery emblematised the career +he followed. If not a soldier, she would have liked a great orator, some +leader in debate that men would rush down to hear, and whose glowing words +would be gathered up and repeated as though inspirations; after that a +poet, and perhaps--not a painter--a sculptor, she thought, might do. + +With such aspirations as these, it is not surprising that she rejected the +offers of those comfortable fellows in Meath, or Louth, whose military +glories were militia drills, and whose eloquence was confined to the bench +of magistrates. + +At three-and-twenty she was in the full blaze of her beauty; at +three-and-thirty she was still unmarried, her looks on the wane, but her +romance stronger than ever, not untinged perhaps with a little bitterness +towards that sex which had not afforded one man of merit enough to woo +and win her. Partly out of pique with a land so barren of all that could +minister to imagination, partly in anger with her brother who had been +urging her to a match she disliked, she went abroad to travel, wandered +about for a year or two, and at last found herself one winter at Naples. + +There was at that time, as secretary to the Greek legation, a young fellow +whom repute called the handsomest man in Europe; he was a certain Spiridion +Kostalergi, whose title was Prince of Delos, though whether there was such +a principality, or that he was its representative, society was not fully +agreed upon. At all events, Miss Kearney met him at a Court ball, when +he wore his national costume, looking, it must be owned, so splendidly +handsome that all thought of his princely rank was forgotten in presence of +a face and figure that recalled the highest triumphs of ancient art. It was +Antinous come to life in an embroidered cap and a gold-worked jacket, and +it was Antinous with a voice like Mario, and who waltzed to perfection. +This splendid creature, a modern Alcibiades in gifts of mind and graces, +soon heard, amongst his other triumphs, how a rich and handsome Irish girl +had fallen in love with him at first sight. He had himself been struck by +her good looks and her stylish air, and learning that there could be no +doubt about her fortune, he lost no time in making his advances. Before +the end of the first week of their acquaintance he proposed. She referred +him to her brother before she could consent; and though, when Kostalergi +inquired amongst her English friends, none had ever heard of a Lord +Kilgobbin, the fact of his being Irish explained their ignorance, not to +say that Kearney’s reply, being a positive refusal of consent, so fully +satisfied the Greek that it was ‘a good thing,’ he pressed his suit with +a most passionate ardour: threatened to kill himself if she persisted in +rejecting him, and so worked upon her heart by his devotion, or on her +pride by the thought of his position, that she yielded, and within three +weeks from the day they first met, she became the Princess of Delos. + +When a Greek, holding any public employ, marries money, his Government is +usually prudent enough to promote him. It is a recognition of the merit +that others have discovered, and a wise administration marches with the +inventions of the age it lives in. Kostalergi’s chief was consequently +recalled, suffered to fall back upon his previous obscurity--he had been a +commission-agent for a house in the Greek trade--and the Prince of Delos +gazetted as Minister Plenipotentiary of Greece, with the first class of +St. Salvador, in recognition of his services to the state; no one being +indiscreet enough to add that the aforesaid services were comprised +in marrying an Irishwoman with a dowry of--to quote the _Athenian +Hemera_--‘three hundred and fifty thousand drachmas.’ + +For a while--it was a very brief while--the romantic mind of the Irish girl +was raised to a sort of transport of enjoyment. Here was everything--more +than everything--her most glowing imagination had ever conceived. Love, +ambition, station all gratified, though, to be sure, she had quarrelled +with her brother, who had returned her last letters unopened. Mathew, she +thought, was too good-hearted to bear a long grudge: he would see her +happiness, he would hear what a devoted and good husband her dear Spiridion +had proved himself, and he would forgive her at last. + +Though, as was well known, the Greek envoy received but a very moderate +salary from his Government, and even that not paid with a strict +punctuality, the legation was maintained with a splendour that rivalled, +if it did not surpass, those of France, England, or Russia. The Prince of +Delos led the fashion in equipage, as did the Princess in toilet; their +dinners, their balls, their fêtes attracted the curiosity of even the +highest to witness them; and to such a degree of notoriety had the Greek +hospitality attained, that Naples at last admitted that without the Palazzo +Kostalergi there would be nothing to attract strangers to the capital. + +Play, so invariably excluded from the habits of an embassy, was carried on +at this legation to such an excess that the clubs were completely deserted, +and all the young men of gambling tastes flocked here each night, sure +to find lansquenet or faro, and for stakes which no public table could +possibly supply. It was not alone that this life of a gambler estranged +Kostalergi from his wife, but that the scandal of his infidelities had +reached her also, just at the time when some vague glimmering suspicions of +his utter worthlessness were breaking on her mind. The birth of a little +girl did not seem in the slightest degree to renew the ties between them; +on the contrary, the embarrassment of a baby, and the cost it must entail, +were the only considerations he would entertain, and it was a constant +question of his--uttered, too, with a tone of sarcasm that cut her to the +heart: ‘Would not her brother--the Lord Irlandais--like to have that baby? +Would she not write and ask him?’ Unpleasant stories had long been rife +about the play at the Greek legation, when a young Russian secretary, of +high family and influence, lost an immense sum under circumstances which +determined him to refuse payment. Kostalergi, who had been the chief +winner, refused everything like inquiry or examination; in fact, he made +investigation impossible, for the cards, which the Russian had declared to +be marked, the Greek gathered up slowly from the table and threw into the +fire, pressing his foot upon them in the flames, and then calmly returning +to where the other stood, he struck him across the face with his open hand, +saying, as he did it: ‘Here is another debt to repudiate, and before the +same witnesses also!’ + +The outrage did not admit of delay. The arrangements were made in an +instant, and within half an hour--merely time enough to send for a +surgeon--they met at the end of the garden of the legation. The Russian +fired first, and though a consummate pistol-shot, agitation at the insult +so unnerved him that he missed: his ball cut the knot of Kostalergi’s +cravat. The Greek took a calm and deliberate aim, and sent his bullet +through the other’s forehead. He fell without a word, stone dead. + +Though the duel had been a fair one, and the _procès-verbal_ drawn up and +agreed on both sides showed that all had been done loyally, the friends +of the young Russian had influence to make the Greek Government not only +recall the envoy, but abolish the mission itself. + +For some years the Kostalergis lived in retirement at Palermo, not knowing +nor known to any one. Their means were now so reduced that they had +barely sufficient for daily life, and though the Greek prince--as he was +called--constantly appeared on the public promenade well dressed, and in +all the pride of his handsome figure, it was currently said that his wife +was literally dying of want. + +It was only after long and agonising suffering that she ventured to write +to her brother, and appeal to him for advice and assistance. But at last +she did so, and a correspondence grew up which, in a measure, restored the +affection between them. When Kostalergi discovered the source from which +his wretched wife now drew her consolation and her courage, he forbade her +to write more, and himself addressed a letter to Kearney so insulting and +offensive--charging him even with causing the discord of his home, and +showing the letter to his wife before sending it--that the poor woman, long +failing in health and broken down, sank soon after, and died so destitute, +that the very funeral was paid for by a subscription amongst her +countrymen. Kostalergi had left her some days before her death, carrying +the girl along with him, nor was his whereabouts learned for a considerable +time. + +When next he emerged into the world it was at Rome, where he gave lessons +in music and modern languages, in many in which he was a proficient. His +splendid appearance, his captivating address, his thorough familiarity with +the modes of society, gave him the entrée to many houses where his talents +amply requited the hospitality he received. He possessed, amongst his other +gifts, an immense amount of plausibility, and people found it, besides, +very difficult to believe ill of that well-bred, somewhat retiring man, +who, in circumstances of the very narrowest fortunes, not only looked and +dressed like a gentleman, but actually brought up a daughter with a degree +of care and an amount of regard to her education that made him appear a +model parent. + +Nina Kostalergi was then about seventeen, though she looked at least three +years older. She was a tall, slight, pale girl, with perfectly regular +features--so classic in the mould, and so devoid of any expression, that +she recalled the face one sees on a cameo. Her hair was of wondrous +beauty--that rich gold colour which has _reflets_ through it, as the light +falls full or faint, and of an abundance that taxed her ingenuity to dress +it. They gave her the sobriquet of the Titian Girl at Rome whenever she +appeared abroad. + +In the only letter Kearney had received from his brother-in-law after his +sister’s death was an insolent demand for a sum of money, which he alleged +that Kearney was unjustly withholding, and which he now threatened to +enforce by law. ‘I am well aware,’ wrote he, ‘what measure of honour or +honesty I am to expect from a man whose very name and designation are a +deceit. But probably prudence will suggest how much better it would be +on this occasion to simulate rectitude than risk the shame of an open +exposure.’ + +To this gross insult Kearney never deigned any reply; and now more than two +years passed without any tidings of his disreputable relative, when there +came one morning a letter with the Roman postmark, and addressed, ‘_À +Monsieur le Vicomte de Kilgobbin, à son Château de Kilgobbin, en Irlande._’ +To the honour of the officials in the Irish post-office, it was forwarded +to Kilgobbin with the words, ‘Try Mathew Kearney, Esq.,’ in the corner. + +A glance at the writing showed it was not in Kostalergi’s hand, and, after +a moment or two of hesitation, Kearney opened it. He turned at once for the +writer’s name, and read the words, ‘Nina Kostalergi’--his sister’s child! +‘Poor Matty,’ was all he could say for some minutes. He remembered the +letter in which she told him of her little girl’s birth, and implored his +forgiveness for herself and his love for her baby.’ I want both, my dear +brother,’ wrote she; ‘for though the bonds we make for ourselves by our +passions--’ And the rest of the sentence was erased--she evidently thinking +she had delineated all that could give a clue to a despondent reflection. + +The present letter was written in English, but in that quaint, peculiar +hand Italians often write. It began by asking forgiveness for daring to +write to him, and recalling the details of the relationship between them, +as though he could not have remembered it. ‘I am, then, in my right,’ wrote +she, ‘when I address you as my dear, dear uncle, of whom I have heard so +much, and whose name was in my prayers ere I knew why I knelt to pray.’ + +Then followed a piteous appeal--it was actually a cry for protection. Her +father, she said, had determined to devote her to the stage, and already +had taken steps to sell her--she said she used the word advisedly--for +so many years to the impresario of the ‘Fenice’ at Venice, her voice and +musical skill being such as to give hope of her becoming a prima donna. +She had, she said, frequently sung at private parties at Rome, but only +knew within the last few days that she had been, not a guest, but a paid +performer. Overwhelmed with the shame and indignity of this false position, +she implored her mother’s brother to compassionate her. ‘If I could not +become a governess, I could be your servant, dearest uncle,’ she wrote. ‘I +only ask a roof to shelter me, and a refuge. May I go to you? I would beg +my way on foot if I only knew that at the last your heart and your door +would be open to me, and as I fell at your feet, knew that I was saved.’ + +Until a few days ago, she said, she had by her some little trinkets her +mother had left her, and on which she counted as a means of escape, but her +father had discovered them and taken them from her. + +‘If you answer this--and oh! let me not doubt you will--write to me to the +care of the Signori Cayani and Battistella, bankers, Rome. Do not delay, +but remember that I am friendless, and but for this chance hopeless.--Your +niece, + +‘NINA KOSTALERGI.’ + +While Kearney gave this letter to his daughter to read, he walked up and +down the room with his head bent and his hands deep in his pockets. + +‘I think I know the answer you’ll send to this, papa,’ said the girl, +looking up at him with a glow of pride and affection in her face. ‘I do not +need that you should say it.’ + +‘It will take fifty--no, not fifty, but five-and-thirty pounds to bring her +over here, and how is she to come all alone?’ + +Kate made no reply; she knew the danger sometimes of interrupting his own +solution of a difficulty. + +‘She’s a big girl, I suppose, by this--fourteen or fifteen?’ + +‘Over nineteen, papa.’ + +‘So she is, I was forgetting. That scoundrel, her father, might come after +her; he’d have the right if he wished to enforce it, and what a scandal +he’d bring upon us all!’ + +‘But would he care to do it? Is he not more likely to be glad to be +disembarrassed of her charge?’ + +‘Not if he was going to sell her--not if he could convert her into money.’ + +‘He has never been in England; he may not know how far the law would give +him any power over her.’ + +‘Don’t trust that, Kate; a blackguard always can find out how much is in +his favour everywhere. If he doesn’t know it now, he’d know it the day +after he landed.’ He paused an instant, and then said: ‘There will be the +devil to pay with old Peter Gill, for he’ll want all the cash I can scrape +together for Loughrea fair. He counts on having eighty sheep down there at +the long crofts, and a cow or two besides. That’s money’s worth, girl!’ + +Another silence followed, after which he said, ‘And I think worse of the +Greek scoundrel than all the cost.’ + +‘Somehow, I have no fear that he’ll come here?’ + +‘You’ll have to talk over Peter, Kitty’--he always said Kitty when he meant +to coax her. ‘He’ll mind you, and at all events, you don’t care about his +grumbling. Tell him it’s a sudden call on me for railroad shares, or’--and +here he winked knowingly--‘say, it’s going to Rome the money is, and for +the Pope!’ + +‘That’s an excellent thought, papa,’ said she, laughing; ‘I’ll certainly +tell him the money is going to Rome, and you’ll write soon--you see with +what anxiety she expects your answer.’ + +‘I’ll write to-night when the house is quiet, and there’s no racket +nor disturbance about me.’ Now though Kearney said this with a perfect +conviction of its truth and reasonableness, it would have been very +difficult for any one to say in what that racket he spoke of consisted, or +wherein the quietude of even midnight was greater than that which prevailed +there at noonday. Never, perhaps, were lives more completely still or +monotonous than theirs. People who derive no interests from the outer +world, who know nothing of what goes on in life, gradually subside into a +condition in which reflection takes the place of conversation, and lose all +zest and all necessity for that small talk which serves, like the changes +of a game, to while away time, and by the aid of which, if we do no more, +we often delude the cares and worries of existence. + +A kind good-morning when they met, and a few words during the day--some +mention of this or that event of the farm or the labourers, and rare enough +too--some little incident that happened amongst the tenants, made all the +materials of their intercourse, and filled up lives which either would very +freely have owned were far from unhappy. + +Dick, indeed, when he came home and was weather-bound for a day, did lament +his sad destiny, and mutter half-intelligible nonsense of what he would +not rather do than descend to such a melancholy existence; but in all +his complainings he never made Kate discontented with her lot, or desire +anything beyond it. + +‘It’s all very well,’ he would say, ‘till you know something better.’ + +‘But I want no better.’ + +‘Do you mean you’d like to go through life in this fashion?’ + +‘I can’t pretend to say what I may feel as I grow older; but if I could be +sure to be as I am now, I could ask nothing better.’ + +‘I must say, it’s a very inglorious life?’ said he, with a sneer. + +‘So it is, but how many, may I ask, are there who lead glorious lives? Is +there any glory in dining out, in dancing, visiting, and picnicking? Where +is the great glory of the billiard-table, or the croquet-lawn? No, no, my +dear Dick, the only glory that falls to the share of such humble folks as +we are, is to have something to do, and to do it.’ + +Such were the sort of passages which would now and then occur between them, +little contests, be it said, in which she usually came off the conqueror. + +If she were to have a wish gratified, it would have been a few more +books--something besides those odd volumes of Scott’s novels, _Zeluco_ by +Doctor Moore, and _Florence McCarthy_, which comprised her whole library, +and which she read over and over unceasingly. She was now in her usual +place--a deep window-seat--intently occupied with Amy Robsart’s sorrows, +when her father came to read what he had written in answer to Nina. If it +was very brief it was very affectionate. It told her in a few words that +she had no need to recall the ties of their relationship; that his heart +never ceased to remind him of them; that his home was a very dull one, but +that her cousin Kate would try and make it a happy one to her; entreated +her to confer with the banker, to whom he remitted forty pounds, in what +way she could make the journey, since he was too broken in health himself +to go and fetch her. ‘It is a bold step I am counselling you to take. It is +no light thing to quit a father’s home, and I have my misgivings how far I +am a wise adviser in recommending it. There is, however, a present peril, +and I must try, if I can, to save you from it. Perhaps, in my old-world +notions, I attach to the thought of the stage ideas that you would +only smile at; but none of our race, so far as I know, fell to that +condition--nor must you while I have a roof to shelter you. If you would +write and say about what time I might expect you, I will try to meet you +on your landing in England at Dover. Kate sends you her warmest love, and +longs to see you.’ + +This was the whole of it. But a brief line to the bankers said that any +expense they judged needful to her safe convoy across Europe would be +gratefully repaid by him. + +‘Is it all right, dear? Have I forgotten anything?’ asked he, as Kate read +it over. + +‘It’s everything, papa--everything. And I _do_ long to see her.’ + +‘I hope she’s like Matty--if she’s only like her poor mother, it will make +my heart young again to look at her.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE CHUMS + + +In that old square of Trinity College, Dublin, one side of which fronts +the Park, and in chambers on the ground-floor, an oak door bore the +names of ‘Kearney and Atlee.’ Kearney was the son of Lord Kilgobbin; +Atlee, his chum, the son of a Presbyterian minister in the north of +Ireland, had been four years in the university, but was still in his +freshman period, not from any deficiency of scholarlike ability to push +on, but that, as the poet of the _Seasons_ lay in bed, because he ‘had +no motive for rising,’ Joe Atlee felt that there need be no urgency +about taking a degree which, when he had got, he should be sorely +puzzled to know what to do with. He was a clever, ready-witted, but +capricious fellow, fond of pleasure, and self-indulgent to a degree that +ill suited his very smallest of fortunes, for his father was a poor man, +with a large family, and had already embarrassed himself heavily by the +cost of sending his eldest son to the university. Joe’s changes of +purpose--for he had in succession abandoned law for medicine, medicine +for theology, and theology for civil engineering, and, finally, gave +them all up--had so outraged his father that he declared he would not +continue any allowance to him beyond the present year; to which Joe +replied by the same post, sending back the twenty pounds inclosed him, +and saying: ‘The only amendment I would make to your motion is--as to +the date--let it begin from to-day. I suppose I shall have to swim +without corks some time. I may as well try now as later on.’ + +[Illustration: ‘What lark have you been on, Master Joe?’] + +The first experience of his ‘swimming without corks’ was to lie in bed two +days and smoke; the next was to rise at daybreak and set out on a long +walk into the country, from which he returned late at night, wearied and +exhausted, having eaten but once during the day. + +Kearney, dressed for an evening party, resplendent with jewellery, essenced +and curled, was about to issue forth when Atlee, dusty and wayworn, entered +and threw himself into a chair. + +‘What lark have you been on, Master Joe?’ he said. ‘I have not seen you for +three days, if not four!’ + +‘No; I’ve begun to train,’ said he gravely. ‘I want to see how long a +fellow could hold on to life on three pipes of Cavendish per diem. I take +it that the absorbents won’t be more cruel than a man’s creditors, and will +not issue a distraint where there are no assets, so that probably by the +time I shall have brought myself down to, let us say, seven stone weight, I +shall have reached the goal.’ + +This speech he delivered slowly and calmly, as though enunciating a very +grave proposition. + +‘What new nonsense is this? Don’t you think health worth something?’ + +‘Next to life, unquestionably; but one condition of health is to be alive, +and I don’t see how to manage that. Look here, Dick, I have just had a +quarrel with my father; he is an excellent man and an impressive preacher, +but he fails in the imaginative qualities. Nature has been a niggard to him +in inventiveness. He is the minister of a little parish called Aghadoe, in +the North, where they give him two hundred and ten pounds per annum. There +are eight in family, and he actually does not see his way to allow me one +hundred and fifty out of it. That’s the way they neglect arithmetic in our +modern schools!’ + +‘Has he reduced your allowance?’ + +‘He has done more, he has extinguished it.’ + +‘Have you provoked him to this?’ + +‘I have provoked him to it.’ + +‘But is it not possible to accommodate matters? It should not be very +difficult, surely, to show him that once you are launched in life--’ + +‘And when will that be, Dick?’ broke in the other. ‘I have been on the +stocks these four years, and that launching process you talk of looks just +as remote as ever. No, no; let us be fair; he has all the right on his +side, all the wrong is on mine. Indeed, so far as conscience goes, I have +always felt it so, but one’s conscience, like one’s boots, gets so pliant +from wear, that it ceases to give pain. Still, on my honour, I never +hip-hurraed to a toast that I did not feel: there goes broken boots to one +of the boys, or, worse again, the cost of a cotton dress for one of the +sisters. Whenever I took a sherry-cobbler I thought of suicide after it. +Self-indulgence and self-reproach got linked in my nature so inseparably, +it was hopeless to summon one without the other, till at last I grew to +believe it was very heroic in me to deny myself nothing, seeing how sorry I +should be for it afterwards. But come, old fellow, don’t lose your evening; +we’ll have time enough to talk over these things--where are you going?’ + +‘To the Clancys’.’ + +‘To be sure; what a fellow I am to forget it was Letty’s birthday, and I +was to have brought her a bouquet! Dick, be a good fellow and tell her +some lie or other--that I was sick in bed, or away to see an aunt or a +grandmother, and that I had a splendid bouquet for her, but wouldn’t let +it reach her through other hands than my own, but to-morrow--to-morrow she +shall have it.’ + +‘You know well enough you don’t mean anything of the sort.’ + +‘On my honour, I’ll keep my promise. I’ve an old silver watch yonder--I +think it knows the way to the pawn-office by itself. There, now be off, for +if I begin to think of all the fun you’re going to, I shall just dress and +join you.’ + +‘No, I’d not do that,’ said Dick gravely, ‘nor shall I stay long myself. +Don’t go to bed, Joe, till I come back. Good-bye.’ + +‘Say all good and sweet things to Letty for me. Tell her--’ Kearney did not +wait for his message, but hurried down the steps and drove off. + +Joe sat down at the fire, filled his pipe, looked steadily at it, and then +laid it on the mantel-piece. ‘No, no, Master Joe. You must be thrifty now. +You have smoked twice since--I can afford to say--since dinner-time, for +you haven’t dined. It is strange, now that the sense of hunger has passed +off, what a sense of excitement I feel. Two hours back I could have been a +cannibal. I believe I could have eaten the vice-provost--though I should +have liked him strongly devilled--and now I feel stimulated. Hence it is, +perhaps, that so little wine is enough to affect the heads of starving +people--almost maddening them. Perhaps Dick suspected something of this, +for he did not care that I should go along with him. Who knows but he may +have thought the sight of a supper might have overcome me. If he knew but +all. I’m much more disposed to make love to Letty Clancy than to go in for +galantine and champagne. By the way, I wonder if the physiologists are +aware of that? It is, perhaps, what constitutes the ethereal condition of +love. I’ll write an essay on that, or, better still, I’ll write a review of +an imaginary French essay. Frenchmen are permitted to say so much more than +we are, and I’ll be rebukeful on the score of his excesses. The bitter way +in which a Frenchman always visits his various incapacities--whether it be +to know something, or to do something, or to be something--on the species +he belongs to; the way in which he suggests that, had he been consulted on +the matter, humanity had been a much more perfect organisation, and able +to sustain a great deal more of wickedness without disturbance, is great +fun. I’ll certainly invent a Frenchman, and make him an author, and then +demolish him. What if I make him die of hunger, having tasted nothing for +eight days but the proof-sheets of his great work--the work I am then +reviewing? For four days--but stay--if I starve him to death, I cannot tear +his work to pieces. No; he shall be alive, living in splendour and honour, +a frequenter of the Tuileries, a favoured guest at Compiègne.’ + +Without perceiving it, he had now taken his pipe, lighted it, and was +smoking away. ‘By the way, how those same Imperialists have played the +game!--the two or three middle-aged men that Kinglake says, “put their +heads together to plan for a livelihood.” I wish they had taken me into the +partnership. It’s the sort of thing I’d have liked well; ay, and I could +have done it, too! I wonder,’ said he aloud--‘I wonder if I were an emperor +should I marry Letty Clancy? I suspect not. Letty would have been flippant +as an empress, and her cousins would have made atrocious princes of the +imperial family, though, for the matter of that--Hullo! Here have I been +smoking without knowing it! Can any one tell us whether the sins we do +inadvertently count as sins, or do we square them off by our inadvertent +good actions? I trust I shall not be called on to catalogue mine. There, +my courage is out!’ As he said this he emptied the ashes of his pipe, and +gazed sorrowfully at the empty bowl. + +‘Now, if I were the son of some good house, with a high-sounding name, and +well-to-do relations, I’d soon bring them to terms if they dared to cast me +off. I’d turn milk or muffin man, and serve the street they lived in. I’d +sweep the crossing in front of their windows, or I’d commit a small theft, +and call on my high connections for a character--but being who and what I +am, I might do any or all o these, and shock nobody. + +‘Next to take stock of my effects. Let me see what my assets will bring +when reduced to cash, for this time it shall be a sale.’ And he turned to a +table where paper and pens were lying, and proceeded to write. ‘Personal, +sworn under, let us say, ten thousand pounds. Literature first. To divers +worn copies of _Virgil_, _Tacitus_, _Juvenal_, and _Ovid_, Cæsar’s +_Commentaries_, and _Catullus_; to ditto ditto of _Homer_, _Lucian_, +_Aristophanes_, _Balzac_, _Anacreon_, Bacon’s _Essays_, and Moore’s +_Melodies_; to Dwight’s _Theology_--uncut copy, Heine’s _Poems_--very much +thumbed, _Saint Simon_--very ragged, two volumes of _Les Causes Célèbres_, +Tone’s _Memoirs_, and Beranger’s _Songs_; to Cuvier’s _Comparative +Anatomy_, Shroeder on _Shakespeare_, Newman’s _Apology_, Archbold’s +_Criminal Law_ and _Songs of the Nation_; to Colenso, East’s _Cases for +the Crown_, Carte’s _Ormonde_, and _Pickwick_. But why go on? Let us call +it the small but well-selected library of a distressed gentleman, whose +cultivated mind is reflected in the marginal notes with which these volumes +abound. Will any gentleman say, “£10 for the lot”? Why the very criticisms +are worth--I mean to a man of literary tastes--five times the amount. No +offer at £10? Who is it that says “five”? I trust my ears have deceived me. +You repeat the insulting proposal? Well, sir, on your own head be it! Mr. +Atlee’s library--or the Atlee collection is better--was yesterday disposed +of to a well-known collector of rare books, and, if we are rightly +informed, for a mere fraction of its value. Never mind, sir, I bear you no +ill-will! I was irritable, and to show you my honest animus in the matter, +I beg to present you in addition with this, a handsomely-bound and gilt +copy of a sermon by the Reverend Isaac Atlee, on the opening of the new +meeting-house in Coleraine--a discourse that cost my father some sleepless +nights, though I have heard the effect on the congregation was dissimilar. + +‘The pictures are few. Cardinal Cullen, I believe, is Kearney’s; at all +events, he is the worse for being made a target for pistol firing, and the +archiepiscopal nose has been sorely damaged. Two views of Killarney in +the weather of the period--that means July, and raining in torrents--and +consequently the scene, for aught discoverable, might be the Gaboon. +Portrait of Joe Atlee, _ætatis_ four years, with a villainous squint, and +something that looks like a plug in the left jaw. A Skye terrier, painted, +it is supposed, by himself; not to recite unframed prints of various +celebrities of the ballet, in accustomed attitudes, with the Reverend Paul +Bloxham blessing some children--though from the gesture and the expression +of the juveniles it might seem cuffing them--on the inauguration of the +Sunday school at Kilmurry Macmacmahon. + +‘Lot three, interesting to anatomical lecturers and others, especially +those engaged in palæontology. The articulated skeleton of an Irish giant, +representing a man who must have stood in his no-stockings eight feet four +inches. This, I may add, will be warranted as authentic, in so far that I +made him myself out of at least eighteen or twenty big specimens, with a +few slight “divergencies” I may call them, such as putting in eight more +dorsal vertebrae than the regulation, and that the right femur is two +inches longer than the left. The inferior maxillary, too, was stolen from a +“Pithacus Satyrus” in the Cork Museum by an old friend, since transported +for Fenianism. These blemishes apart, he is an admirable giant, and fully +as ornamental and useful as the species generally. + +‘As to my wardrobe, it is less costly than curious; an alpaca paletot of a +neutral tint, which I have much affected of late, having indisposed me to +other wear. For dinner and evening duty I usually wear Kearney’s, though +too tight across the chest, and short in the sleeves. These, with a silver +watch which no pawnbroker--and I have tried eight--will ever advance +more on than seven-and-six. I once got the figure up to nine shillings +by supplementing an umbrella, which was Dick’s, and which still remains, +“unclaimed and unredeemed.” + +‘Two o’clock, by all that is supperless! evidently Kearney is enjoying +himself. Ah, youth, youth! I wish I could remember some of the spiteful +things that are said of you--not but on the whole, I take it, you have the +right end of the stick. Is it possible there is nothing to eat in this +inhospitable mansion?’ He arose and opened a sort of cupboard in the wall, +scrutinising it closely with the candle. ‘“Give me but the superfluities of +life,” says Gavarni, “and I’ll not trouble you for its necessaries.” What +would he say, however, to a fellow famishing with hunger in presence of +nothing but pickled mushrooms and Worcester sauce! Oh, here is a crust! +“Bread is the staff of life.” On my oath, I believe so; for this eats +devilish like a walking-stick. + +‘Hullo! back already?’ cried he, as Kearney flung wide the door and +entered. ‘I suppose you hurried away back to join me at supper.’ + +‘Thanks; but I have supped already, and at a more tempting banquet than +this I see before you.’ + +‘Was it pleasant? was it jolly? Were the girls looking lovely? Was the +champagne-cup well iced? Was everybody charming? Tell me all about it. Let +me have second-hand pleasure, since I can’t afford the new article.’ + +‘It was pretty much like every other small ball here, where the garrison +get all the prettiest girls for partners, and take the mammas down to +supper after.’ + +‘Cunning dogs, who secure flirtation above stairs and food below! And what +is stirring in the world? What are the gaieties in prospect? Are any of my +old flames about to get married?’ + +‘I didn’t know you had any.’ + +‘Have I not! I believe half the parish of St. Peter’s might proceed against +me for breach of promise; and if the law allowed me as many wives as +Brigham Young, I’d be still disappointing a large and interesting section +of society in the suburbs.’ + +‘They have made a seizure on the office of the _Pike_, carried off the +press and the whole issue, and are in eager pursuit after Madden, the +editor.’ + +‘What for? What is it all about?’ + +‘A new ballad he has published; but which, for the matter of that, they +were singing at every corner as I came along.’ + +‘Was it good? Did you buy a copy?’ + +‘Buy a copy? I should think not.’ + +‘Couldn’t your patriotism stand the test of a penny?’ + +‘It might if I wanted the production, which I certainly did not; besides, +there is a run upon this, and they were selling it at sixpence.’ + +‘Hurrah! There’s hope for Ireland after all! Shall I sing it for you, old +fellow? Not that you deserve it. English corruption has damped the little +Irish ardour that old rebellion once kindled in your heart; and if you +could get rid of your brogue, you’re ready to be loyal. You shall hear it, +however, all the same.’ And taking up a very damaged-looking guitar, he +struck a few bold chords, and began:-- + + ‘Is there anything more we can fight or can hate for? + The “drop” and the famine have made our ranks thin. + In the name of endurance, then, what do we wait for? + Will nobody give us the word to begin? + + ‘Some brothers have left us in sadness and sorrow, + In despair of the cause they had sworn to win; + They owned they were sick of that cry of “to-morrow”; + Not a man would believe that we meant to begin. + + ‘We’ve been ready for months--is there one can deny it? + Is there any one here thinks rebellion a sin? + We counted the cost--and we did not decry it, + And we asked for no more than the word to begin? + + ‘At Vinegar Hill, when our fathers were fighters, + With numbers against them, they cared not a pin; + They needed no orders from newspaper writers, + To tell them the day it was time to begin. + + ‘To sit here in sadness and silence to bear it, + Is harder to face than the battle’s loud din; + ‘Tis the shame that will kill me--I vow it, I swear it? + Now or never’s the time, if we mean to begin.’ + +There was a wild rapture in the way he struck the last chords, that, if it +did not evince ecstasy, seemed to counterfeit enthusiasm. + +‘Very poor doggerel, with all your bravura,’ said Kearney sneeringly. + +‘What would you have? I only got three-and-six for it.’ + +‘You! Is that thing yours?’ + +‘Yes, sir; that thing is mine. And the Castle people think somewhat more +gravely about it than you do.’ + +‘At which you are pleased, doubtless?’ + +‘Not pleased, but proud, Master Dick, let me tell you. It’s a very +stimulating reflection to the man who dines on an onion, that he can spoil +the digestion of another fellow who has been eating turtle.’ + +‘But you may have to go to prison for this.’ + +‘Not if you don’t peach on me, for you are the only one who knows the +authorship. You see, Dick, these things are done cautiously. They are +dropped into a letter-box with an initial letter, and a clerk hands the +payment to some of those itinerant hags that sing the melody, and who +can be trusted with the secret as implicitly as the briber at a borough +election.’ + +‘I wish you had a better livelihood, Joe.’ + +‘So do I, or that my present one paid better. The fact is, Dick, patriotism +never was worth much as a career till one got to the top of the profession. +But if you mean to sleep at all, old fellow, “it’s time to begin,”’ and he +chanted out the last words in a clear and ringing tone, as he banged the +door behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +AT ‘TRINITY’ + + +It was while the two young men were seated at breakfast that the post +arrived, bringing a number of country newspapers, for which, in one shape +or other, Joe Atlee wrote something. Indeed, he was an ‘own correspondent,’ +dating from London, or Paris, or occasionally from Rome, with an easy +freshness and a local colour that vouched for authenticity. These journals +were of a very political tint, from emerald green to the deepest orange; +and, indeed, between two of them--the _Tipperary Pike_ and the _Boyne +Water_, hailing from Carrickfergus--there was a controversy of such +violence and intemperance of language, that it was a curiosity to see the +two papers on the same table: the fact being capable of explanation, that +they were both written by Joe Atlee--a secret, however, that he had not +confided even to his friend Kearney. + +‘Will that fellow that signs himself Terry O’Toole in the _Pike_ stand +this?’ cried Kearney, reading aloud from the _Boyne Water_:-- + +‘“We know the man who corresponds with you under the signature of Terry +O’Toole, and it is but one of the aliases under which he has lived since +he came out of the Richmond Bridewell, filcher, forger, and false witness. +There is yet one thing he has never tried, which is to behave with a little +courage. If he should, however, be able to persuade himself, by the aid +of his accustomed stimulants, to accept the responsibility of what he has +written, we bind ourselves to pay his expenses to any part of France or +Belgium, where he will meet us, and we shall also bind ourselves to give +him what his life little entitles him to, a Christian burial afterwards. + +‘“No SURRENDER.”’ + +‘I am just reading the answer,’ said Joe. ‘It is very brief: here it is:-- + +“‘If ‘No Surrender’--who has been a newsvender in your establishment since +you yourself rose from that employ to the editor’s chair--will call at this +office any morning after distributing his eight copies of your daily issue, +we promise to give him such a kicking as he has never experienced during +his literary career. TERRY O’TOOLE.’” + +‘And these are the amenities of journalism,’ cried Kearney. + +‘For the matter of that, you might exclaim at the quack doctor of a fair, +and ask, Is this the dignity of medicine?’ said Joe. ‘There’s a head and a +tail to every walk in life: even the law has a Chief-Justice at one end and +a Jack Ketch at the other.’ + +‘Well, I sincerely wish that those blackguards would first kick and then +shoot each other.’ + +‘They’ll do nothing of the kind! It’s just as likely that they wrote the +whole correspondence at the same table and with the same jug of punch +between them.’ + +‘If so, I don’t envy you your career or your comrades.’ + +‘It’s a lottery with big prizes in the wheel all the same! I could tell you +the names of great swells, Master Dick, who have made very proud places for +themselves in England by what you call “journalism.” In France it is the +one road to eminence. Cannot you imagine, besides, what capital fun it is +to be able to talk to scores of people you were never introduced to? to +tell them an infinity of things on public matters, or now and then about +themselves; and in so many moods as you have tempers, to warn them, scold, +compassionate, correct, console, or abuse them? to tell them not to be +over-confident or bumptious, or purse-proud--’ + +‘And who are _you_, may I ask, who presume to do all this?’ + +‘That’s as it may be. We are occasionally Guizot, Thiers, Prévot Paradol, +Lytton, Disraeli, or Joe Atlee.’ + +‘Modest, at all events.’ + +‘And why not say what I feel--not what I have done, but what is in me to +do? Can’t you understand this: it would never occur to me that I could +vault over a five-bar gate if I had been born a cripple? but the conscious +possession of a little pliant muscularity might well tempt me to try it.’ + +‘And get a cropper for your pains.’ + +‘Be it so. Better the cropper than pass one’s life looking over the top +rail and envying the fellow that had cleared it; but what’s this? here’s a +letter here: it got in amongst the newspapers. I say, Dick, do you stand +this sort of thing?’ said he, as he read the address. + +‘Stand what sort of thing?’ asked the other, half angrily. + +‘Why, to be addressed in this fashion? The Honourable Richard Kearney, +Trinity College, Dublin.’ + +‘It is from my sister,’ said Kearney, as he took the letter impatiently +from his hand; ‘and I can only tell you, if she had addressed me otherwise, +I’d not have opened her letter.’ + +‘But come now, old fellow, don’t lose temper about it. You have a right to +this designation, or you have not--’ + +‘I’ll spare all your eloquence by simply saying, that I do not look on +you as a Committee of Privilege, and I’m not going to plead before you. +Besides,’ added he, ‘it’s only a few minutes ago you asked me to credit you +for something you have not shown yourself to be, but that you intended and +felt that the world should see you were, one of these days.’ + +‘So, then, you really mean to bring your claim before the Lords?’ + +Kearney, if he heard, did not heed this question, but went on to read his +letter. ‘Here’s a surprise!’ cried he. ‘I was telling you, the other day, +about a certain cousin of mine we were expecting from Italy.’ + +‘The daughter of that swindler, the mock prince?’ + +‘The man’s character I’ll not stand up for, but his rank and title are +alike indisputable,’ said Kearney haughtily. + +‘With all my heart. We have soared into a high atmosphere all this day, and +I hope my respiration will get used to it in time. Read away!’ + +It was not till after a considerable interval that Kearney had recovered +composure enough to read, and when he did so it was with a brow furrowed +with irritation:-- + +‘KILGOBBIN. + +‘My dear Dick,--We had just sat down to tea last night, and papa was +fidgeting about the length of time his letter to Italy had remained +unacknowledged, when a sharp ring at the house-door startled us. We had +been hearing a good deal of searches for arms lately in the neighbourhood, +and we looked very blankly at each other for a moment. We neither of us +said so, but I feel sure our thoughts were on the same track, and that we +believed Captain Rock, or the head-centre, or whatever be his latest title, +had honoured us with a call. Old Mathew seemed of the same mind too, for +he appeared at the door with that venerable blunderbuss we have so often +played with, and which, if it had any evil thoughts in its head, I must +have been tried for a murder years ago, for I know it was loaded since I +was a child, but that the lock has for the same space of time not been +on speaking terms with the barrel. While, then, thus confirmed in our +suspicions of mischief by Mat’s warlike aspect, we both rose from the +table, the door opened, and a young girl rushed in, and fell--actually +threw herself into papa’s arms. It was Nina herself, who had come all the +way from Rome alone, that is, without any one she knew, and made her way to +us here, without any other guidance than her own good wits. + +‘I cannot tell you how delighted we are with her. She is the loveliest +girl I ever saw, so gentle, so nicely mannered, so soft-voiced, and so +winning--I feel myself like a peasant beside her. The least thing she +says--her laugh, her slightest gesture, the way she moves about the room, +with a sort of swinging grace, which I thought affected at first, but now I +see is quite natural--is only another of her many fascinations. + +‘I fancied for a while that her features were almost too beautifully +regular for expression, and that even when she smiled and showed her lovely +teeth, her eyes got no increase of brightness; but, as I talked more with +her, and learned to know her better, I saw that those eyes have meanings of +softness and depths in them of wonderful power, and, stranger than all, an +archness that shows she has plenty of humour. + +‘Her English is charming, but slightly foreign; and when she is at a loss +for a word, there is just that much of difficulty in finding it which gives +a heightened expression to her beautifully calm face, and makes it lovely. +You may see how she has fascinated me, for I could go on raving about her +for hours. + +‘She is very anxious to see you, and asks me over and over again, Shall you +like her? I was almost candid enough to say “too well.” I mean that you +could not help falling in love with her, my dear Dick, and she is so much +above us in style, in habit, and doubtless in ambition, that such would +be only madness. When she saw your photo she smiled, and said, “Is he not +superb?--I mean proud?” I owned you were, and then she added, “I hope he +will like me.” I am not perhaps discreet if I tell you she does not like +the portrait of your chum, Atlee. She says “he is very good-looking, very +clever, very witty, but isn’t he false?” and this she says over and over +again. I told her I believed not; that I had never seen him myself, but +that I knew that you liked him greatly, and felt to him as a brother. She +only shook her head, and said, “_Badate bene a quel che dico_. I mean,” + said she, “_I’m right,_ but he’s very nice for all that!” If I tell you +this, Dick, it is just because I cannot get it out of my head, and I will +keep saying over and over to myself--“If Joe Atlee be what she suspects, +why does she call him very nice for all that?” I said you intended to ask +him down here next vacation, and she gave the drollest little laugh in +the world--and does she not look lovely when she shows those small pearly +teeth? Heaven help you, poor Dick, when you see her! but, if I were you, +I should leave Master Joe behind me, for she smiles as she looks at his +likeness in a way that would certainly make me jealous, if I were only +Joe’s friend, and not himself. + +‘We sat up in Nina’s room till nigh morning, and to-day I have scarcely +seen her, for she wants to be let sleep, after that long and tiresome +journey, and I take the opportunity to write you this very rambling +epistle; for you may feel sure I shall be less of a correspondent now than +when I was without companionship, and I counsel you to be very grateful if +you hear from me soon again. + +‘Papa wants to take Duggan’s farm from him, and Lanty Moore’s meadows, +and throw them into the lawn; but I hope he won’t persist in the plan; +not alone because it is a mere extravagance, but that the county is very +unsettled just now about land-tenure, and the people are hoping all +sorts of things from Parliament, and any interference with them at +this time would be ill taken. Father Cody was here yesterday, and told +me confidentially to prevent papa--not so easy a thing as he thinks, +particularly if he should come to suspect that any intimidation was +intended--and Miss O’Shea unfortunately said something the other day that +papa cannot get out of his head, and keeps on repeating. “So, then, it’s +our turn now,” the fellows say; “the landlords have had five hundred years +of it; it’s time we should come in.” And this he says over and over with a +little laugh, and I wish to my heart Miss Betty had kept it to herself. By +the way, her nephew is to come on leave, and pass two months with her; and +she says she hopes you will be here at the same time, to keep him company; +but I have a notion that another playfellow may prove a dangerous rival to +the Hungarian hussar; perhaps, however, you would hand over Joe Atlee to +him. + +‘Be sure you bring us some new books, and some music, when you come, or +send them, if you don’t come soon. I am terrified lest Nina should think +the place dreary, and I don’t know how she is to live here if she does not +take to the vulgar drudgeries that fill my own life. When she abruptly +asked me, “What do you do here?” I was sorely puzzled to know what to +answer, and then she added quickly: “For my own part, it’s no great matter, +for I can always dream. I’m a great dreamer!” Is it not lucky for her, +Dick? She’ll have ample time for it here. + +‘I suppose I never wrote so long a letter as this in my life; indeed I +never had a subject that had such a fascination for myself. Do you know, +Dick, that though I promised to let her sleep on till nigh dinner-time, I +find myself every now and then creeping up gently to her door, and only +bethink me of my pledge when my hand is on the lock; and sometimes I even +doubt if she is here at all, and I am half crazy at fearing it may be all a +dream. + +‘One word for yourself, and I have done. Why have you not told us of the +examination? It was to have been on the 10th, and we are now at the 18th. +Have you got--whatever it was? the prize, or the medal, or--the reward, in +short, we were so anxiously hoping for? It would be such cheery tidings +for poor papa, who is very low and depressed of late, and I see him always +reading with such attention any notice of the college he can find in the +newspaper. My dear, dear brother, how you would work hard if you only knew +what a prize success in life might give you. Little as I have seen of her, +I could guess that she will never bestow a thought on an undistinguished +man. Come down for one day, and tell me if ever, in all your ambition, you +had such a goal before you as this? + +‘The hoggets I sent in to Tullamore fair were not sold; but I believe Miss +Betty’s steward will take them; and, if so, I will send you ten pounds next +week. I never knew the market so dull, and the English dealers now are only +eager about horses, and I’m sure I couldn’t part with any if I had them. +With all my love, I am your ever affectionate sister, + +‘KATE KEARNEY.’ + +‘I have just stepped into Nina’s room and stolen the photo I send you. I +suppose the dress must have been for some fancy ball; but she is a hundred +million times more beautiful. I don’t know if I shall have the courage to +confess my theft to her.’ + +‘Is that your sister, Dick?’ said Joe Atlee, as young Kearney withdrew the +carte from the letter, and placed it face downwards on the breakfast-table. + +‘No,’ replied he bluntly, and continued to read on; while the other, in the +spirit of that freedom that prevailed between them, stretched out his hand +and took up the portrait. + +‘Who is this?’ cried he, after some seconds. ‘She’s an actress. That’s +something like what the girl wears in _Don Cæsar de Bazan_. To be sure, she +is Maritana. She’s stunningly beautiful. Do you mean to tell me, Dick, that +there’s a girl like that on your provincial boards?’ + +‘I never said so, any more than I gave you leave to examine the contents of +my letters,’ said the other haughtily. + +‘Egad, I’d have smashed the seal any day to have caught a glimpse of such +a face as that. I’ll wager her eyes are blue grey. Will you have a bet on +it?’ + +‘When you have done with your raptures, I’ll thank you to hand the likeness +to me.’ + +‘But who is she? what is she? where is she? Is she the Greek?’ + +‘When a fellow can help himself so coolly to his information as you do, I +scarcely think he deserves much aid from others; but, I may tell you, she +is not Maritana, nor a provincial actress, nor any actress at all, but a +young lady of good blood and birth, and my own first cousin.’ + +‘On my oath, it’s the best thing I ever knew of you.’ + +Kearney laughed out at this moment at something in the letter, and did not +hear the other’s remark. + +‘It seems, Master Joe, that the young lady did not reciprocate the +rapturous delight you feel, at sight of _your_ picture. My sister +says--I’ll read you her very words--“she does not like the portrait of your +friend Atlee; he may be clever and amusing, she says, but he is undeniably +false.” Mind that--undeniably false.’ + +‘That’s all the fault of the artist. The stupid dog would place me in so +strong a light that I kept blinking.’ + +‘No, no. She reads you like a book,’ said the other. + +‘I wish to Heaven she would, if she would hold me like one.’ + +‘And the nice way she qualifies your cleverness, by calling you amusing.’ + +‘She could certainly spare that reproach to her cousin Dick,’ said he, +laughing; ‘but no more of this sparring. When do you mean to take me down +to the country with you? The term will be up on Tuesday.’ + +‘That will demand a little consideration now. In the fall of the year, +perhaps. When the sun is less powerful the light will be more favourable to +your features.’ + +‘My poor Dick, I cram you with good advice every day; but one counsel I +never cease repeating, “Never try to be witty.” A dull fellow only cuts his +finger with a joke; he never catches it by the handle. Hand me over that +letter of your sister’s; I like the way she writes. All that about the pigs +and the poultry is as good as the _Farmer’s Chronicle_.’ + +The other made no other reply than by coolly folding up the letter and +placing it in his pocket; and then, after a pause, he said-- + +‘I shall tell Miss Kearney the favourable impression her epistolary powers +have produced on my very clever and accomplished chum, Mr. Atlee.’ + +‘Do so; and say, if she’d take me for a correspondent instead of you, she’d +be “exchanging with a difference.” On my oath,’ said he seriously, ‘I +believe a most finished education might be effected in letter-writing. I’d +engage to take a clever girl through a whole course of Latin and Greek, +and a fair share of mathematics and logic, in a series of letters, and her +replies would be the fairest test of her acquirement.’ + +‘Shall I propose this to my sister?’ + +‘Do so, or to your cousin. I suspect Maritana would be an apter pupil.’ + +‘The bell has stopped. We shall be late in the hall,’ said Kearney, +throwing on his gown hurriedly and hastening away; while Atlee, taking some +proof-sheets from the chimney-piece, proceeded to correct them, a slight +flicker of a smile still lingering over his dark but handsome face. + +Though such little jarring passages as those we have recorded were nothing +uncommon between these two young men, they were very good friends on the +whole, the very dissimilarity that provoked their squabbles saving them +from any more serious rivalry. In reality, no two people could be less +alike: Kearney being a slow, plodding, self-satisfied, dull man, of +very ordinary faculties; while the other was an indolent, discursive, +sharp-witted fellow, mastering whatever he addressed himself to with ease, +but so enamoured of novelty that he rarely went beyond a smattering of +anything. He carried away college honours apparently at will, and might, +many thought, have won a fellowship with little effort; but his passion +was for change. Whatever bore upon the rogueries of letters, the frauds of +literature, had an irresistible charm for him; and he once declared that he +would almost rather have been Ireland than Shakespeare; and then it was his +delight to write Greek versions of a poem that might attach the mark of +plagiarism to Tennyson, or show, by a Scandinavian lyric, how the laureate +had been poaching from the Northmen. Now it was a mock pastoral in most +ecclesiastical Latin that set the whole Church in arms; now a mock despatch +of Baron Beust that actually deceived the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and +caused quite a panic at the Tuileries. He had established such relations +with foreign journals that he could at any moment command insertion for +a paper, now in the _Mémorial Diplomatique_, now in the _Golos_ of St. +Petersburg, or the _Allgemeine Zeitung_; while the comment, written also +by himself, would appear in the _Kreuz Zeitung_ or the _Times_; and the +mystification became such that the shrewdest and keenest heads were +constantly misled, to which side to incline in a controversy where all the +wires were pulled by one hand. Many a discussion on the authenticity of a +document, or the veracity of a conversation, would take place between the +two young men; Kearney not having the vaguest suspicion that the author of +the point in debate was then sitting opposite to him, sometimes seeming to +share the very doubts and difficulties that were then puzzling himself. + +While Atlee knew Kearney in every fold and fibre of his nature, Kearney had +not the very vaguest conception of him with whom he sat every day at meals, +and communed through almost every hour of his life. He treated Joe, indeed, +with a sort of proud protection, thinking him a sharp, clever, idle fellow, +who would never come to anything higher than a bookseller’s hack or an +‘occasional correspondent.’ He liked his ready speech, and his fun, but he +would not consent to see in either evidences of anything beyond the amusing +qualities of a very light intelligence. On the whole, he looked down upon +him, as very properly the slow and ponderous people in life do look down +upon their more volatile brethren, and vote them triflers. Long may it be +so! There would be more sunstrokes in the world, if it were not that the +shadows of dull men made such nice cool places for the others to walk in! + + + + +CHAPTER V + +HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE + + +The life of that quaint old country-house was something very strange and +odd to Nina Kostalergi. It was not merely its quiet monotony, its unbroken +sameness of topics as of events, and its small economies, always appearing +on the surface; but that a young girl like Kate, full of life and spirits, +gay, handsome, and high-hearted--that she should go her mill-round of these +tiresome daily cares, listening to the same complaints, remedying the same +evils, meeting the same difficulties, and yet never seem to resent an +existence so ignoble and unworthy! This was, indeed, scarcely credible. + +As for Nina herself--like one saved from shipwreck--her first sense of +security was full of gratitude. It was only as this wore off that she began +to see the desolation of the rock on which she had clambered. Not that +her former life had been rose-tinted. It had been of all things the most +harassing and wearing--a life of dreary necessitude--a perpetual struggle +with debt. Except play, her father had scarcely any resource for a +livelihood. He affected, indeed, to give lessons in Italian and French to +young Englishmen; but he was so fastidious as to the rank and condition of +his pupils, so unaccommodating as to his hours and so unpunctual, that it +was evident that the whole was a mere pretence of industry, to avoid the +reproach of being utterly dependent on the play-table; besides this, in +his capacity as a teacher he obtained access to houses and acceptance +with families where he would have found entrance impossible under other +circumstances. + +He was polished and good-looking. All his habits bespoke familiarity with +society; and he knew to the nicest fraction the amount of intimacy he might +venture on with any one. Some did not like him--the man of a questionable +position, the reduced gentleman, has terrible prejudices to combat. He +must always be suspected--Heaven knows of what, but of some covert design +against the religion or the pocket, or the influence of those who admit +him. Some thought him dangerous because his manners were insinuating, and +his address studiously directed to captivate. Others did not fancy his +passion for mixing in the world, and frequenting society to which his +straitened means appeared to deny him rightful access; but when he had +succeeded in introducing his daughter to the world, and people began to +say, ‘See how admirably M. Kostalergi has brought up that girl! how nicely +mannered she is, how ladylike, how well bred, what a linguist, what a +musician!’ a complete revulsion took place in public opinion, and many +who had but half trusted, or less than liked him before, became now his +stanchest friends and adherents. Nina had been a great success in society, +and she reaped the full benefit of it. Sufficiently well born to be +admitted, without any special condescension, into good houses, she was in +manner and style the equal of any; and though her dress was ever of the +cheapest and plainest, her fresh toilet was often commented on with praise +by those who did not fully remember what added grace and elegance the +wearer had lent it. + +From the wealthy nobles to whom her musical genius had strongly recommended +her, numerous and sometimes costly presents were sent in acknowledgment of +her charming gifts; and these, as invariably, were converted into money +by her father, who, after a while, gave it to be understood that the +recompense would be always more welcome in that form. + +Nina, however, for a long time knew nothing of this; she saw herself sought +after and flattered in society, selected for peculiar attention wherever +she went, complimented on her acquirements, and made much of to an extent +that not unfrequently excited the envy and jealousy of girls much more +favourably placed by fortune than herself. If her long mornings and +afternoons were passed amidst solitude and poverty, vulgar cares, and +harassing importunities, when night came, she emerged into the blaze of +lighted lustres and gilded salons, to move in an atmosphere of splendour +and sweet sounds, with all that could captivate the senses and exalt +imagination. This twofold life of meanness and magnificence so wrought upon +her nature as to develop almost two individualities. The one hard, stern, +realistic, even to grudgingness; the other gay, buoyant, enthusiastic, and +ardent; and they who only saw her of an evening in all the exultation of +her flattered beauty, followed about by a train of admiring worshippers, +addressed in all that exaggeration of language Italy sanctions, pampered by +caresses, and honoured by homage on every side, little knew by what dreary +torpor of heart and mind that joyous ecstasy they witnessed had been +preceded, nor by what a bound her emotions had sprung from the depths of +brooding melancholy to this paroxysm of delight; nor could the worn-out and +wearied followers of pleasure comprehend the intense enjoyment produced +by sights and sounds which in their case no fancy idealised, no soaring +imagination had lifted to the heaven of bliss. + +Kostalergi seemed for a while to content himself with the secret resources +of his daughter’s successes, but at length he launched out into heavy play +once more, and lost largely. It was in this strait that he bethought him of +negotiating with a theatrical manager for Nina’s appearance on the stage. +These contracts take the precise form of a sale, where the victim, in +consideration of being educated, and maintained, and paid a certain amount, +is bound, legally bound, to devote her services to a master for a given +time. The impresario of the ‘Fenice’ had often heard from travellers of +that wonderful mezzo-soprano voice which was captivating all Rome, where +the beauty and grace of the singer were extolled not less loudly. The great +skill of these astute providers for the world’s pleasure is evidenced in +nothing more remarkably than the instinctive quickness with which they +pounce upon the indications of dramatic genius, and hasten away--half +across the globe if need be--to secure it. Signor Lanari was not slow to +procure a letter of introduction to Kostalergi, and very soon acquainted +him with his object. + +Under the pretence that he was an old friend and former schoolfellow, +Kostalergi asked him to share their humble dinner, and there, in that +meanly-furnished room, and with the accompaniment of a wretched and +jangling instrument, Nina so astonished and charmed him by her performance, +that all the habitual reserve of the cautious bargainer gave way, and he +burst out into exclamations of enthusiastic delight, ending with--‘She is +mine! she is mine! I tell you, since Persiani, there has been nothing like +her!’ + +Nothing remained now but to reveal the plan to herself, and though +certainly neither the Greek nor his guest were deficient in descriptive +power, or failed to paint in glowing colours the gorgeous processions of +triumphs that await stage success, she listened with little pleasure to it +all. She had already walked the boards of what she thought a higher arena. +She had tasted flatteries unalloyed with any sense of decided inferiority; +she had moved amongst dukes and duchesses with a recognised station, and +received their compliments with ease and dignity. Was all this reality of +condition to be exchanged for a mock splendour, and a feigned greatness? +was she to be subjected to the licensed stare and criticism and coarse +comment, it may be, of hundreds she never knew, nor would stoop to know? +and was the adulation she now lived in to be bartered for the vulgar +applause of those who, if dissatisfied, could testify the feeling as openly +and unsparingly? She said very little of what she felt in her heart, but no +sooner alone in her room at night, than she wrote that letter to her uncle +entreating his protection. + +It had been arranged with Lanari that she should make one appearance at a +small provincial theatre so soon as she could master any easy part, and +Kostalergi, having some acquaintance with the manager at Orvieto, hastened +off there to obtain his permission for her appearance. It was of this brief +absence she profited to fly from Rome, the banker conveying her as far as +Civita Vecchia, whence she sailed direct for Marseilles. And now we see +her, as she found herself in the dreary old Irish mansion, sad, silent, and +neglected, wondering whether the past was all a dream, or if the unbroken +calm in which she now lived was not a sleep. + +Conceding her perfect liberty to pass her time how she liked, they exacted +from her no appearance at meals, nor any conformity with the ways of +others, and she never came to breakfast, and only entered the drawing-room +a short time before dinner. Kate, who had counted on her companionship and +society, and hoped to see her sharing with her the little cares and duties +of her life, and taking interest in her pursuits, was sorely grieved at +her estrangement, but continued to believe it would wear off with time +and familiarity with the place. Kearney himself, in secret, resented +the freedom with which she disregarded the discipline of his house, and +grumbled at times over foreign ways and habits that he had no fancy to +see under his roof. When she did appear, however, her winning manners, +her grace, and a certain half-caressing coquetry she could practise to +perfection, so soothed and amused him that he soon forgot any momentary +displeasure, and more than once gave up his evening visit to the club at +Moate to listen to her as she sang, or hear her sketch off some trait of +that Roman society in which British pretension and eccentricity often +figured so amusingly. + +Like a faithful son of the Church, too, he never wearied hearing of the +Pope and of the Cardinals, of glorious ceremonials of the Church, and +festivals observed with all the pomp and state that pealing organs, +and incense, and gorgeous vestments could confer. The contrast between +the sufferance under which his Church existed at home and the honours +and homage rendered to it abroad, were a fruitful stimulant to that +disaffection he felt towards England, and would not unfrequently lead him +away to long diatribes about penal laws and the many disabilities which had +enslaved Ireland, and reduced himself, the descendant of a princely race, +to the condition of a ruined gentleman. + +To Kate these complainings were ever distasteful; she had but one +philosophy, which was ‘to bear up well,’ and when, not that, ‘as well as +you could.’ She saw scores of things around her to be remedied, or, at +least, bettered, by a little exertion, and not one which could be helped +by a vain regret. For the loss of that old barbaric splendour and profuse +luxury which her father mourned over, she had no regrets. She knew that +these wasteful and profligate livers had done nothing for the people either +in act or in example; that they were a selfish, worthless, self-indulgent +race, caring for nothing but their pleasures, and making all their +patriotism consist in a hate towards England. + +These were not Nina’s thoughts. She liked all these stories of a time of +power and might, when the Kearneys were great chieftains, and the old +castle the scene of revelry and feasting. + +She drew prettily, and it amused her to illustrate the curious tales the +old man told her of rays and forays, the wild old life of savage chieftains +and the scarcely less savage conquerors. On one of these--she called it +‘The Return of O’Caharney’--she bestowed such labour and study, that her +uncle would sit for hours watching the work, not knowing if his heart +were more stirred by the claim of his ancestor’s greatness, or by the +marvellous skill that realised the whole scene before him. The head of the +young chieftain was to be filled in when Dick came home. Meanwhile great +persuasions were being used to induce Peter Gill to sit for a kern who had +shared the exile of his masters, but had afterwards betrayed them to the +English; and whether Gill had heard some dropping word of the part he was +meant to fill, or that his own suspicion had taken alarm from certain +directions the young lady gave as to the expression he was to assume, +certain is it nothing could induce him to comply, and go down to posterity +with the immortality of crime. + +The little long-neglected drawing-room where Nina had set up her easel +became now the usual morning lounge of the old man, who loved to sit and +watch her as she worked, and, what amused him even more, listen while she +talked. It seemed to him like a revival of the past to hear of the world, +that gay world of feasting and enjoyment, of which for so many years he +had known nothing; and here he was back in it again, and with grander +company and higher names than he ever remembered. ‘Why was not Kate like +her?’ would he mutter over and over to himself. Kate was a good girl, +fine-tempered and happy-hearted, but she had no accomplishments, none of +those refinements of the other. If he wanted to present her at ‘the Castle’ +one of these days, he did not know if she would have tact enough for the +ordeal; but Nina!--Nina was sure to make an actual sensation, as much by +her grace and her style as by her beauty. Kearney never came into the +room where she was without being struck by the elegance of her demeanour, +the way she would rise to receive him, her step, her carriage, the very +disposal of her drapery as she sat; the modulated tone of her voice, and a +sort of purring satisfaction as she took his hand and heard his praises +of her, spread like a charm over him, so that he never knew how the time +slipped by as he sat beside her. + +Have you ever written to your father since you came here?’ asked he one day +as they talked together. + +‘Yes, sir; and yesterday I got a letter from him. Such a nice letter, +sir--no complainings, no reproaches for my running away; but all sorts of +good wishes for my happiness. He owns he was sorry to have ever thought +of the stage for me; but he says this lawsuit he is engaged in about his +grandfather’s will may last for years, and that he knew I was so certain +of a great success, and that a great success means more than mere money, +he fancied that in my triumph he would reap the recompense for his own +disasters. He is now, however, far happier that I have found a home, a real +home, and says, “Tell my lord I am heartily ashamed of all my rudeness with +regard to him, and would willingly make a pilgrimage to the end of Europe +to ask his pardon”; and say besides that “when I shall be restored to +the fortune and rank of my ancestors”--you know,’ added she, ‘he is a +prince--“my first act will be to throw myself at his feet, and beg to be +forgiven by him.”’ + +‘What is the property? is it land?’ asked he, with the half-suspectfulness +of one not fully assured of what he was listening to. + +‘Yes, sir; the estate is in Delos. I have seen the plan of the grounds and +gardens of the palace, which are princely. Here, on this seal,’ said she, +showing the envelope of her letter, ‘you can see the arms; papa never omits +to use it, though on his card he is written only “of the princes”--a form +observed with us.’ + +‘And what chance has he of getting it all back again?’ + +‘That is more than I can tell you; he himself is sometimes very confident, +and talks as if there could not be a doubt of it.’ + +‘Used your poor mother to believe it?’ asked he, half-tremulously. + +‘I can scarcely say, sir; I can barely remember her; but I have heard papa +blame her for not interesting her high connections in England in his suit; +he often thought that a word to the ambassador at Athens would have almost +decided the case.’ + +‘High connections, indeed!’ burst he forth. ‘By my conscience, they’re +pretty much out at elbows, like himself; and if we were trying to recover +our own right to-morrow, the look-out would be bleak enough!’ + +‘Papa is not easily cast down, sir; he has a very sanguine spirit.’ + +‘Maybe you think it’s what is wanting in my case, eh, Nina? Say it out, +girl; tell me, I’d be the better for a little of your father’s hopefulness, +eh?’ + +‘You could not change to anything I could like better than what you are,’ +said she, taking his hand and kissing it. + +‘Ah, you ‘re a rare one to say coaxing things,’ said he, looking fondly on +her. ‘I believe you’d be the best advocate for either of us if the courts +would let you plead for us.’ + +‘I wish they would, sir,’ said she proudly. + +‘What is that?’ cried he suddenly; ‘sure it’s not putting myself you are in +the picture!’ + +‘Of course I am, sir. Was not the O’Caharney your ancestor? Is it likely +that an old race had not traits of feature and lineament that ages of +descent could not efface? I’d swear that strong brow and frank look must be +an heirloom.’ + +‘’Faith, then, almost the only one!’ said he, sighing. ‘Who’s making that +noise out there?’ said he, rising and going to the window. ‘Oh, it’s Kate +with her dogs. I often tell her she ‘d keep a pair of ponies for less than +those troublesome brutes cost her.’ + +‘They are great company to her, she says, and she lives so much in the open +air.’ + +‘I know she does,’ said he, dropping his head and sitting like one whose +thoughts had taken a brooding, despondent turn. + +‘One more sitting I must have, sir, for the hair. You had it beautifully +yesterday: it fell over on one side with a most perfect light on a large +lock here. Will you give me half an hour to-morrow, say?’ + +[Illustration: ‘One more sitting I must have, sir, for the hair’] + +‘I can’t promise you, my dear. Peter Gill has been urging me to go over to +Loughrea for the fair; and if we go, we ought to be there by Saturday, and +have a quiet look at the stock before the sales begin.’ + +‘And are you going to be long away?’ said she poutingly, as she leaned over +the back of his chair, and suffered her curls to fall half across his face. + +‘I’ll be right glad to be back again,’ said he, pressing her head down till +he could kiss her cheek, ‘right glad!’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE ‘BLUE GOAT’ + + +The ‘Blue Goat’ in the small town of Moate is scarcely a model hostel. +The entrance-hall is too much encumbered by tramps and beggars of various +orders and ages, who not only resort there to take their meals and play at +cards, but to divide the spoils and settle the accounts of their several +‘industries,’ and occasionally to clear off other scores which demand +police interference. On the left is the bar; the right-hand being used as +the office of a land-agent, is besieged by crowds of country-people, in +whom, if language is to be trusted, the grievous wrongs of land-tenure +are painfully portrayed--nothing but complaint, dogged determination, +and resistance being heard on every side. Behind the bar is a long +low-ceilinged apartment, the parlour _par excellence_, only used by +distinguished visitors, and reserved on one especial evening of the +week for the meeting of the ‘Goats,’ as the members of a club call +themselves--the chief, indeed the founder, being our friend Mathew Kearney, +whose title of sovereignty was ‘Buck-Goat,’ and whose portrait, painted +by a native artist and presented by the society, figured over the +mantel-piece. The village Van Dyck would seem to have invested largely in +carmine, and though far from parsimonious of it on the cheeks and the nose +of his sitter, he was driven to work off some of his superabundant stock +on the cravat, and even the hands, which, though amicably crossed in front +of the white-waistcoated stomach, are fearfully suggestive of some recent +deed of blood. The pleasant geniality of the countenance is, however, +reassuring. Nor--except a decided squint, by which the artist had +ambitiously attempted to convey a humoristic drollery to the expression--is +there anything sinister in the portrait. + +An inscription on the frame announces that this picture of their respected +founder was presented, on his fiftieth birthday, ‘To Mathew Kearney, sixth +Viscount Kilgobbin’; various devices of ‘caprine’ significance, heads, +horns, and hoofs, profusely decorating the frame. If the antiquary should +lose himself in researches for the origin of this society, it is as well +to admit at once that the landlord’s sign of the ‘Blue Goat’ gave the +initiative to the name, and that the worthy associates derived nothing +from classical authority, and never assumed to be descendants of fauns or +satyrs, but respectable shopkeepers of Moate, and unexceptional judges of +‘poteen.’ A large jug of this insinuating liquor figured on the table, and +was called ‘Goat’s-milk’; and if these humoristic traits are so carefully +enumerated, it is because they comprised all that was specially droll +or quaint in these social gatherings, the members of which were a very +commonplace set of men, who discussed their little local topics in very +ordinary fashion, slightly elevated, perhaps, in self-esteem, by thinking +how little the outer world knew of their dulness and dreariness. + +As the meetings were usually determined on by the will of the president, +who announced at the hour of separation when they were to reassemble, and +as, since his niece’s arrival, Kearney had almost totally forgotten his old +associates, the club-room ceased to be regarded as the holy of holies, and +was occasionally used by the landlord for the reception of such visitors as +he deemed worthy of peculiar honour. + +It was on a very wet night of that especially rainy month in the Irish +calendar, July, that two travellers sat over a turf fire in this sacred +chamber, various articles of their attire being spread out to dry before +the blaze, the owners of which actually steamed with the effects of the +heat upon their damp habiliments. Some fishing-tackle and two knapsacks, +which lay in a corner, showed they were pedestrians, and their looks, +voice, and manner proclaimed them still more unmistakably to be gentlemen. + +One was a tall, sunburnt, soldierlike man of six or seven-and-thirty, +powerfully built, and with that solidity of gesture and firmness of tread +sometimes so marked with strong men. A mere glance at him showed he was a +cold, silent, somewhat haughty man, not given to hasty resolves or in any +way impulsive, and it is just possible that a long acquaintance with him +would not have revealed a great deal more. He had served in a half-dozen +regiments, and although all declared that Henry Lockwood was an honourable +fellow, a good soldier, and thoroughly ‘safe’--very meaning epithet--there +were no very deep regrets when he ‘exchanged,’ nor was there, perhaps, +one man who felt he had lost his ‘pal’ by his going. He was now in the +Carbineers, and serving as an extra aide-de-camp to the Viceroy. + +Not a little unlike him in most respects was the man who sat opposite +him--a pale, finely-featured, almost effeminate-looking young fellow, +with a small line of dark moustache, and a beard _en Henri Quatre_, to +the effect of which a collar cut in Van Dyck fashion gave an especial +significance. Cecil Walpole was disposed to be pictorial in his get-up, +and the purple dye of his knickerbocker stockings, the slouching plumage +of his Tyrol hat, and the graceful hang of his jacket, had excited envy +in quarters where envy was fame. He too was on the viceregal staff, being +private secretary to his relative the Lord-Lieutenant, during whose absence +in England they had undertaken a ramble to the Westmeath lakes, not very +positive whether their object was to angle for trout or to fish for that +‘knowledge of Ireland’ so popularly sought after in our day, and which +displays itself so profusely in platform speeches and letters to the Times. +Lockwood, not impossibly, would have said it was ‘to do a bit of walking’ +he had come. He had gained eight pounds by that indolent Phoenix-Park life +he was leading, and he had no fancy to go back to Leicestershire too heavy +for his cattle. He was not--few hunting men are--an ardent fisherman; and +as for the vexed question of Irish politics, he did not see why he was +to trouble his head to unravel the puzzles that were too much for Mr. +Gladstone; not to say, that he felt to meddle with these matters was like +interfering with another man’s department. ‘I don’t suspect,’ he would +say, ‘I should fancy John Bright coming down to “stables” and dictating +to me how my Irish horses should be shod, or what was the best bit for +a “borer.”’ He saw, besides, that the game of politics was a game of +compromises: something was deemed admirable now that had been hitherto +almost execrable; and that which was utterly impossible to-day, if done +last year would have been a triumphant success, and consequently he +pronounced the whole thing an ‘imposition and a humbug.’ ‘I can understand +a right and a wrong as well as any man,’ he would say, ‘but I know nothing +about things that are neither or both, according to who’s in or who’s out +of the Cabinet. Give me the command of twelve thousand men, let me divide +them into three flying columns, and if I don’t keep Ireland quiet, draft +me into a West Indian regiment, that’s all.’ And as to the idea of issuing +special commissions, passing new Acts of Parliament, or suspending old +ones, to do what he or any other intelligent soldier could do without any +knavery or any corruption, ‘John Bright might tell us,’ but he couldn’t. +And here it may be well to observe that it was a favourite form of speech +with him to refer to this illustrious public man in this familiar manner; +but always to show what a condition of muddle and confusion must ensue if +we followed the counsels that name emblematised; nor did he know a more +cutting sarcasm to reply to an adversary than when he had said, ‘Oh, John +Bright would agree with you,’ or, ‘I don’t think John Bright could go +further.’ + +Of a very different stamp was his companion. He was a young gentleman whom +we cannot more easily characterise than by calling him, in the cant of the +day, ‘of the period.’ He was essentially the most recent product of the age +we live in. Manly enough in some things, he was fastidious in others to +the very verge of effeminacy; an aristocrat by birth and by predilection, +he made a parade of democratic opinions. He affected a sort of Crichtonism +in the variety of his gifts, and as linguist, musician, artist, poet, and +philosopher, loved to display the scores of things he might be, instead of +that mild, very ordinary young gentleman that he was. He had done a little +of almost everything: he had been in the Guards, in diplomacy, in the House +for a brief session, had made an African tour, written a pleasant little +book about the Nile, with the illustrations by his own hand. Still he was +greater in promise than performance. There was an opera of his partly +finished; a five-act comedy almost ready for the stage; a half-executed +group he had left in some studio in Rome, showed what he might have done +in sculpture. When his distinguished relative the Marquis of Danesbury +recalled him from his post as secretary of legation in Italy, to join him +at his Irish seat of government, the phrase in which he invited him to +return is not without its significance, and we give it as it occurred in +the context: ‘I have no fancy for the post they have assigned me, nor is +it what I had hoped for. They say, however, I shall succeed here. _Nous +verrons_. Meanwhile, I remember your often remarking, “There is a great +game to be played in Ireland.” Come over at once, then, and let me have a +talk with you over it. I shall manage the question of your leave by making +you private secretary for the moment. We shall have many difficulties, but +Ireland will be the worst of them. Do not delay, therefore, for I shall +only go over to be sworn in, etc., and return for the third reading of the +Church Bill, and I should like to see you in Dublin (and leave you there) +when I go.’ + +Except that they were both members of the viceregal household, and English +by birth, there was scarcely a tie between these very dissimilar natures; +but somehow the accidents of daily life, stronger than the traits of +disposition, threw them into intimacy, and they agreed it would be a good +thing ‘to see something of Ireland’; and with this wise resolve they had +set out on that half-fishing excursion, which, having taken them over +the Westmeath lakes, now was directing them to the Shannon, but with an +infirmity of purpose to which lack of sport and disastrous weather were +contributing powerfully at the moment we have presented them to our reader. + +To employ the phrase which it is possible each might have used, they ‘liked +each other well enough’--that is, each found something in the other he +‘could get on with’; but there was no stronger tie of regard or friendship +between them, and each thought he perceived some flaw of pretension, or +affected wisdom, or selfishness, or vanity, in the other, and actually +believed he amused himself by its display. In natures, tastes, and +dispositions, they were miles asunder, and disagreement between them would +have been unceasing on every subject, had they not been gentlemen. It was +this alone--this gentleman element--made their companionship possible, and, +in the long run, not unpleasant. So much more has good-breeding to do in +the common working of daily life than the more valuable qualities of mind +and temperament. + +Though much younger than his companion, Walpole took the lead in all the +arrangements of the journey, determined where and how long they should +halt, and decided on the route next to be taken; the other showing a real +or affected indifference on all these matters, and making of his town-bred +apathy a very serviceable quality in the midst of Irish barbarism +and desolation. On politics, too--if that be the name for such light +convictions as they entertained--they differed: the soldier’s ideas being +formed on what he fancied would be the late Duke of Wellington’s opinion, +and consisted in what he called ‘putting down.’ Walpole was a promising +Whig; that is, one who coquets with Radical notions, but fastidiously +avoids contact with the mob; and who, fervently believing that all popular +concessions are spurious if not stamped with Whig approval, would like to +treat the democratic leaders as forgers and knaves. + +If, then, there was not much of similarity between these two men to attach +them to each other, there was what served for a bond of union: they +belonged to the same class in life, and used pretty nigh the same forms +for their expression of like and dislike; and as in traffic it contributes +wonderfully to the facilities of business to use the same money, so in the +common intercourse of life will the habit to estimate things at the same +value conduce to very easy relations, and something almost like friendship. + +While they sat over the fire awaiting their supper, each had lighted a +cigar, busying himself from time to time in endeavouring to dry some +drenched article of dress, or extracting from damp and dripping pockets +their several contents. + +‘This, then,’ said the younger man--‘this is the picturesque Ireland +our tourist writers tell us of; and the land where the _Times_ says +the traveller will find more to interest him than in the Tyrol or the +Oberland.’ + +‘What about the climate?’ said the other, in a deep bass voice. + +‘Mild and moist, I believe, are the epithets; that is, it makes you damp, +and it keeps you so.’ + +‘And the inns?’ + +‘The inns, it is admitted, might be better; but the traveller is admonished +against fastidiousness, and told that the prompt spirit of obligeance, +the genial cordiality, he will meet with, are more than enough to repay +him for the want of more polished habits and mere details of comfort and +convenience.’ + +‘Rotten humbug! _I_ don’t want cordiality from my innkeeper.’ + +‘I should think not! As, for instance, a bit of carpet in this room would +be worth more than all the courtesy that showed us in.’ + +‘What was that lake called--the first place I mean?’ asked Lockwood. + +‘Lough Brin. I shouldn’t say but with better weather it might be pretty.’ + +A half-grunt of dissent was all the reply, and Walpole went on-- + +It’s no use painting a landscape when it is to be smudged all over with +Indian ink. There are no tints in mountains swathed in mist, no colour in +trees swamped with moisture; everything seems so imbued with damp, one +fancies it would take two years in the tropics to dry Ireland.’ + +‘I asked that fellow who showed us the way here, why he didn’t pitch off +those wet rags he wore, and walk away in all the dignity of nakedness.’ + +A large dish of rashers and eggs, and a mess of Irish stew, which the +landlord now placed on the table, with a foaming jug of malt, seemed to +rally them out of their ill-temper; and for some time they talked away in a +more cheerful tone. + +‘Better than I hoped for,’ said Walpole. + +‘Fair!’ + +‘And that ale, too--I suppose it is called ale--is very tolerable.’ + +‘It’s downright good. Let us have some more of it.’ And he shouted, +‘Master!’ at the top of his voice. ‘More of this,’ said Lockwood, touching +the measure. ‘Beer or ale, which is it?’ + +‘Castle Bellingham, sir,’ replied the landlord; ‘beats all the Bass and +Allsopp that ever was brewed.’ + +‘You think so, eh?’ + +‘I’m sure of it, sir. The club that sits here had a debate on it one night, +and put it to the vote, and there wasn’t one man for the English liquor. My +lord there,’ said he, pointing to the portrait, ‘sent an account of it all +to _Saunders_’ newspaper.’ + +While he left the room to fetch the ale, the travellers both fixed +their eyes on the picture, and Walpole, rising, read out the +inscription--‘Viscount Kilgobbin.’ + +‘There’s no such title,’ said the other bluntly. + +‘Lord Kilgobbin--Kilgobbin? Where did I hear that name before?’ + +‘In a dream, perhaps.’ + +‘No, no. I _have_ heard it, if I could only remember where and how! I say, +landlord, where does his lordship live?’ and he pointed to the portrait. + +‘Beyond, at the castle, sir. You can see it from the door without when the +weather’s fine.’ + +‘That must mean on a very rare occasion!’ said Lockwood gravely. + +‘No indeed, sir. It didn’t begin to rain on Tuesday last till after three +o’clock.’ + +‘Magnificent climate!’ exclaimed Walpole enthusiastically. + +‘It is indeed, sir. Glory be to God!’ said the landlord, with an honest +gravity that set them both off laughing. + +‘How about this club--does it meet often?’ + +‘It used, sir, to meet every Thursday evening, and my lord never missed +a night, but quite lately he took it in his head not to come out in the +evenings. Some say it was the rheumatism, and more says it’s the unsettled +state of the country; though, the Lord be praised for it, there wasn’t a +man fired at in the neighbourhood since Easter, and _he_ was a peeler.’ + +‘One of the constabulary?’ + +‘Yes, sir; a dirty, mean chap, that was looking after a poor boy that set +fire to Mr. Hagin’s ricks, and that was over a year ago.’ + +‘And naturally forgotten by this time?’ + +‘By coorse it was forgotten. Ould Mat Hagin got a presentment for the +damage out of the grand-jury, and nobody was the worse for it at all.’ + +‘And so the club is smashed, eh?’ + +‘As good as smashed, sir; for whenever any of them comes now of an evening, +he just goes into the bar and takes his glass there.’ + +He sighed heavily as he said this, and seemed overcome with sadness. + +‘I’m trying to remember why the name is so familiar to me. I know I have +heard of Lord Kilgobbin before,’ said Walpole. + +‘Maybe so,’ said the landlord respectfully. ‘You may have read in books +how it was at Kilgobbin Castle King James came to stop after the Boyne; +that he held a “coort” there in the big drawing-room--they call it the +“throne-room” ever since--and slept two nights at the castle afterwards?’ + +‘That’s something to see, Walpole,’ said Lockwood. + +‘So it is. How is that to be managed, landlord? Does his lordship permit +strangers to visit the castle?’ + +‘Nothing easier than that, sir,’ said the host, who gladly embraced a +project that should detain his guests at the inn. ‘My lord went through the +town this morning on his way to Loughrea fair; but the young ladies is at +home; and you’ve only to send over a message, and say you’d like to see the +place, and they’ll be proud to show it to you.’ + +‘Let us send our cards, with a line in pencil,’ said Walpole, in a whisper +to his friend. + +‘And there are young ladies there?’ asked Lockwood. + +‘Two born beauties; it’s hard to say which is handsomest,’ replied the +host, overjoyed at the attraction his neighbourhood possessed. + +‘I suppose that will do?’ said Walpole, showing what he had written on his +card. + +‘Yes, perfectly.’ + +‘Despatch this at once. I mean early to-morrow; and let your messenger ask +if there be an answer. How far is it off?’ + +‘A little over twelve miles, sir; but I’ve a mare in the stable will +“rowle” ye over in an hour and a quarter.’ + +‘All right. We’ll settle on everything after breakfast to-morrow.’ And the +landlord withdrew, leaving them once more alone. + +‘This means,’ said Lockwood drearily, ‘we shall have to pass a day in this +wretched place.’ + +‘It will take a day to dry our wet clothes; and, all things considered, one +might be worse off than here. Besides, I shall want to look over my notes. +I have done next to nothing, up to this time, about the Land Question.’ + +‘I thought that the old fellow with the cow, the fellow I gave a cigar to, +had made you up in your tenant-right affair,’ said Lockwood. + +‘He gave me a great deal of very valuable information; he exposed some of +the evils of tenancy at will as ably as I ever heard them treated, but he +was occasionally hard on the landlord.’ + +‘I suppose one word of truth never came out of his mouth!’ + +‘On the contrary, real knowledge of Ireland is not to be acquired from +newspapers; a man must see Ireland for himself--_see_ it,’ repeated he, +with strong emphasis. + +‘And then?’ + +‘And then, if he be a capable man, a reflecting man, a man in whom the +perceptive power is joined to the social faculty--’ + +‘Look here, Cecil, one hearer won’t make a House: don’t try it on +speechifying to me. It’s all humbug coming over to look at Ireland. You may +pick up a little brogue, but it’s all you’ll pick up for your journey.’ +After this, for him, unusually long speech, he finished his glass, lighted +his bedroom candle, and nodding a good-night, strolled away. + +‘I’d give a crown to know where I heard of you before!’ said Walpole, as he +stared up at the portrait. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE COUSINS + + +‘Only think of it!’ cried Kate to her cousin, as she received Walpole’s +note. ‘Can you fancy, Nina, any one having the curiosity to imagine this +old house worth a visit? Here is a polite request from two tourists to be +allowed to see the--what is it?--the interesting interior of Kilgobbin +Castle!’ + +‘Which I hope and trust you will refuse. The people who are so eager for +these things are invariably tiresome old bores, grubbing for antiquities, +or intently bent on adding a chapter to their story of travel. You’ll say +No, dearest, won’t you?’ + +‘Certainly, if you wish it. I am not acquainted with Captain Lockwood, nor +his friend Mr. Cecil Walpole.’ + +‘Did you say Cecil Walpole?’ cried the other, almost snatching the card +from her fingers. ‘Of all the strange chances in life, this is the very +strangest! What could have brought Cecil Walpole here?’ + +‘You know him, then?’ + +‘I should think I do! What duets have we not sung together? What waltzes +have we not had? What rides over the Campagna? Oh dear! how I should like +to talk over these old times again! Pray tell him he may come, Kate, or let +me do it.’ + +‘And papa away!’ + +‘It is the castle, dearest, he wants to see, not papa! You don’t know +what manner of creature this is! He is one of your refined and supremely +cultivated English--mad about archæology and mediæval trumpery. He’ll know +all your ancestors intended by every insane piece of architecture, and +every puzzling detail of this old house; and he’ll light up every corner of +it with some gleam of bright tradition.’ + +‘I thought these sort of people were bores, dear?’ said Kate, with a sly +malice in her look. + +‘Of course not. When they are well-bred and well-mannered---’ + +‘And perhaps well-looking?’ chimed in Kate. + +‘Yes, and so he is--a little of the _petit-maître_, perhaps. He’s much of +that school which fiction-writers describe as having “finely-pencilled +eyebrows, and chins of almost womanlike roundness”; but people in Rome +always called him handsome, that is if he be my Cecil Walpole.’ + +‘Well, then, will you tell YOUR Cecil Walpole, in such polite terms as +you know how to coin, that there is really nothing of the very slightest +pretension to interest in this old place; that we should be ashamed at +having lent ourselves to the delusion that might have led him here; and +lastly, that the owner is from home?’ + +‘What! and is this the Irish hospitality I have heard so much of--the +cordial welcome the stranger may reckon on as a certainty, and make all his +plans with the full confidence of meeting?’ + +‘There is such a thing as discretion, also, to be remembered, Nina,’ said +Kate gravely. + +‘And then there’s the room where the king slept, and the chair that--no, +not Oliver Cromwell, but somebody else sat in at supper, and there’s the +great patch painted on the floor where your ancestor knelt to be knighted.’ + +‘He was created a viscount, not a knight!’ said Kate, blushing. ‘And there +is a difference, I assure you.’ + +‘So there is, dearest, and even my foreign ignorance should know that much, +and you have the parchment that attests it--a most curious document, that +Walpole would be delighted to see. I almost fancy him examining the curious +old seal with his microscope, and hear him unfolding all sorts of details +one never so much as suspected.’ + +‘Papa might not like it,’ said Kate, bridling up. ‘Even were he at home, +I am far from certain he would receive these gentlemen. It is little +more than a year ago there came here a certain book-writing tourist, and +presented himself without introduction. We received him hospitably, and he +stayed part of a week here. He was fond of antiquarianism, but more eager +still about the condition of the people--what kind of husbandry they +practised, what wages they had, and what food. Papa took him over the whole +estate, and answered all his questions freely and openly. And this man made +a chapter of his book upon us, and headed it, “Rack-renting and riotous +living,” distorting all he heard and sneering at all he saw.’ + +‘These are gentlemen, dearest Kate,’ said Nina, holding out the card. ‘Come +now, do tell me that I may say you will be happy to see them?’ + +‘If you must have it so--if you really insist--’ + +‘I do! I do!’ cried she, half wildly. ‘I should go distracted if you denied +me. O Kate! I must own it. It will out. I do cling devotedly, terribly, to +that old life of the past. I am very happy here, and you are all good, and +kind, and loving to me; but that wayward, haphazard existence, with all its +trials and miseries, had got little glimpses of such bliss at times that +rose to actual ecstasy.’ + +‘I was afraid of this,’ said Kate, in a low but firm voice. ‘I thought what +a change it would be for you from that life of brightness and festivity to +this existence of dull and unbroken dreariness.’ + +‘No, no, no! Don’t say that! Do not fancy that I am not happier than I +ever was or ever believed I could be. It was the castle-building of that +time that I was regretting. I imagined so many things, I invented such +situations, such incidents, which, with this sad-coloured landscape here +and that leaden sky, I have no force to conjure up. It is as though the +atmosphere is too weighty for fancy to mount in it. You, my dearest Kate,’ +said she, drawing her arm round her, and pressing her towards her, ‘do not +know these things, nor need ever know them. Your life is assured and safe. +You cannot, indeed, be secure from the passing accidents of life, but they +will meet you in a spirit able to confront them. As for me, I was always +gambling for existence, and gambling without means to pay my losses if +Fortune should turn against me. Do you understand me, child?’ + +‘Only in part, if even that,’ said she slowly. + +‘Let us keep this theme, then, for another time. Now for _ces messieurs_. I +am to invite them?’ + +‘If there was time to ask Miss O’Shea to come over--’ + +‘Do you not fancy, Kate, that in your father’s house, surrounded with +your father’s servants, you are sufficiently the mistress to do without a +chaperon? Only preserve that grand austere look you have listened to me +with these last ten minutes, and I should like to see the youthful audacity +that could brave it. There, I shall go and write my note. You shall see how +discreetly and properly I shall word it.’ + +Kate walked thoughtfully towards a window and looked out, while Nina +skipped gaily down the room, and opened her writing-desk, humming an opera +air as she wrote:-- + +‘KILGOBBIN CASTLE. + +‘DEAR MR. WALPOLE,--I can scarcely tell you the pleasure I feel at the +prospect of seeing a dear friend, or a friend from dear Italy, whichever +be the most proper to say. My uncle is from home, and will not return till +the day after to-morrow at dinner; but my cousin, Miss Kearney, charges +me to say how happy she will be to receive you and your fellow-traveller +at luncheon to-morrow. Pray not to trouble yourself with an answer, but +believe me very sincerely yours, ‘NINA KOSTALERGI.’ + +‘I was right in saying luncheon, Kate, and not dinner--was I not? It is +less formal.’ + +‘I suppose so; that is, if it was right to invite them at all, of which I +have very great misgivings.’ + +‘I wonder what brought Cecil Walpole down here?’ said Nina, glad to turn +the discussion into another channel. ‘Could he have heard that I was here? +Probably not. It was a mere chance, I suppose. Strange things these same +chances are, that do so much more in our lives than all our plottings!’ + +‘Tell me something of your friend, perhaps I ought to say your admirer, +Nina!’ + +‘Yes, very much my admirer; not seriously, you know, but in that charming +sort of adoration we cultivate abroad, that means anything or nothing. He +was not titled, and I am afraid he was not rich, and this last misfortune +used to make his attention to me somewhat painful--to _him_ I mean, not to +_me_; for, of course, as to anything serious, I looked much higher than a +poor Secretary of Legation.’ + +‘Did you?’ asked Kate, with an air of quiet simplicity. + +‘I should hope I did,’ said she haughtily; and she threw a glance at +herself in a large mirror, and smiled proudly at the bright image that +confronted her. ‘Yes, darling, say it out,’ cried she, turning to Kate. +‘Your eyes have uttered the words already.’ + +‘What words?’ + +‘Something about insufferable vanity and conceit, and I own to both! Oh, +why is it that my high spirits have so run away with me this morning that +I have forgotten all reserve and all shame? But the truth is, I feel half +wild with joy, and joy in _my_ nature is another name for recklessness.’ + +‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Kate gravely. ‘At any rate, you give me +another reason for wishing to have Miss O’Shea here.’ + +‘I will not have her--no, not for worlds, Kate, that odious old woman, with +her stiff and antiquated propriety. Cecil would quiz her.’ + +‘I am very certain he would not; at least, if he be such a perfect +gentleman as you tell me.’ + +‘Ah, but you’d never know he did it. The fine tact of these consummate men +of the world derives a humoristic enjoyment in eccentricity of character, +which never shows itself in any outward sign beyond the heightened pleasure +they feel in what other folks might call dulness or mere oddity.’ + +‘I would not suffer an old friend to be made the subject of even such +latent amusement.’ + +‘Nor her nephew, either, perhaps?’ + +‘The nephew could take care of himself, Nina; but I am not aware that he +will be called on to do so. He is not in Ireland, I believe.’ + +‘He was to arrive this week. You told me so.’ + +‘Perhaps he did; I had forgotten it!’ and Kate flushed as she spoke, though +whether from shame or anger it was not easy to say. As though impatient +with herself at any display of temper, she added hurriedly, ‘Was it not +a piece of good fortune, Nina? Papa has left us the key of the cellar, a +thing he never did before, and only now because you were here!’ + +‘What an honoured guest I am!’ said the other, smiling. + +‘That you are! I don’t believe papa has gone once to the club since you +came here.’ + +‘Now, if I were to own that I was vain of this, you’d rebuke me, would not +you?’ + +‘_Our_ love could scarcely prompt to vanity.’ + +‘How shall I ever learn to be humble enough in a family of such humility?’ +said Nina pettishly. Then quickly correcting herself, she said, ‘I’ll go +and despatch my note, and then I’ll come back and ask your pardon for all +my wilfulness, and tell you how much I thank you for all your goodness to +me.’ + +And as she spoke she bent down and kissed Kate’s hand twice or thrice +fervently. + +‘Oh, dearest Nina, not this--not this!’ said Kate, trying to clasp her in +her arms; but the other had slipped from her grasp, and was gone. + +‘Strange girl,’ muttered Kate, looking after her. ‘I wonder shall I ever +understand you, or shall we ever understand each other?’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +SHOWING HOW FRIENDS MAY DIFFER + + +The morning broke drearily for our friends, the two pedestrians, at the +‘Blue Goat.’ A day of dull aspect and soft rain in midsummer has the added +depression that it seems an anachronism. One is in a measure prepared for +being weather-bound in winter. You accept imprisonment as the natural +fortune of the season, or you brave the elements prepared to let them do +their worst, while, if confined to house, you have that solace of snugness, +that comfortable chimney-corner which somehow realises an immense amount +of the joys we concentrate in the word ‘Home.’ It is in the want of this +rallying-point, this little domestic altar, where all gather together in a +common worship, that lies the dreary discomfort of being weather-bound in +summer, and when the prison is some small village inn, noisy, disorderly, +and dirty, the misery is complete. + +‘Grand old pig that!’ said Lockwood, as he gazed out upon the filthy yard, +where a fat old sow contemplated the weather from the threshold of her +dwelling. + +‘I wish she’d come out. I want to make a sketch of her,’ said the other. + +‘Even one’s tobacco grows too damp to smoke in this blessed climate,’ said +Lockwood, as he pitched his cigar away. ‘Heigh-ho! We ‘re too late for the +train to town, I see.’ + +‘You’d not go back, would you?’ + +‘I should think I would! That old den in the upper castle-yard is not very +cheery or very nice, but there is a chair to sit on, and a review and a +newspaper to read. A tour in a country and with a climate like this is a +mistake.’ + +‘I suspect it is,’ said Walpole drearily. + +‘There is nothing to see, no one to talk to, nowhere to stop at!’ + +‘All true,’ muttered the other. ‘By the way, haven’t we some plan or +project for to-day--something about an old castle or an abbey to see?’ + +‘Yes, and the waiter brought me a letter. I think it was addressed to you, +and I left it on my dressing-table. I had forgotten all about it. I’ll go +and fetch it.’ + +Short as his absence was, it gave Walpole time enough to recur to his +late judgment on his tour, and once more call it a ‘mistake, a complete +mistake.’ The Ireland of wits, dramatists, and romance-writers was a +conventional thing, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the rain-soaked, +dreary-looking, depressed reality. ‘These Irish, they are odd without being +droll, just as they are poor without being picturesque; but of all the +delusions we nourish about them, there is not one so thoroughly absurd as +to call them dangerous.’ + +He had just arrived at this mature opinion, when his friend re-entered and +handed him the note. + +‘Here is a piece of luck. _Per Bacco_!’ cried Walpole, as he ran over the +lines. ‘This beats all I could have hoped for. Listen to this--“Dear Mr. +Walpole,--I cannot tell you the delight I feel in the prospect of seeing a +dear friend, or a friend from dear Italy, which is it? “’ + +‘Who writes this?’ + +‘A certain Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whom I knew at Rome; one of the +prettiest, cleverest, and nicest girls I ever met in my life.’ + +‘Not the daughter of that precious Count Kostalergi you have told me such +stories of?’ + +‘The same, but most unlike him in every way. She is here, apparently +with an uncle, who is now from home, and she and her cousin invite us to +luncheon to-day.’ + +‘What a lark!’ said the other dryly. + +‘We’ll go, of course?’ + +‘In weather like this?’ + +‘Why not? Shall we be better off staying here? I now begin to remember how +the name of this place was so familiar to me. She was always asking me if +I knew or heard of her mother’s brother, the Lord Kilgobbin, and, to tell +truth, I fancied some one had been hoaxing her with the name, and never +believed that there was even a place with such a designation.’ + +‘Kilgobbin does not sound like a lordly title. How about Mademoiselle--what +is the name?’ + +‘Kostalergi; they call themselves princes.’ + +‘With all my heart. I was only going to say, as you’ve got a sort of knack +of entanglement--is there, or has there been, anything of that sort here?’ + +‘Flirtation--a little of what is called “spooning”--but no more. But why do +you ask?’ + +‘First of all, you are an engaged man.’ + +‘All true, and I mean to keep my engagement. I can’t marry, however, till I +get a mission, or something at home as good as a mission. Lady Maude +knows that; her friends know it, but none of us imagine that we are to be +miserable in the meantime.’ + +‘I’m not talking of misery. I’d only say, don’t get yourself into any mess. +These foreign girls are very wide-awake.’ + +‘Don’t believe that, Harry; one of our home-bred damsels would give them +a distance and beat them in the race for a husband. It’s only in England +girls are trained to angle for marriage, take my word for it.’ + +‘Be it so--I only warn you that if you get into any scrape I’ll accept none +of the consequences. Lord Danesbury is ready enough to say that, because I +am some ten years older than you, I should have kept you out of mischief. I +never contracted for such a bear-leadership; though I certainly told Lady +Maude I’d turn Queen’s evidence against you if you became a traitor.’ + +‘I wonder you never told me that before,’ said Walpole, with some +irritation of manner. + +‘I only wonder that I told it now!’ replied the other gruffly. + +‘Then I am to take it, that in your office of guardian, you’d rather we’d +decline this invitation, eh?’ + +‘I don’t care a rush for it either way, but, looking to the sort of day it +is out there, I incline to keep the house.’ + +‘I don’t mind bad weather, and I’ll go,’ said Walpole, in a way that showed +temper was involved in the resolution. + +Lockwood made no other reply than heaping a quantity of turf on the fire, +and seating himself beside it. + +When a man tells his fellow-traveller that he means to go his own +road--that companionship has no tie upon him--he virtually declares the +partnership dissolved; and while Lockwood sat reflecting over this, he +was also canvassing with himself how far he might have been to blame in +provoking this hasty resolution. + +‘Perhaps he was irritated at my counsels, perhaps the notion of anything +like guidance offended him; perhaps it was the phrase, “bear-leadership,” + and the half-threat of betraying him, has done the mischief.’ Now the +gallant soldier was a slow thinker; it took him a deal of time to arrange +the details of any matter in his mind, and when he tried to muster his +ideas there were many which would not answer the call, and of those +which came, there were not a few which seemed to present themselves in a +refractory and unwilling spirit, so that he had almost to suppress a mutiny +before he proceeded to his inspection. + +Nor did the strong cheroots, which he smoked to clear his faculties and +develop his mental resources, always contribute to this end, though their +soothing influence certainly helped to make him more satisfied with his +judgments. + +‘Now, look here, Walpole,’ said he, determining that he would save himself +all unnecessary labour of thought by throwing the burden of the case on the +respondent--‘Look here; take a calm view of this thing, and see if it’s +quite wise in you to go back into trammels it cost you some trouble to +escape from. You call it spooning, but you won’t deny you went very far +with that young woman--farther, I suspect, than you’ve told me yet. Eh! is +that true or not?’ + +He waited a reasonable time for a reply, but none coming, he went on--‘I +don’t want a forced confidence. You may say it’s no business of mine, and +there I agree with you, and probably if you put _me_ to the question in +the same fashion, I’d give you a very short answer. Remember one thing, +however, old fellow--I’ve seen a precious deal more of life and the world +than you have! From sixteen years of age, when _you_ were hammering away at +Greek verbs and some such balderdash at Oxford, I was up at Rangoon with +the very fastest set of men--ay, of women too--I ever lived with in all my +life. Half of our fellows were killed off by it. Of course people will say +climate, climate! but if I were to give you the history of one day--just +twenty-four hours of our life up there--you’d say that the wonder is +there’s any one alive to tell it.’ + +He turned around at this, to enjoy the expression of horror and surprise +he hoped to have called up, and perceived for the first time that he was +alone. He rang the bell, and asked the waiter where the other gentleman +had gone, and learned that he had ordered a car, and set out for Kilgobbin +Castle more than half an hour before. + +‘All right,’ said he fiercely. ‘I wash my hands of it altogether! I’m +heartily glad I told him so before he went.’ He smoked on very vigorously +for half an hour, the burden of his thoughts being perhaps revealed by +the summing-up, as he said, ‘And when you are “in for it,” Master Cecil, +and some precious scrape it will be, if I move hand or foot to pull you +through it, call me a Major of Marines, that’s all--just call me a Major of +Marines!’ The ineffable horror of such an imputation served as matter for +reverie for hours. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +A DRIVE THROUGH A BOG + + +While Lockwood continued thus to doubt and debate with himself, Walpole was +already some miles on his way to Kilgobbin. Not, indeed, that he had made +any remarkable progress, for the ‘mare that was to rowle his honour over in +an hour and a quarter,’ had to be taken from the field where she had been +ploughing since daybreak, while ‘the boy’ that should drive her, was a +little old man who had to be aroused from a condition of drunkenness in a +hayloft, and installed in his office. + +Nor were these the only difficulties. The roads that led through the bog +were so numerous and so completely alike that it only needed the dense +atmosphere of a rainy day to make it matter of great difficulty to discover +the right track. More than once were they obliged to retrace their steps +after a considerable distance, and the driver’s impatience always took the +shape of a reproach to Walpole, who, having nothing else to do, should +surely have minded where they were going. Now, not only was the traveller +utterly ignorant of the geography of the land he journeyed in, but his +thoughts were far and away from the scenes around him. Very scattered +and desultory thoughts were they, at one time over the Alps and with +‘long-agoes’: nights at Rome clashing with mornings on the Campagna; vast +salons crowded with people of many nations, all more or less busy with that +great traffic which, whether it take the form of religion, or politics, or +social intrigue, hate, love, or rivalry, makes up what we call ‘the world’; +or there were sunsets dying away rapidly--as they will do--over that great +plain outside the city, whereon solitude and silence are as much masters as +on a vast prairie of the West; and he thought of times when he rode back at +nightfall beside Nina Kostalergi, when little flashes would cross them of +that romance that very worldly folk now and then taste of, and delight in, +with a zest all the greater that the sensation is so new and strange to +them. Then there was the revulsion from the blaze of waxlights and the +glitter of diamonds, the crash of orchestras and the din of conversation, +the intoxication of the flattery that champagne only seems to ‘accentuate,’ +to the unbroken stillness of the hour, when even the footfall of the horse +is unheard, and a dreamy doubt that this quietude, this soothing sense of +calm, is higher happiness than all the glitter and all the splendour of the +ball-room, and that in the dropping words we now exchange, and in the stray +glances, there is a significance and an exquisite delight we never felt +till now; for, glorious as is the thought of a returned affection, full +of ecstasy the sense of a heart all, all our own, there is, in the first +half-doubtful, distrustful feeling of falling in love, with all its chances +of success or failure, something that has its moments of bliss nothing of +earthly delight can ever equal. To the verge of that possibility Walpole +had reached--but gone no further--with Nina Kostalergi. The young men of +the age are an eminently calculating and prudent class, and they count the +cost of an action with a marvellous amount of accuracy. Is it the turf and +its teachings to which this crafty and cold-blooded spirit is owing? Have +they learned to ‘square their book’ on life by the lessons of Ascot and +Newmarket, and seen that, no matter how probably they ‘stand to win’ on +this, they must provide for that, and that no caution or foresight is +enough that will not embrace every casualty of any venture? + +There is no need to tell a younger son of the period that he must not marry +a pretty girl of doubtful family and no fortune. He may have his doubts on +scores of subjects: he may not be quite sure whether he ought to remain a +Whig with Lord Russell, or go in for Odgerism and the ballot; he may be +uncertain about Colenso, and have his misgivings about the Pentateuch; +he may not be easy in his mind about the Russians in the East, or the +Americans in the West; uncomfortable suspicions may cross him that the +Volunteers are not as quick in evolution as the Zouaves, or that England +generally does not sing ‘Rule Britannia’ so lustily as she used to do. All +these are possible misgivings, but that he should take such a plunge as +matrimony, on other grounds than the perfect prudence and profit of the +investment, could never occur to him. + +As to the sinfulness of tampering with a girl’s affections by what in slang +is called ‘spooning,’ it was purely absurd to think of it. You might as +well say that playing sixpenny whist made a man a gambler. And then, as +to the spooning, it was _partie égale_, the lady was no worse off than +the gentleman. If there were by any hazard--and this he was disposed to +doubt--‘affections’ at stake, the man ‘stood to lose’ as much as the woman. +But this was not the aspect in which the case presented itself, flirtation +being, in his idea, to marriage what the preliminary canter is to the +race--something to indicate the future, but so dimly and doubtfully as not +to decide the hesitation of the waverer. + +If, then, Walpole was never for a moment what mothers call serious in his +attentions to Mademoiselle Kostalergi, he was not the less fond of her +society; he frequented the places where she was likely to be met with, and +paid her that degree of ‘court’ that only stopped short of being particular +by his natural caution. There was the more need for the exercise of this +quality at Rome, since there were many there who knew of his engagement +with his cousin, Lady Maude, and who would not have hesitated to report on +any breach of fidelity. Now, however, all these restraints were withdrawn. +They were not in Italy, where London, by a change of venue, takes its +‘records’ to be tried in the dull days of winter. They were in Ireland, +and in a remote spot of Ireland, where there were no gossips, no clubs, no +afternoon-tea committees, to sit on reputations, and was it not pleasant +now to see this nice girl again in perfect freedom? These were, loosely +stated, the thoughts which occupied him as he went along, very little +disposed to mind how often the puzzled driver halted to decide the road, or +how frequently he retraced miles of distance. Men of the world, especially +when young in life, and more realistic than they will be twenty years +later, proud of the incredulity they can feel on the score of everything +and everybody, are often fond of making themselves heroes to their own +hearts of some little romance, which shall not cost them dearly to indulge +in, and merely engage some loose-lying sympathies without in any way +prejudicing their road in life. They accept of these sentimentalities as +the vicar’s wife did the sheep in the picture, pleased to ‘have as many as +the painter would put in for nothing.’ + +Now, Cecil Walpole never intended that this little Irish episode--and +episode he determined it should be--should in any degree affect the +serious fortunes of his life. He was engaged to his cousin, Lady Maude +Bickerstaffe, and they would be married some day. Not that either was very +impatient to exchange present comfort--and, on her side, affluence--for a +marriage on small means, and no great prospects beyond that. They were not +much in love. Walpole knew that the Lady Maude’s fortune was small, but the +man who married her must ‘be taken care of,’ and by either side, for there +were as many Tories as Whigs in the family, and Lady Maude knew that +half-a-dozen years ago, she would certainly not have accepted Walpole; but +that with every year her chances of a better _parti_ were diminishing; and, +worse than all this, each was well aware of the inducements by which the +other was influenced. Nor did the knowledge in any way detract from their +self-complacence or satisfaction with the match. + +Lady Maude was to accompany her uncle to Ireland, and do the honours of his +court, for he was a bachelor, and pleaded hard with his party on that score +to be let off accepting the viceroyalty. + +Lady Maude, however, had not yet arrived, and even if she had, how should +she ever hear of an adventure in the Bog of Allen! + +But was there to be an adventure? and, if so, what sort of adventure? +Irishmen, Walpole had heard, had all the jealousy about their women that +characterises savage races, and were ready to resent what, in civilised +people, no one would dream of regarding as matter for umbrage. Well, then, +it was only to be more cautious--more on one’s guard--besides the tact, +too, which a knowledge of life should give-- + +‘Eh, what’s this? Why are you stopping here?’ + +This was addressed now to the driver, who had descended from his box, and +was standing in advance of the horse. + +‘Why don’t I drive on, is it?’ asked he, in a voice of despair. ‘Sure, +there’s no road.’ + +‘And does it stop here?’ cried Walpole in horror, for he now perceived that +the road really came to an abrupt ending in the midst of the bog. + +‘Begorra, it’s just what it does. Ye see, your honour,’ added he, in a +confidential tone, ‘it’s one of them tricks the English played us in +the year of the famine. They got two millions of money to make roads in +Ireland, but they were so afraid it would make us prosperous and richer +than themselves, that they set about making roads that go nowhere. +Sometimes to the top of a mountain, or down to the sea, where there was no +harbour, and sometimes, like this one, into the heart of a bog.’ + +‘That was very spiteful and very mean, too,’ said Walpole. + +‘Wasn’t it just mean, and nothing else! and it’s five miles we’ll have to +go back now to the cross-roads. Begorra, your honour, it’s a good dhrink +ye’ll have to give me for this day’s work.’ + +‘You forget, my friend, that but for your own confounded stupidity, I +should have been at Kilgobbin Castle by this time.’ + +‘And ye’ll be there yet, with God’s help!’ said he, turning the horse’s +head. ‘Bad luck to them for the road-making, and it’s a pity, after all, it +goes nowhere, for it’s the nicest bit to travel in the whole country.’ + +‘Come now, jump up, old fellow, and make your beast step out. I don’t want +to pass the night here.’ + +‘You wouldn’t have a dhrop of whisky with your honour?’ + +‘Of course not.’ + +‘Nor even brandy?’ + +‘No, not even brandy.’ + +‘Musha, I’m thinking you must be English,’ muttered he, half sulkily. + +‘And if I were, is there any great harm in that?’ + +‘By coorse not; how could ye help it? I suppose we’d all of us be better +if we could. Sit a bit more forward, your honour; the belly band does be +lifting her, and as you’re doing nothing, just give her a welt of that +stick in your hand, now and then, for I lost the lash off my whip, and I’ve +nothing but this!’ And he displayed the short handle of what had once been +a whip, with a thong of leather dangling at the end. + +‘I must say I wasn’t aware that I was to have worked my passage,’ said +Walpole, with something between drollery and irritation. + +‘She doesn’t care for bating--stick her with the end of it. That’s the way. +We’ll get on elegant now. I suppose you was never here before?’ + +‘No; and I think I can promise you I’ll not come again.’ + +‘I hope you will, then, and many a time too. This is the Bog of Allen +you’re travelling now, and they tell there’s not the like of it in the +three kingdoms.’ + +‘I trust there’s not!’ + +‘The English, they say, has no bogs. Nothing but coal.’ + +‘Quite true.’ + +‘Erin, _ma bouchal_ you are! first gem of the say! that’s what Dan +O’Connell always called you. Are you gettin’ tired with the stick?’ + +‘I’m tired of your wretched old beast, and your car, and yourself, too,’ +said Walpole; ‘and if I were sure that was the castle yonder, I’d make my +way straight to it on foot.’ + +‘And why wouldn’t you, if your honour liked it best? Why would ye be +beholden to a car if you’d rather walk. Only mind the bog-holes: for +there’s twenty feet of water in some of them, and the sides is so straight, +you’ll never get out if you fall in.’ + +‘Drive on, then. I’ll remain where I am; but don’t bother me with your +talk; and no more questioning.’ + +‘By coorse I won’t--why would I? Isn’t your honour a gentleman, and haven’t +you a right to say what you plaze; and what am I but a poor boy, earning +his bread. Just the way it is all through the world; some has everything +they want and more besides, and others hasn’t a stitch to their backs, or +maybe a pinch of tobacco to put in a pipe.’ + +This appeal was timed by seeing that Walpole had just lighted a fresh +cigar, whose fragrant fumes were wafted across the speaker’s nose. + +Firm to his determination to maintain silence, Walpole paid no attention +to the speech, nor uttered a word of any kind; and as a light drizzling +rain had now begun to fall, and obliged him to shelter himself under an +umbrella, he was at length saved from his companion’s loquacity. Baffled, +but not beaten, the old fellow began to sing, at first in a low, droning +tone; but growing louder as the fire of patriotism warmed him, he shouted, +to a very wild and somewhat irregular tune, a ballad, of which Walpole +could not but hear the words occasionally, while the tramping of the +fellow’s feet on the foot-board kept time to his song:-- + + ‘’Tis our fun they can’t forgive us, + Nor our wit so sharp and keen; + But there’s nothing that provokes them + Like our wearin’ of the green. + They thought Poverty would bate us, + But we’d sell our last “boneen” + And we’ll live on cowld paytatees, + All for wearin’ of the green. + Oh, the wearin’ of the green--the wearin’ of the green! + ‘Tis the colour best becomes us + Is the wearin’ of the green!’ + +‘Here’s a cigar for you, old fellow, and stop that infernal chant.’ + +‘There’s only five verses more, and I’ll sing them for your honour before I +light the baccy.’ + +‘If you do, then, you shall never light baccy of mine. Can’t you see that +your confounded song is driving me mad?’ + +‘Faix, ye’re the first I ever see disliked music,’ muttered he, in a tone +almost compassionate. + +And now as Walpole raised the collar of his coat to defend his ears, and +prepared, as well as he might, to resist the weather, he muttered, ‘And +this is the beautiful land of scenery; and this the climate; and this the +amusing and witty peasant we read of. I have half a mind to tell the world +how it has been humbugged!’ And thus musing, he jogged on the weary road, +nor raised his head till the heavy clash of an iron gate aroused him, and +he saw that they were driving along an approach, with some clumps of pretty +but young timber on either side. + +‘Here we are, your honour, safe and sound,’ cried the driver, as proudly +as if he had not been five hours over what should have been done in one +and a half. ‘This is Kilgobbin. All the ould trees was cut down by Oliver +Cromwell, they say, but there will be a fine wood here yet. That’s the +castle you see yonder, over them trees; but there’s no flag flying. The +lord’s away. I suppose I’ll have to wait for your honour? You’ll be coming +back with me?’ + +‘Yes, you’ll have to wait.’ And Walpole looked at his watch, and saw it was +already past five o’clock. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE SEARCH FOR ARMS + + +When the hour of luncheon came, and no guests made their appearance, the +young girls at the castle began to discuss what they should best do. ‘I +know nothing of fine people and their ways,’ said Kate--‘you must take the +whole direction here, Nina.’ + +‘It is only a question of time, and a cold luncheon can wait without +difficulty.’ + +And so they waited till three, then till four, and now it was five o’clock; +when Kate, who had been over the kitchen-garden, and the calves’ paddock, +and inspecting a small tract laid out for a nursery, came back to the house +very tired, and, as she said, also very hungry. ‘You know, Nina,’ said she, +entering the room, ‘I ordered no dinner to-day. I speculated on our making +our dinner when your friends lunched; and as they have not lunched, we +have not dined; and I vote we sit down now. I’m afraid I shall not be as +pleasant company as that Mr.--do tell me his name--Walpole--but I pledge +myself to have as good a appetite.’ + +Nina made no answer. She stood at the open window; her gaze steadily bent +on the strip of narrow road that traversed the wide moor before her. + +‘Ain’t you hungry? I mean, ain’t you famished, child?’ asked Kate. + +‘No, I don’t think so. I could eat, but I believe I could go without eating +just as well.’ + +‘Well, I must dine; and if you were not looking so nice and fresh, with a +rose-bud in your hair and your white dress so daintily looped up, I’d ask +leave not to dress.’ + +‘If you were to smooth your hair, and, perhaps, change your boots--’ + +‘Oh I know, and become in every respect a little civilised. My poor dear +cousin, what a mission you have undertaken among the savages. Own it +honestly, you never guessed the task that was before you when you came +here.’ + +‘Oh, it’s very nice savagery, all the same,’ said the other, smiling +pleasantly. + +‘There now!’ cried Kate, as she threw her hat to one side, and stood +arranging her hair before the glass. ‘I make this toilet under protest, for +we are going in to luncheon, not dinner, and all the world knows, and all +the illustrated newspapers show, that people do not dress for lunch. And, +by the way, that is something you have not got in Italy. All the women +gathering together in their garden-bonnets and their morning-muslins, and +the men in their knickerbockers and their coarse tweed coats.’ + +‘I declare I think you are in better spirits since you see these people are +not coming.’ + +‘It is true. You have guessed it, dearest. The thought of anything +grand--as a visitor; anything that would for a moment suggest the +unpleasant question, Is this right? or, Is that usual? makes me downright +irritable. Come, are you ready? May I offer you my arm?’ + +And now they were at table, Kate rattling away in unwonted gaiety, and +trying to rally Nina out of her disappointment. + +‘I declare Nina, everything is so pretty I am ashamed to eat. Those +chickens near you are the least ornamental things I see. Cut me off a wing. +Oh, I forgot, you never acquired the barbarous art of carving.’ + +‘I can cut this,’ said Nina, drawing a dish of tongue towards her. + +‘What! that marvellous production like a parterre of flowers? It would be +downright profanation to destroy it.’ + +‘Then shall I give you some of this, Kate?’ + +‘Why, child, that is strawberry-cream. But I cannot eat all alone; do help +yourself.’ + +‘I shall take something by-and-by.’ + +‘What do young ladies in Italy eat when they are--no, I don’t mean in +love--I shall call it--in despair?’ + +‘Give me some of that white wine beside you. There! don’t you hear a noise? +I’m certain I heard the sound of wheels.’ + +‘Most sincerely I trust not. I wouldn’t for anything these people should +break in upon us now. If my brother Dick should drop in I’d welcome him, +and he would make our little party perfect. Do you know, Nina, Dick can be +so jolly. What’s that? there are voices there without.’ + +As she spoke the door was opened, and Walpole entered. The young girls +had but time to rise from their seats, when--they never could exactly say +how--they found themselves shaking hands with him in great cordiality. + +‘And your friend--where is he?’ + +‘Nursing a sore throat, or a sprained ankle, or a something or other. Shall +I confess it--as only a suspicion on my part, however--that I do believe +he was too much shocked at the outrageous liberty I took in asking to be +admitted here to accept any partnership in the impertinence?’ + +‘We expected you at two or three o’clock,’ said Nina. + +‘And shall I tell you why I was not here before? Perhaps you’ll scarcely +credit me when I say I have been five hours on the road.’ + +‘Five hours! How did you manage that?’ + +‘In this way. I started a few minutes after twelve from the inn--I on +foot, the car to overtake me.’ And he went on to give a narrative of his +wanderings over the bog, imitating, as well as he could, the driver’s +conversations with him, and the reproaches he vented on his inattention to +the road. Kate enjoyed the story with all the humoristic fun of one who +knew thoroughly how the peasant had been playing with the gentleman, just +for the indulgence of that strange, sarcastic temper that underlies the +Irish nature; and she could fancy how much more droll it would have been to +have heard the narrative as told by the driver of the car. + +‘And don’t you like his song, Mr. Walpole!’ + +‘What, “The Wearing of the Green”? It was the dreariest dirge I ever +listened to.’ + +‘Come, you shall not say so. When we go into the drawing-room, Nina shall +sing it for you, and I’ll wager you recant your opinion.’ + +‘And do you sing rebel canticles, Mademoiselle Kostalergi?’ + +‘Yes, I do all my cousin bids me. I wear a red cloak. How is it called?’ + +‘Connemara?’ + +Nina nodded. + +‘That’s the name, but I’m not going to say it; and when we go abroad--that +is, on the bog there, for a walk--we dress in green petticoats and wear +very thick shoes.’ + +‘And, in a word, are very generally barbarous.’ + +‘Well, if you be really barbarians,’ said Walpole, filling his glass, ‘I +wonder what I would not give to be allowed to join the tribe.’ + +‘Oh, you’d want to be a sachem, or a chief, or a mystery-man at least; and +we couldn’t permit that,’ cried Kate. + +‘No; I crave admission as the humblest of your followers.’ + +‘Shall we put him to the test, Nina?’ + +‘How do you mean?’ cried the other. + +‘Make him take a Ribbon oath, or the pledge of a United Irishman. I’ve +copies of both in papa’s study.’ + +‘I should like to see these immensely,’ said Walpole. + +‘I’ll see if I can’t find them,’ cried Kate, rising and hastening away. + +For some seconds after she left the room there was perfect silence. Walpole +tried to catch Nina’s eye before he spoke, but she continued steadily to +look down, and did not once raise her lids. + +‘Is she not very nice--is she not very beautiful?’ asked she, in a low +voice. + +‘It is of _you_ I want to speak.’ + +And he drew his chair closer to her, and tried to take her hand, but she +withdrew it quickly, and moved slightly away. + +‘If you knew the delight it is to me to see you again, Nina--well, +Mademoiselle Kostalergi. Must it be Mademoiselle?’ + +‘I don’t remember it was ever “Nina,”’ said she coldly. + +‘Perhaps only in my thoughts. To my heart, I can swear, you were Nina. But +tell me how you came here, and when, and for how long, for I want to know +all. Speak to me, I beseech you. She’ll be back in a moment, and when shall +I have another instant alone with you like this? Tell me how you came +amongst them, and are they really all rebels?’ + +Kate entered at the instant, saying, ‘I can’t find it, but I’ll have a good +search to-morrow, for I know it’s there.’ + +‘Do, by all means, Kate, for Mr. Walpole is very anxious to learn if he be +admitted legitimately into this brotherhood--whatever it be; he has just +asked me if we were really all rebels here.’ + +‘I trust he does not suppose I would deceive him,’ said Kate gravely. ‘And +when he hears you sing “The blackened hearth--the fallen roof,” he’ll not +question _you_, Nina.--Do you know that song, Mr. Walpole?’ + +He smiled as he said ‘No.’ + +‘Won’t it be so nice,’ said she, ‘to catch a fresh ingenuous Saxon +wandering innocently over the Bog of Allen, and send him back to his +friends a Fenian!’ + +‘Make me what you please, but don’t send me away.’ + +‘Tell me, really, what would you do if we made you take the oath?’ + +‘Betray you, of course, the moment I got up to Dublin.’ + +Nina’s eyes flashed angrily, as though such jesting was an offence. + +‘No, no, the shame of such treason would be intolerable; but you’d go your +way and behave as though you never saw us.’ + +‘Oh, he could do that without the inducement of a perjury,’ said Nina, in +Italian; and then added aloud, ‘Let’s go and make some music. Mr. Walpole +sings charmingly, Kate, and is very obliging about it--at least he used to +be.’ + +[Illustration: ‘How that song makes me wish we were back again where I +heard it first’] + +‘I am all that I used to be--towards that,’ whispered he, as she passed him +to take Kate’s arm and walk away. + +‘You don’t mean to have a thick neighbourhood about you,’ said Walpole. +‘Have you any people living near?’ + +‘Yes, we have a dear old friend--a Miss O’Shea, a maiden lady, who lives a +few miles off. By the way, there’s something to show you--an old maid who +hunts her own harriers.’ + +‘What! are you in earnest?’ + +‘On my word, it is true! Nina can’t endure her; but Nina doesn’t care for +hare-hunting, and, I’m afraid to say, never saw a badger drawn in her +life.’ + +‘And have you?’ asked he, almost with horror in his tone. + +‘I’ll show you three regular little turnspit dogs to-morrow that will +answer that question.’ + +‘How I wish Lockwood had come out here with me,’ said Walpole, almost +uttering a thought. + +‘That is, you wish he had seen a bit of barbarous Ireland he’d scarcely +credit from mere description. But perhaps I’d have been better behaved +before him. I’m treating you with all the freedom of an old friend of my +cousin’s.’ + +Nina had meanwhile opened the piano, and was letting her hands stray over +the instrument in occasional chords; and then in a low voice, that barely +blended its tones with the accompaniment, she sang one of those little +popular songs of Italy, called ‘Stornelli’---wild, fanciful melodies, with +that blended gaiety and sadness which the songs of a people are so often +marked by. + +‘That is a very old favourite of mine,’ said Walpole, approaching the piano +as noiselessly as though he feared to disturb the singer; and now he stole +into a chair at her side. ‘How that song makes me wish we were back again, +where I heard it first,’ whispered he gently. + +‘I forget where that was,’ said she carelessly. + +‘No, Nina, you do not,’ said he eagerly; ‘it was at Albano, the day we all +went to Pallavicini’s villa.’ + +‘And I sang a little French song, “_Si vous n’avez rien à me dire_,” which +you were vain enough to imagine was a question addressed to yourself; and +you made me a sort of declaration; do you remember all that?’ + +‘Every word of it.’ + +‘Why don’t you go and speak to my cousin; she has opened the window and +gone out upon the terrace, and I trust you understand that she expects you +to follow her.’ There was a studied calm in the way she spoke that showed +she was exerting considerable self-control. + +‘No, no, Nina, it is with you I desire to speak; to see you that I have +come here.’ + +‘And so you do remember that you made me a declaration? It made me laugh +afterwards as I thought it over.’ + +‘Made you laugh!’ + +‘Yes, I laughed to myself at the ingenious way in which you conveyed to me +what an imprudence it was in you to fall in love with a girl who had no +fortune, and the shock it would give your friends when they should hear she +was a Greek.’ + +‘How can you say such painful things, Nina? how can you be so pitiless as +this?’ + +‘It was you who had no pity, sir; I felt a deal of pity; I will not deny it +was for myself. I don’t pretend to say that I could give a correct version +of the way in which you conveyed to me the pain it gave you that I was not +a princess, a Borromeo, or a Colonna, or an Altieri. That Greek adventurer, +yes--you cannot deny it, I overheard these words myself. You were talking +to an English girl, a tall, rather handsome person she was--I shall +remember her name in a moment if you cannot help me to it sooner--a Lady +Bickerstaffe--’ + +‘Yes, there was a Lady Maude Bickerstaffe; she merely passed through Rome +for Naples.’ + +‘You called her a cousin, I remember.’ + +‘There is some cousinship between us; I forget exactly in what degree.’ + +‘Do try and remember a little more; remember that you forgot you had +engaged me for the cotillon, and drove away with that blonde beauty--and +she was a beauty, or had been a few years before--at all events, you lost +all memory of the daughter of the adventurer.’ + +‘You will drive me distracted, Nina, if you say such things.’ + +‘I know it is wrong and it is cruel, and it is worse than wrong and cruel, +it is what you English call underbred, to be so individually disagreeable, +but this grievance of mine has been weighing very heavily on my heart, and +I have been longing to tell you so.’ + +‘Why are you not singing, Nina?’ cried Kate from the terrace. ‘You told me +of a duet, and I think you are bent on having it without music.’ + +‘Yes, we are quarrelling fiercely,’ said Nina. ‘This gentleman has been +rash enough to remind me of an unsettled score between us, and as he is the +defaulter--’ + +‘I dispute the debt.’ + +‘Shall I be the judge between you?’ asked Kate. + +‘On no account; my claim once disputed, I surrender it,’ said Nina. + +‘I must say you are very charming company. You won’t sing, and you’ll only +talk to say disagreeable things. Shall I make tea, and see if it will +render you more amiable?’ + +‘Do so, dearest, and then show Mr. Walpole the house; he has forgotten what +brought him here, I really believe.’ + +‘You know that I have not,’ muttered he, in a tone of deep meaning. + +‘There’s no light now to show him the house; Mr. Walpole must come +to-morrow, when papa will be at home and delighted to see him.’ + +‘May I really do this?’ + +‘Perhaps, besides, your friend will have found the little inn so +insupportable, that he too will join us. Listen to that sigh of poor Nina’s +and you’ll understand what it is to be dreary!’ + +‘No; I want my tea.’ + +‘And it shall have it,’ said Kate, kissing her with a petting affectation +as she left the room. + +‘Now one word, only one,’ said Walpole, as he drew his chair close to her: +‘If I swear to you--’ + +‘What’s that? who is Kate angry with?’ cried Nina, rising and rushing +towards the door. ‘What has happened?’ + +‘I’ll tell you what has happened,’ said Kate, as with flashing eyes and +heightened colour she entered the room. ‘The large gate of the outer yard, +that is every night locked and strongly barred at sunset, has been left +open, and they tell me that three men have come in, Sally says five, and +are hiding in some of the outhouses.’ + +‘What for? Is it to rob, think you?’ asked Walpole. + +‘It is certainly for nothing good. They all know that papa is away, and +the house so far unprotected,’ continued Kate calmly. ‘We must find out +to-morrow who has left the gate unbolted. This was no accident, and now +that they are setting fire to the ricks all round us, it is no time for +carelessness.’ + +‘Shall we search the offices and the outbuildings?’ asked Walpole. + +‘Of course not; we must stand by the house and take care that they do not +enter it. It’s a strong old place, and even if they forced an entrance +below, they couldn’t set fire to it.’ + +‘Could they force their way up?’ asked Walpole. + +‘Not if the people above have any courage. Just come and look at the stair; +it was made in times when people thought of defending themselves.’ They +issued forth now together to the top of the landing, where a narrow, steep +flight of stone steps descended between two walls to the basement-storey. +A little more than half-way down was a low iron gate or grille of +considerable strength; though, not being above four feet in height, it +could have been no great defence, which seemed, after all, to have been its +intention. ‘When this is closed,’ said Kate, shutting it with a heavy bang, +‘it’s not such easy work to pass up against two or three resolute people at +the top; and see here,’ added she, showing a deep niche or alcove in the +wall, ‘this was evidently meant for the sentry who watched the wicket: he +could stand here out of the reach of all fire.’ + +‘Would you not say she was longing for a conflict?’ said Nina, gazing at +her. + +‘No, but if it comes I’ll not decline it.’ + +‘You mean you’ll defend the stair?’ asked Walpole. + +She nodded assent. + +‘What arms have you?’ + +‘Plenty; come and look at them. Here,’ said she, entering the dining-room, +and pointing to a large oak sideboard covered with weapons, ‘Here is +probably what has led these people here. They are going through the country +latterly on every side, in search of arms. I believe this is almost the +only house where they have not called.’ + +‘And do they go away quietly when their demands are complied with?’ + +‘Yes, when they chance upon people of poor courage, they leave them with +life enough to tell the story.--What is it, Mathew?’ asked she of the old +serving-man who entered the room. + +‘It’s the “boys,” miss, and they want to talk to you, if you’ll step out on +the terrace. They don’t mean any harm at all.’ + +‘What do they want, then?’ + +‘Just a spare gun or two, miss, or an ould pistol, or a thing of the kind +that was no use.’ + +‘Was it not brave of them to come here, when my father was from home? +Aren’t they fine courageous creatures to come and frighten two lone +girls--eh, Mat?’ + +‘Don’t anger them, miss, for the love of Joseph! don’t say anything hard; +let me hand them that ould carbine there, and the fowling-piece; and if +you’d give them a pair of horse-pistols, I’m sure they’d go away quiet.’ + +A loud noise of knocking, as though with a stone, at the outer door, broke +in upon the colloquy, and Kate passed into the drawing-room, and opened +the window, out upon the stone terrace which overlooked the yard: ‘Who is +there?--who are you?--what do you want?’ cried she, peering down into the +darkness, which, in the shadow of the house, was deeper. + +‘We’ve come for arms,’ cried a deep hoarse voice. + +‘My father is away from home--come and ask for them when he’s here to +answer you.’ + +A wild, insolent laugh from below acknowledged what they thought of this +speech. + +‘Maybe that was the rayson we came now, miss,’ said a voice, in a lighter +tone. + +‘Fine courageous fellows you are to say so! I hope Ireland has more of such +brave patriotic men.’ + +‘You’d better leave that, anyhow,’ said another, and as he spoke he +levelled and fired, but evidently with intention to terrify rather than +wound, for the plaster came tumbling down from several feet above her head; +and now the knocking at the door was redoubled, and with a noise that +resounded through the house. + +‘Wouldn’t you advise her to give up the arms and let them go?’ said Nina, +in a whisper to Walpole; but though she was deadly pale there was no tremor +in her voice. + +‘The door is giving way, the wood is completely rotten. Now for the stairs. +Mr. Walpole, you’re going to stand by me?’ + +‘I should think so, but I’d rather you’d remain here. I know my ground +now.’ + +‘No, I must be beside you. You’ll have to keep a rolling fire, and I can +load quicker than most people. Come along now, we must take no light with +us--follow me.’ + +‘Take care,’ said Nina to Walpole as he passed, but with an accent so full +of a strange significance it dwelt on his memory long after. + +‘What was it Nina whispered you as you came by?’ said Kate. + +‘Something about being cautious, I think,’ said he carelessly. + +‘Stay where you are, Mathew,’ said the girl, in a severe tone, to the old +servant, who was officiously pressing forward with a light. + +‘Go back!’ cried she, as he persisted in following her. + +‘That’s the worst of all our troubles here, Mr. Walpole,’ said she boldly; +‘you cannot depend on the people of your own household. The very people you +have nursed in sickness, if they only belong to some secret association, +will betray you!’ She made no secret of her words, but spoke them loud +enough to be heard by the group of servants now gathered on the landing. +Noiseless she tripped down the stairs, and passed into the little dark +alcove, followed by Walpole, carrying any amount of guns and carbines under +his arm. + +‘These are loaded, I presume?’ said he. + +‘All, and ready capped. The short carbine is charged with a sort of +canister shot, and keep it for a short range--if they try to pass over +the iron gate. Now mind me, and I will give you the directions I heard my +father give on this spot once before. Don’t fire till they reach the foot +of the stair.’ + +‘I cannot hear you,’ said he, for the din beneath, where they battered at +the door, was now deafening. + +‘They’ll be in in another moment--there, the lock has fallen off--the door +has given way,’ whispered she; ‘be steady now, no hurry--steady and calm.’ + +As she spoke, the heavy oak door fell to the ground, and a perfect silence +succeeded to the late din. After an instant, muttering whispers could be +heard, and it seemed as if they doubted how far it was safe to enter, for +all was dark within. Something was said in a tone of command, and at the +moment one of the party flung forward a bundle of lighted straw and tow, +which fell at the foot of the stairs, and for a few seconds lit up the +place with a red lurid gleam, showing the steep stair and the iron bars of +the little gate that crossed it. + +‘There’s the iron wicket they spoke of,’ cried one. ‘All right, come on!’ +And the speaker led the way, cautiously, however, and slowly, the others +after him. + +‘No, not yet,’ whispered Kate, as she pressed her hand upon Walpole’s. + +‘I hear voices up there,’ cried the leader from below. ‘We’ll make them +leave that, anyhow.’ And he fired off his gun in the direction of the upper +part of the stair; a quantity of plaster came clattering down as the ball +struck the ceiling. + +‘Now,’ said she. ‘Now, and fire low!’ + +He discharged both barrels so rapidly that the two detonations blended +into one, and the assailants replied by a volley, the echoing din almost +sounding like artillery. Fast as Walpole could fire, the girl replaced +the piece by another; when suddenly she cried, ‘There is a fellow at the +gate--the carbine--the carbine now, and steady.’ A heavy crash and a cry +followed his discharge, and snatching the weapon from him, she reloaded and +handed it back with lightning speed. ‘There is another there,’ whispered +she; and Walpole moved farther out, to take a steadier aim. All was still, +not a sound to be heard for some seconds, when the hinges of the gate +creaked and the bolt shook in the lock. Walpole fired again, but as he did +so, the others poured in a rattling volley, one shot grazing his cheek, +and another smashing both bones of his right arm, so that the carbine fell +powerless from his hand. The intrepid girl sprang to his side at once, and +then passing in front of him, she fired some shots from a revolver in quick +succession. A low, confused sound of feet and a scuffling noise followed, +when a rough, hoarse voice cried out, ‘Stop firing; we are wounded, and +going away.’ + +‘Are you badly hurt?’ whispered Kate to Walpole. + +‘Nothing serious: be still and listen!’ + +‘There, the carbine is ready again. Oh, you cannot hold it--leave it to +me,’ said she. + +From the difficulty of removal, it seemed as though one of the party +beneath was either killed or badly wounded, for it was several minutes +before they could gain the outer door. + +‘Are they really retiring?’ whispered Walpole. + +‘Yes; they seem to have suffered heavily.’ + +‘Would you not give them one shot at parting--that carbine is charged?’ +asked he anxiously. + +‘Not for worlds,’ said she; ‘savage as they are, it would be ruin to break +faith with them.’ + +‘Give me a pistol, my left hand is all right.’ Though he tried to speak +with calmness, the agony of pain he was suffering so overcame him that he +leaned his head down, and rested it on her shoulder. + +‘My poor, poor fellow,’ said she tenderly, ‘I would not for the world that +this had happened.’ + +‘They’re gone, Miss Kate, they’ve passed out at the big gate, and they’re +off,’ whispered old Mathew, as he stood trembling behind her. + +‘Here, call some one, and help this gentleman up the stairs, and get a +mattress down on the floor at once; send off a messenger, Sally, for Doctor +Tobin. He can take the car that came this evening, and let him make what +haste he can.’ + +‘Is he wounded?’ said Nina, as they laid him down on the floor. Walpole +tried to smile and say something, but no sound came forth. + +‘My own dear, dear Cecil,’ whispered Nina, as she knelt and kissed his +hand, ‘tell me it is not dangerous.’ He had fainted. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +WHAT THE PAPERS SAID OF IT + + +The wounded man had just fallen into a first sleep after his disaster, when +the press of the capital was already proclaiming throughout the land the +attack and search for arms at Kilgobbin Castle. In the National papers a +very few lines were devoted to the event; indeed, their tone was one of +party sneer at the importance given by their contemporaries to a very +ordinary incident. ‘Is there,’ asked the _Convicted Felon_, ‘anything very +strange or new in the fact that Irishmen have determined to be armed? Is +English legislation in this country so marked by justice, clemency, and +generosity that the people of Ireland prefer to submit their lives and +fortunes to its sway, to trusting what brave men alone trust in--their +fearlessness and their daring? What is there, then, so remarkable in the +repairing to Mr. Kearney’s house for a loan of those weapons of which his +family for several generations have forgotten the use?’ In the Government +journals the story of the attack was headed, ‘Attack on Kilgobbin Castle. +Heroic resistance by a young lady’; in which Kate Kearney’s conduct was +described in colours of extravagant eulogy. She was alternately Joan of Arc +and the Maid of Saragossa, and it was gravely discussed whether any and +what honours of the Crown were at Her Majesty’s disposal to reward such +brilliant heroism. In another print of the same stamp the narrative began: +‘The disastrous condition of our country is never displayed in darker +colours than when the totally unprovoked character of some outrage has +to be recorded by the press. It is our melancholy task to present such a +case as this to our readers to-day. If it was our wish to exhibit to a +stranger the picture of an Irish estate in which all the blessings of good +management, intelligence, kindliness, and Christian charity were displayed; +to show him a property where the wellbeing of landlord and tenant were +inextricably united, where the condition of the people, their dress, their +homes, their food, and their daily comforts, could stand comparison with +the most favoured English county, we should point to the Kearney estate +of Kilgobbin; and yet it is here, in the very house where his ancestors +have resided for generations, that a most savage and dastardly attack is +made; and if we feel a sense of shame in recording the outrage, we are +recompensed by the proud elation with which we can recount the repulse--the +noble and gallant achievement of an Irish girl. History has the record of +more momentous feats, but we doubt that there is one in the annals of any +land in which a higher heroism was displayed than in this splendid defence +by Miss Kearney.’ Then followed the story; not one of the papers having any +knowledge of Walpole’s presence on the occasion, or the slightest suspicion +that she was aided in any way. + +Joe Atlee was busily engaged in conning over and comparing these somewhat +contradictory reports, as he sat at his breakfast, his chum Kearney being +still in bed and asleep after a late night at a ball. At last there came a +telegraphic despatch for Kearney; armed with which, Joe entered the bedroom +and woke him. + +‘Here’s something for you, Dick,’ cried he. ‘Are you too sleepy to read +it?’ + +‘Tear it open and see what it is, like a good fellow,’ said the other +indolently. + +‘It’s from your sister--at least, it is signed Kate. It says: “There is no +cause for alarm. All is going on well, and papa will be back this evening. +I write by this post.”’ + +‘What does all that mean?’ cried Dick, in surprise. + +‘The whole story is in the papers. The boys have taken the opportunity of +your father’s absence from home to make a demand for arms at your house, +and your sister, it seems, showed fight and beat them off. They talk of two +fellows being seen badly wounded, but, of course, that part of the story +cannot be relied on. That they got enough to make them beat a retreat is, +however, certain; and as they were what is called a strong party, the feat +of resisting them is no small glory for a young lady.’ + +‘It was just what Kate was certain to do. There’s no man with a braver +heart.’ + +I wonder how the beautiful Greek behaved? I should like greatly to hear +what part she took in the defence of the citadel. Was she fainting or in +hysterics, or so overcome by terror as to be unconscious?’ + +‘I’ll make you any wager you like, Kate did the whole thing herself. There +was a Whiteboy attack to force the stairs when she was a child, and I +suppose we rehearsed that combat fully fifty--ay, five hundred times. Kate +always took the defence, and though we were sometimes four to one, she kept +us back.’ + +‘By Jove! I think I should be afraid of such a young lady.’ + +‘So you would. She has more pluck in her heart than half that blessed +province you come from. That’s the blood of the old stock you are often +pleased to sneer at, and of which the present will be a lesson to teach you +better.’ + +‘May not the lovely Greek be descended from some ancient stock too? Who is +to say what blood of Pericles she had not in her veins? I tell you I’ll not +give up the notion that she was a sharer in this glory.’ + +‘If you’ve got the papers with the account, let me see them, Joe. I’ve half +a mind to run down by the night-mail--that is, if I can. Have you got any +tin, Atlee?’ + +‘There were some shillings in one of my pockets last night. How much do you +want?’ + +‘Eighteen-and-six first class, and a few shillings for a cab.’ + +‘I can manage that; but I’ll go and fetch you the papers, there’s time +enough to talk of the journey.’ + +The newsman had just deposited the _Croppy_ on the table as Joe returned +to the breakfast-table, and the story of Kilgobbin headed the first column +in large capitals. ‘While our contemporaries,’ it began, ‘are recounting +with more than their wonted eloquence the injuries inflicted on three poor +labouring men, who, in their ignorance of the locality, had the temerity to +ask for alms at Kilgobbin Castle yesterday evening, and were ignominiously +driven away from the door by a young lady, whose benevolence was +administered through a blunderbuss, we, who form no portion of the polite +press, and have no pretension to mix in what are euphuistically called the +“best circles” of this capital, would like to ask, for the information of +those humble classes among which our readers are found, is it the custom +for young ladies to await the absence of their fathers to entertain +young gentlemen tourists? and is a reputation for even heroic courage +not somewhat dearly purchased at the price of the companionship of the +admittedly most profligate man of a vicious and corrupt society? The +heroine who defended Kilgobbin can reply to our query.’ + +Joe Atlee read this paragraph three times over before he carried in the +paper to Kearney. + +‘Here’s an insolent paragraph, Dick,’ he cried, as he threw the paper to +him on the bed. ‘Of course it’s a thing cannot be noticed in any way, but +it’s not the less rascally for that.’ + +‘You know the fellow who edits this paper, Joe?’ said Kearney, trembling +with passion. + +‘No; my friend is doing his bit of oakum at Kilmainham. They gave him +thirteen months, and a fine that he’ll never be able to pay; but what would +you do if the fellow who wrote it were in the next room at this moment?’ + +‘Thrash him within an inch of his life.’ + +‘And, with the inch of life left him, he’d get strong again and write at +you and all belonging to you every day of his existence. Don’t you see +that all this license is one of the prices of liberty? There’s no guarding +against excesses when you establish a rivalry. The doctors could tell you +how many diseased lungs and aneurisms are made by training for a rowing +match.’ + +‘I’ll go down by the mail to-night and see what has given the origin to +this scandalous falsehood.’ + +‘There’s no harm in doing that, especially if you take me with you.’ + +‘Why should I take you, or for what?’ + +‘As guide, counsellor, and friend.’ + +‘Bright thought, when all the money we can muster between us is only enough +for one fare.’ + +‘Doubtless, first class; but we could go third class, two of us for the +same money. Do you imagine that Damon and Pythias would have been separated +if it came even to travelling in a cow compartment?’ + +‘I wish you could see that there are circumstances in life where the comic +man is out of place.’ + +‘I trust I shall never discover them; at least, so long as Fate treats me +with “heavy tragedy.”’ + +‘I’m not exactly sure, either, whether they ‘d like to receive you just now +at Kilgobbin.’ + +‘Inhospitable thought! My heart assures me of a most cordial welcome.’ + +‘And I should only stay a day or two at farthest.’ + +‘Which would suit me to perfection. I must be back here by Tuesday if I had +to walk the distance.’ + +‘Not at all improbable, so far as I know of your resources.’ + +‘What a churlish dog it is! Now had you, Master Dick, proposed to me that +we should go down and pass a week at a certain small thatched cottage +on the banks of the Ban, where a Presbyterian minister with eight olive +branches vegetates, discussing tough mutton and tougher theology on +Sundays, and getting through the rest of the week with the parables and +potatoes, I’d have said, Done!’ + +‘It was the inopportune time I was thinking of. Who knows what confusion +this event may not have thrown them into? If you like to risk the +discomfort, I make no objection.’ + +‘To so heartily expressed an invitation there can be but one answer, I +yield.’ + +‘Now look here, Joe, I’d better be frank with you: don’t try it on at +Kilgobbin as you do with me.’ + +‘You are afraid of my insinuating manners, are you?’ + +‘I am afraid of your confounded impudence, and of that notion you cannot +get rid of, that your cool familiarity is a fashionable tone.’ + +‘How men mistake themselves. I pledge you my word, if I was asked what was +the great blemish in my manner, I’d have said it was bashfulness.’ + +‘Well, then, it is not!’ + +‘Are you sure, Dick, are you quite sure?’ + +‘I am quite sure, and unfortunately for you, you’ll find that the majority +agree with me.’ + +‘“A wise man should guard himself against the defects that he might have, +without knowing it.” That is a Persian proverb, which you will find in +_Hafiz_. I believe you never read _Hafiz_!’ + +‘No, nor you either.’ + +‘That’s true; but I can make my own _Hafiz_, and just as good as the real +article. By the way, are you aware that the water-carriers at Tehran sing +_Lalla Rookh_, and believe it a national poem?’ + +‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’ + +‘I’ll bring down an _Anacreon_ with me, and see if the Greek cousin can +spell her way through an ode.’ + +‘And I distinctly declare you shall do no such thing.’ + +‘Oh dear, oh dear, what an unamiable trait is envy! By the way, was that +your frock-coat I wore yesterday at the races?’ + +‘I think you know it was; at least you remembered it when you tore the +sleeve.’ + +‘True, most true; that torn sleeve was the reason the rascal would only let +me have fifteen shillings on it.’ + +‘And you mean to say you pawned my coat?’ + +‘I left it in the temporary care of a relative, Dick; but it is a +redeemable mortgage, and don’t fret about it.’ + +‘Ever the same!’ + +‘No, Dick, that means worse and worse! Now, I am in the process of +reformation. The natural selection, however, where honesty is in the +series, is a slow proceeding, and the organic changes are very complicated. +As I know, however, you attach value to the effect you produce in that +coat, I’ll go and recover it. I shall not need Terence or Juvenal till we +come back, and I’ll leave them in the avuncular hands till then.’ + +‘I wonder you’re not ashamed of these miserable straits.’ + +‘I am very much ashamed of the world that imposes them on me. I’m +thoroughly ashamed of that public in lacquered leather, that sees +me walking in broken boots. I’m heartily ashamed of that well-fed, +well-dressed, sleek society, that never so much as asked whether the +intellectual-looking man in the shabby hat, who looked so lovingly at the +spiced beef in the window, had dined yet, or was he fasting for a wager?’ + +‘There, don’t carry away that newspaper; I want to read over that pleasant +paragraph again!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +THE JOURNEY TO THE COUNTRY + + +The two friends were deposited at the Moate station at a few minutes after +midnight, and their available resources amounting to something short of two +shillings, and the fare of a car and horse to Kilgobbin being more than +three times that amount, they decided to devote their small balance to +purposes of refreshment, and then set out for the castle on foot. + +‘It is a fine moonlight; I know all the short cuts, and I want a bit of +walking besides,’ said Kearney; and though Joe was of a self-indulgent +temperament, and would like to have gone to bed after his supper and +trusted to the chapter of accidents to reach Kilgobbin by a conveyance some +time, any time, he had to yield his consent and set out on the road. + +‘The fellow who comes with the letter-bag will fetch over our portmanteau,’ +said Dick, as they started. + +‘I wish you’d give him directions to take charge of me, too,’ said Joe, who +felt very indisposed to a long walk. + +‘I like _you_,’ said Dick sneeringly; ‘you are always telling me that you +are the sort of fellow for a new colony, life in the bush, and the rest +of it, and when it conies to a question of a few miles’ tramp on a bright +night in June, you try to skulk it in every possible way. You’re a great +humbug, Master Joe.’ + +‘And you a very small humbug, and there lies the difference between us. +The combinations in your mind are so few, that, as in a game of only three +cards, there is no skill in the playing; while in my nature, as in that +game called tarocco, there are half-a-dozen packs mixed up together, and +the address required to play them is considerable.’ + +‘You have a very satisfactory estimate of your own abilities, Joe.’ + +‘And why not? If a clever fellow didn’t know he was clever, the opinion of +the world on his superiority would probably turn his brain.’ + +‘And what do you say if his own vanity should do it?’ + +‘There is really no way of explaining to a fellow like you--’ + +‘What do you mean by a fellow like me?’ broke in Dick, somewhat angrily. + +‘I mean this, that I’d as soon set to work to explain the theory of +exchequer bonds to an Eskimo, as to make an unimaginative man understand +something purely speculative. What you, and scores of fellows like you, +denominate vanity, is only another form of hopefulness. You and your +brethren--for you are a large family--do you know what it is to Hope! that +is, you have no idea of what it is to build on the foundation of certain +qualities you recognise in yourself, and to say that “if I can go so far +with such a gift, such another will help me on so much farther.”’ + +‘I tell you one thing I do hope, which is, that the next time I set out +a twelve miles’ walk, I’ll have a companion less imbued with +self-admiration.’ + +‘And you might and might not find him pleasanter company. Cannot you see, +old fellow, that the very things you object to in me are what are wanting +in you? they are, so to say, the compliments of your own temperament.’ + +‘Have you a cigar?’ + +‘Two--take them both. I’d rather talk than smoke just now.’ + +‘I am almost sorry for it, though it gives me the tobacco.’ + +‘Are we on your father’s property yet?’ + +‘Yes; part of that village we came through belongs to us, and all this bog +here is ours.’ + +‘Why don’t you reclaim it? labour costs a mere nothing in this country. +Why don’t you drain those tracts, and treat the soil with lime? I’d live +on potatoes, I’d make my family live on potatoes, and my son, and my +grandson, for three generations, but I’d win this land back to culture and +productiveness.’ + +‘The fee-simple of the soil wouldn’t pay the cost. It would be cheaper to +save the money and buy an estate.’ + +‘That is one, and a very narrow view of it; but imagine the glory of +restoring a lost tract to a nation, welcoming back the prodigal, and +installing him in his place amongst his brethren. This was all forest once. +Under the shade of the mighty oaks here those gallant O’Caharneys your +ancestors followed the chase, or rested at noontide, or skedaddled in +double-quick before those smart English of the Pale, who I must say treated +your forbears with scant courtesy.’ + +‘We held our own against them for many a year.’ + +‘Only when it became so small it was not worth taking. Is not your father a +Whig?’ + +‘He’s a Liberal, but he troubles himself little about parties.’ + +‘He’s a stout Catholic, though, isn’t he?’ + +‘He is a very devout believer in his Church,’ said Dick with the tone of +one who did not desire to continue the theme. + +‘Then why does he stop at Whiggery? why not go in for Nationalism and all +the rest of it?’ + +‘And what’s all the rest of it?’ + +‘Great Ireland--no first flower of the earth or gem of the sea humbug--but +Ireland great in prosperity, her harbours full of ships, the woollen trade, +her ancient staple, revived: all that vast unused water-power, greater than +all the steam of Manchester and Birmingham tenfold, at full work; the linen +manufacture developed and promoted--’ + +‘And the Union repealed?’ + +‘Of course; that should be first of all. Not that I object to the Union, as +many do, on the grounds of English ignorance as to Ireland. My dislike is, +that, for the sake of carrying through certain measures necessary to Irish +interests, I must sit and discuss questions which have no possible concern +for me, and touch me no more than the debates in the Cortes, or the +Reichskammer at Vienna. What do you or I care for who rules India, or who +owns Turkey? What interest of mine is it whether Great Britain has five +ironclads or fifty, or whether the Yankees take Canada, and the Russians +Kabul?’ + +‘You’re a Fenian, and I am not.’ + +‘I suppose you’d call yourself an Englishman?’ + +‘I am an English subject, and I owe my allegiance to England.’ + +‘Perhaps for that matter, I owe some too; but I owe a great many things +that I don’t distress myself about paying.’ + +‘Whatever your sentiments are on these matters--and, Joe, I am not disposed +to think you have any very fixed ones--pray do me the favour to keep them +to yourself while under my father’s roof. I can almost promise you he’ll +obtrude none of his peculiar opinions on _you_, and I hope you will treat +_him_ with a like delicacy.’ + +‘What will your folks talk, then? I can’t suppose they care for books, +art, or the drama. There is no society, so there can be no gossip. If that +yonder be the cabin of one of your tenants, I’ll certainly not start the +question of farming.’ + +‘There are poor on every estate,’ said Dick curtly. + +‘Now what sort of a rent does that fellow pay--five pounds a year?’ + +‘More likely five-and-twenty or thirty shillings.’ + +‘By Jove, I’d like to set up house in that fashion, and make love to some +delicately-nurtured miss, win her affections, and bring her home to such a +spot. Wouldn’t that be a touchstone of affection, Dick?’ + +‘If I could believe you were in earnest, I’d throw you neck and heels into +that bog-hole.’ + +‘Oh, if you would!’ cried he, and there was a ring of truthfulness in his +voice now there could be no mistaking. Half-ashamed of the emotion his +idle speech had called up, and uncertain how best to treat the emergency, +Kearney said nothing, and Atlee walked on for miles without a word. + +‘You can see the house now. It tops the trees yonder,’ said Dick. + +‘That is Kilgobbin Castle, then?’ said Joe slowly. + +‘There’s not much of castle left about it. There is a square block of a +tower, and you can trace the moat and some remains of outworks.’ + +‘Shall I make you a confession, Dick? I envy you all that! I envy you what +smacks of a race, a name, an ancestry, a lineage. It’s a great thing to be +able to “take up the running,” as folks say, instead of making all the race +yourself; and there’s one inestimable advantage in it, it rescues you from +all indecent haste about asserting your station. You feel yourself to be a +somebody and you’ve not hurried to proclaim it. There now, my boy, if you’d +have said only half as much as that on the score of your family, I’d have +called you an arrant snob. So much for consistency.’ + +‘What you have said gave me pleasure, I’ll own that.’ + +‘I suppose it was you planted those trees there. It was a nice thought, and +makes the transition from the bleak bog to the cultivated land more easy +and graceful. Now I see the castle well. It’s a fine portly mass against +the morning sky, and I perceive you fly a flag over it.’ + +‘When the lord is at home.’ + +‘Ay, and by the way, do you give him his title while talking to him here?’ + +‘The tenants do, and the neighbours and strangers do as they please about +it.’ + +‘Does he like it himself?’ + +‘If I was to guess, I should perhaps say he does like it. Here we are now. +Inside this low gate you are within the demesne, and I may bid you welcome +to Kilgobbin. We shall build a lodge here one of these days. There’s a good +stretch, however, yet to the castle. We call it two miles, and it’s not far +short of it.’ + +‘What a glorious morning. There is an ecstasy in scenting these nice fresh +woods in the clear sunrise, and seeing those modest daffodils make their +morning toilet.’ + +‘That’s a fancy of Kate’s. There is a border of such wild flowers all the +way to the house.’ + +‘And those rills of clear water that flank the road, are they of her +designing?’ + +‘That they are. There was a cutting made for a railroad line about four +miles from this, and they came upon a sort of pudding-stone formation, made +up chiefly of white pebbles. Kate heard of it, purchased the whole mass, +and had these channels paved with them from the gate to the castle, and +that’s the reason this water has its crystal clearness.’ + +‘She’s worthy of Shakespeare’s sweet epithet, the “daintiest Kate in +Christendom.” Here’s her health!’ and he stooped down, and filling his palm +with the running water, drank it off. + +‘I see it’s not yet five o’clock. We’ll steal quietly off to bed, and have +three or four hours sleep before we show ourselves.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A SICK-ROOM + + +Cecil Walpole occupied the state-room and the state-bed at Kilgobbin +Castle; but the pain of a very serious wound had left him very little +faculty to know what honour was rendered him, or of what watchful +solicitude he was the object. The fever brought on by his wound had +obliterated in his mind all memory of where he was; and it was only +now--that is, on the same morning that the young men had arrived at the +castle--that he was able to converse without much difficulty, and enjoy +the companionship of Lockwood, who had come over to see him and scarcely +quitted his bedside since the disaster. + +It seems going on all right,’ said Lockwood, as he lifted the iced cloths +to look at the smashed limb, which lay swollen and livid on a pillow +outside the clothes. + +‘It’s not pretty to look at, Harry; but the doctor says “we shall save +it”--his phrase for not cutting it off.’ + +‘They’ve taken up two fellows on suspicion, and I believe they were of the +party here that night.’ + +‘I don’t much care about that. It was a fair fight, and I suspect I did +not get the worst of it. What really does grieve me is to think how +ingloriously one gets a wound that in real war would have been a title of +honour.’ + +‘If I had to give a V.C. for this affair, it would be to that fine girl I’d +give it, and not to you, Cecil.’ + +‘So should I. There is no question whatever as to our respective shares in +the achievement.’ + +‘And she is so modest and unaffected about it all, and when she was showing +me the position and the alcove, she never ceased to lay stress on the +safety she enjoyed during the conflict.’ + +‘Then she said nothing about standing in front of me after I was wounded?’ + +‘Not a word. She said a great deal about your coolness and indifference to +danger, but nothing about her own.’ + +‘Well, I suppose it’s almost a shame to own it--not that I could have done +anything to prevent it--but she did step down one step of the stair and +actually cover me from fire.’ + +‘She’s the finest girl in Europe,’ said Lockwood warmly. + +‘And if it was not the contrast with her cousin, I’d almost say one of the +handsomest,’ said Cecil. + +‘The Greek is splendid, I admit that, though she’ll not speak--she’ll +scarcely notice me.’ + +‘How is that?’ + +‘I can’t imagine, except it might have been, an awkward speech I made when +we were talking over the row. I said, “Where were you? what were you doing +all this time? “’ + +‘And what answer did she make you?’ + +‘None; not a word. She drew herself proudly up, and opened her eyes so +large and full upon me, that I felt I must have appeared some sort of +monster to be so stared at.’ + +‘I’ve seen her do that.’ + +‘It was very grand and very beautiful; but I’ll be shot if I’d like to +stand under it again. From that time to this she has never deigned me more +than a mere salutation.’ + +‘And are you good friends with the other girl?’ + +‘The best in the world. I don’t see much of her, for she’s always abroad, +over the farm, or among the tenants: but when we meet we are very cordial +and friendly.’ + +‘And the father, what is he like?’ + +‘My lord is a glorious old fellow, full of hospitable plans and pleasant +projects; but terribly distressed to think that this unlucky incident +should prejudice you against Ireland. Indeed, he gave me to understand that +there must have been some mistake or misconception in the matter, for the +castle had never been attacked before; and he insists on saying that if +you will stop here--I think he said ten years--you’ll not see another such +occurrence.’ + +‘It’s rather a hard way to test the problem though.’ + +‘What’s more, he included me in the experiment.’ + +‘And this title? Does he assume it, or expect it to be recognised?’ + +‘I can scarcely tell you. The Greek girl “my lords” him occasionally; his +daughter, never. The servants always do so; and I take it that people use +their own discretion about it.’ + +‘Or do it in a sort of indolent courtesy, as they call Marsala, sherry, but +take care at the same time to pass the decanter. I believe you telegraphed +to his Excellency?’ + +‘Yes; and he means to come over next week.’ + +‘Any news of Lady Maude?’ + +‘Only that she comes with him, and I’m sorry for it.’ + +‘So am I--deuced sorry! In a gossiping town like Dublin there will be +surely some story afloat about these handsome girls here. She saw the +Greek, too, at the Duke of Rigati’s ball at Rome, and she never forgets a +name or a face. A pleasant trait in a wife.’ + +‘Of course the best plan will be to get removed, and be safely installed in +our old quarters at the Castle before they arrive.’ + +‘We must hear what the doctor says.’ + +‘He’ll say no, naturally, for he’ll not like to lose his patient. He will +have to convey you to town, and we’ll try and make him believe it will be +the making of him. Don’t you agree with me, Cecil, it’s the thing to do?’ + +‘I have not thought it over yet. I will to-day. By the way, I know it’s the +thing to do,’ repeated he, with an air of determination. ‘There will be all +manner of reports, scandals, and falsehoods to no end about this business +here; and when Lady Maude learns, as she is sure to learn, that the “Greek +girl” is in the story, I cannot measure the mischief that may come of it.’ + +‘Break off the match, eh?’ + +‘That is certainly “on the cards.”’ + +‘I suspect even that would not break your heart.’ + +‘I don’t say it would, but it would prove very inconvenient in many ways. +Danesbury has great claims on his party. He came here as Viceroy dead +against his will, and, depend upon it, he made his terms. Then if these +people go out, and the Tories want to outbid them, Danesbury could +take--ay, and would take--office under them.’ + +‘I cannot follow all that. All I know is, I like the old boy himself, +though he is a bit pompous now and then, and fancies he’s Emperor of +Russia.’ + +‘I wish his niece didn’t imagine she was an imperial princess.’ + +‘That she does! I think she is the haughtiest girl I ever met. To be sure +she was a great beauty.’ + +‘_Was_, Harry! What do you mean by “was”? Lady Maude is not +eight-and-twenty.’ + +‘Ain’t she, though? Will you have a ten-pound note on it that she’s not +over thirty-one; and I can tell you who could decide the wager?’ + +‘A delicate thought!--a fellow betting on the age of the girl he’s going to +marry!’ + +[Illustration: He entered and Nina arose as he came forward.] + +‘Ten o’clock!--nearly half-past ten!’ said Lockwood, rising from his chair. +‘I must go and have some breakfast. I meant to have been down in time +to-day, and breakfasted with the old fellow and his daughter; for coming +late brings me to a _tête-à-tête_ with the Greek damsel, and it isn’t +jolly, I assure you.’ + +‘Don’t you speak?’ + +‘Never a word?’ She’s generally reading a newspaper when I go in. She lays +it down; but after remarking that she fears I’ll find the coffee cold, she +goes on with her breakfast, kisses her Maltese terrier, asks him a few +questions about his health, and whether he would like to be in a warmer +climate, and then sails away.’ + +‘And how she walks!’ + +‘Is she bored here?’ + +‘She says not.’ + +‘She can scarcely like these people; they ‘re not the sort of thing she has +ever been used to.’ + +‘She tells me she likes them: they certainly like her.’ + +‘Well,’ said Lockwood, with a sigh, ‘she’s the most beautiful woman, +certainly, I’ve ever seen; and, at this moment, I’d rather eat a crust with +a glass of beer under a hedge than I’d go down and sit at breakfast with +her.’ + +‘I’ll be shot if I’ll not tell her that speech the first day I’m down +again.’ + +‘So you may, for by that time I shall have seen her for the last time.’ +And with this he strolled out of the room and down the stairs towards the +breakfast-parlour. + +As he stood at the door he heard the sound of voices laughing and talking +pleasantly. He entered, and Nina arose as he came forward, and said, ‘Let +me present my cousin--Mr. Richard Kearney, Major Lockwood; his friend, Mr. +Atlee.’ + +The two young men stood up--Kearny stiff and haughty, and Atlee with a +sort of easy assurance that seemed to suit his good-looking but certainly +snobbish style. As for Lockwood, he was too much a gentleman to have more +than one manner, and he received these two men as he would have received +any other two of any rank anywhere. + +‘These gentlemen have been showing me some strange versions of our little +incident here in the Dublin papers,’ said Nina to Lockwood. ‘I scarcely +thought we should become so famous.’ + +‘I suppose they don’t stickle much for truth,’ said Lockwood, as he broke +his egg in leisurely fashion. + +‘They were scarcely able to provide a special correspondent for the event,’ +said Atlee; ‘but I take it they give the main facts pretty accurately and +fairly.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Lockwood, more struck by the manner than by the words of the +speaker. ‘They mention, then, that my friend received a bad fracture of the +forearm.’ + +‘No, I don’t think they do; at least so far as I have seen. They speak of +a night attack on Kilgobbin Castle, made by an armed party of six or seven +men with faces blackened, and their complete repulse through the heroic +conduct of a young lady.’ + +‘The main facts, then, include no mention of poor Walpole and his +misfortune?’ + +‘I don’t think that we mere Irish attach any great importance to a broken +arm, whether it came of a cricket-ball or gun; but we do interest ourselves +deeply when an Irish girl displays feats of heroism and courage that men +find it hard to rival.’ + +‘It was very fine,’ said Lockwood gravely. + +‘Fine! I should think it was fine!’ burst out Atlee. ‘It was so fine that, +had the deed been done on the other side of this narrow sea, the nation +would not have been satisfied till your Poet Laureate had commemorated it +in verse.’ + +‘Have they discovered any traces of the fellows?’ said Lockwood, who +declined to follow the discussion into this channel. + +‘My father has gone over to Moate to-day,’ said Kearney, now speaking for +the first time, ‘to hear the examination of two fellows who have been taken +up on suspicion.’ + +‘You have plenty of this sort of thing in your country,’ said Atlee to +Nina. + +‘Where do you mean when you say my country?’ + +‘I mean Greece.’ + +‘But I have not seen Greece since I was a child, so high; I have lived +always in Italy.’ + +‘Well, Italy has Calabria and the Terra del Lavoro.’ + +‘And how much do we in Rome know about either?’ + +‘About as much,’ said Lockwood, ‘as Belgravia does of the Bog of Allen.’ + +‘You’ll return to your friends in civilised life with almost the fame of an +African traveller, Major Lockwood,’ said Atlee pertly. + +‘If Africa can boast such hospitality, I certainly rather envy than +compassionate Doctor Livingstone,’ said he politely. + +‘Somebody,’ said Kearney dryly, ‘calls hospitality the breeding of the +savage.’ + +‘But I deny that we are savage,’ cried Atlee. ‘I contend for it that +all our civilisation is higher, and that class for class we are in a +more advanced culture than the English; that your chawbacon is not as +intelligent a being as our bogtrotter; that your petty shopkeeper is +inferior to ours; that throughout our middle classes there is not only a +higher morality but a higher refinement than with you.’ + +‘I read in one of the most accredited journals of England the other day +that Ireland had never produced a poet, could not even show a second-rate +humorist,’ said Kearney. + +‘Swift and Sterne were third-rate, or perhaps, English,’ said Atlee. + +‘These are themes I’ll not attempt to discuss,’ said Lockwood; ‘but I +know one thing, it takes three times as much military force to govern the +smaller island.’ + +‘That is to say, to govern the country after _your_ fashion; but leave it +to ourselves. Pack your portmanteaus and go away, and then see if we’ll +need this parade of horse, foot, and dragoons; these batteries of guns and +these brigades of peelers.’ + +‘You’d be the first to beg us to come back again.’ + +‘Doubtless, as the Greeks are begging the Turks. Eh, mademoiselle; can you +fancy throwing yourself at the feet of a Pasha and asking leave to be his +slave?’ + +‘The only Greek slave I ever heard of,’ said Lockwood, ‘was in marble and +made by an American.’ + +‘Come into the drawing-room and I’ll sing you something,’ said Nina, +rising. + +‘Which will be far nicer and pleasanter than all this discussion,’ said +Joe. + +‘And if you’ll permit me,’ said Lockwood, ‘we’ll leave the drawing-room +door open and let poor Walpole hear the music.’ + +‘Would it not be better first to see if he’s asleep?’ said she. + +‘That’s true. I’ll step up and see.’ + +Lockwood hurried away, and Joe Atlee, leaning back in his chair, said, +‘Well, we gave the Saxon a canter, I think. As you know, Dick, that fellow +is no end of a swell.’ + +‘You know nothing about him,’ said the other gruffly. + +‘Only so much as newspapers could tell me. He’s Master of the Horse in the +Viceroy’s household, and the other fellow is Private Secretary, and some +connection besides. I say, Dick, it’s all King James’s times back again. +There has not been so much grandeur here for six or eight generations.’ + +‘There has not been a more absurd speech made than that, within the time.’ + +‘And he is really somebody?’ said Nina to Atlee. + +‘A _gran signore davvero_,’ said he pompously. ‘If you don’t sing your very +best for him, I’ll swear you are a republican.’ + +‘Come, take my arm, Nina. I may call you Nina, may I not?’ whispered +Kearney. + +‘Certainly, if I may call you Joe.’ + +‘You may, if you like,’ said he roughly, ‘but my name is Dick.’ + +‘I am Beppo, and very much at your orders,’ said Atlee, stepping forward +and leading her away. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +AT DINNER + + +They were assembled in the drawing-room before dinner, when Lord Kilgobbin +arrived, heated, dusty, and tired, after his twelve miles’ drive. ‘I say, +girls,’ said he, putting his head inside the door, ‘is it true that our +distinguished guest is not coming down to dinner, for, if so, I’ll not wait +to dress?’ + +‘No, papa; he said he’d stay with Mr. Walpole. They’ve been receiving and +despatching telegrams all day, and seem to have the whole world on their +hands,’ said Kate. + +‘Well, sir, what did you do at the sessions?’ + +‘Yes, my lord,’ broke in Nina, eager to show her more mindful regard to his +rank than Atlee displayed; ‘tell us your news?’ + +‘I suspect we have got two of them, and are on the traces of the others. +They are Louth men, and were sent special here to give me a lesson, as they +call it. That’s what our blessed newspapers have brought us to. Some idle +vagabond, at his wits’ end for an article, fastens on some unlucky country +gentleman, neither much better nor worse than his neighbours, holds him +up to public reprobation, perfectly sure that within a week’s time some +rascal who owes him a grudge--the fellow he has evicted for non-payment of +rent, the blackguard he prosecuted for perjury, or some other of the like +stamp--will write a piteous letter to the editor, relating his wrongs. The +next act of the drama is a notice on the hall door, with a coffin at the +top; and the piece closes with a charge of slugs in your body, as you are +on your road to mass. Now, if I had the making of the laws, the first +fellow I’d lay hands on would be the newspaper writer. Eh, Master Atlee, am +I right?’ + +‘I go with you to the furthest extent, my lord.’ + +‘I vote we hang Joe, then,’ cried Dick. ‘He is the only member of the +fraternity I have any acquaintance with.’ + +‘What--do you tell me that you write for the papers?’ asked my lord slyly. + +‘He’s quizzing, sir; he knows right well I have no gifts of that sort.’ + +‘Here’s dinner, papa. Will you give Nina your arm? Mr. Atlee, you are to +take me.’ + +‘You’ll not agree with me, Nina, my dear,’ said the old man, as he led her +along; ‘but I’m heartily glad we have not that great swell who dined with +us yesterday.’ + +‘I do agree with you, uncle--I dislike him.’ + +‘Perhaps I am unjust to him; but I thought he treated us all with a sort of +bland pity that I found very offensive.’ + +‘Yes; I thought that too. His manner seemed to say, “I am very sorry for +you, but what can be done?”’ + +‘Is the other fellow--the wounded one--as bad?’ + +She pursed up her lip, slightly shrugged her shoulders, and then said, +‘There’s not a great deal to choose between them; but I think I like him +better.’ + +‘How do you like Dick, eh?’ said he, in a whisper. + +‘Oh, so much,’ said she, with one of her half-downcast looks, but which +never prevented her seeing what passed in her neighbour’s face. + +‘Well, don’t let him fall in love with _you_,’ said he, with a smile, ‘for +it would be bad for you both.’ + +‘But why should he?’ said she, with an air of innocence. + +‘Just because I don’t see how he is to escape it. What’s Master Atlee +saying to you, Kitty?’ + +‘He’s giving me some hints about horse-breaking,’ said she quietly. + +‘Is he, by George? Well, I ‘d like to see him follow you over that fallen +timber in the back lawn. We’ll have you out, Master Joe, and give you a +field-day to-morrow,’ said the old man. + +‘I vote we do,’ cried Dick; ‘unless, better still, we could persuade Miss +Betty to bring the dogs over and give us a cub-hunt.’ + +‘I want to see a cub-hunt,’ broke in Nina. + +‘Do you mean that you ride to hounds, Cousin Nina?’ asked Dick. + +‘I should think that any one who has taken the ox-fences on the Roman +Campagna, as I have, might venture to face your small stone-walls here.’ + +‘That’s plucky, anyhow; and I hope, Joe, it will put you on your metal to +show yourself worthy of your companionship. What is old Mathew looking so +mysteriously about? What do you want?’ + +The old servant thus addressed had gone about the room with the air of +one not fully decided to whom to speak, and at last he leaned over Miss +Kearney’s shoulder, and whispered a few words in her ear. ‘Of course not, +Mat!’ said she, and then turning to her father--‘Mat has such an opinion of +my medical skill, he wants me to see Mr. Walpole, who, it seems, has got +up, and evidently increased his pain by it.’ + +‘Oh, but is there no doctor near us?’ asked Nina eagerly. + +‘I’d go at once,’ said Kate frankly, ‘but my skill does not extend to +surgery.’ + +‘I have some little knowledge in that way: I studied and walked the +hospitals for a couple of years,’ broke out Joe. ‘Shall I go up to him?’ + +‘By all means,’ cried several together, and Joe rose and followed Mathew +upstairs. + +‘Oh, are you a medical man?’ cried Lockwood, as the other entered. + +‘After a fashion, I may say I am. At least, I can tell you where my skill +will come to its limit, and that is something.’ + +‘Look here, then--he would insist on getting up, and I fear he has +displaced the position of the bones. You must be very gentle, for the pain +is terrific.’ + +‘No; there’s no great mischief done--the fractured parts are in a proper +position. It is the mere pain of disturbance. Cover it all over with +the ice again, and’--here he felt his pulse--‘let him have some weak +brandy-and-water.’ + +‘That’s sensible advice--I feel it. I am shivery all over,’ said Walpole. + +‘I’ll go and make a brew for you,’ cried Joe, ‘and you shall have it as hot +as you can drink it.’ + +He had scarcely left the room, when he returned with the smoking compound. + +‘You’re such a jolly doctor,’ said Walpole, ‘I feel sure you’d not refuse +me a cigar?’ + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘Only think! that old barbarian who was here this morning said I was to +have nothing but weak tea or iced lemonade.’ + +Lockwood selected a mild-looking weed, and handed it to his friend, and was +about to offer one to Atlee, when he said-- + +‘But we have taken you from your dinner--pray go back again.’ + +‘No, we were at dessert. I’ll stay here and have a smoke, if you will let +me. Will it bore you, though?’ + +‘On the contrary,’ said Walpole, ‘your company will be a great boon to us; +and as for myself, you have done me good already.’ + +‘What would you say, Major Lockwood, to taking my place below-stairs? They +are just sitting over their wine--some very pleasant claret--and the young +ladies, I perceive, here, give half an hour of their company before they +leave the dining-room.’ + +‘Here goes, then,’ said Lockwood. ‘Now that you remind me of it, I do want +a glass of wine.’ + +Lockwood found the party below-stairs eagerly discussing Joe Atlee’s +medical qualifications, and doubting whether, if it was a knowledge of +civil engineering or marine gunnery had been required, he would not have +been equally ready to offer himself for the emergency. + +‘I’ll lay my life on it, if the real doctor arrives, Joe will take the lead +in the consultation,’ cried Dick: ‘he is the most unabashable villain in +Europe.’ + +‘Well, he has put Cecil all right,’ said Lockwood: ‘he has settled the arm +most comfortably on the pillow, the pain is decreasing every moment, and by +his pleasant and jolly talk he is making Walpole even forget it at times.’ + +This was exactly what Atlee was doing. Watching carefully the sick man’s +face, he plied him with just that amount of amusement that he could bear +without fatigue. He told him the absurd versions that had got abroad of the +incident in the press; and cautiously feeling his way, went on to tell +how Dick Kearney had started from town full of the most fiery intentions +towards that visitor whom the newspapers called a ‘noted profligate’ of +London celebrity. ‘If you had not been shot before, we were to have managed +it for you now,’ said he. + +‘Surely these fellows who wrote this had never heard of me.’ + +‘Of course they had not, further than you were on the Viceroy’s staff; but +is not that ample warranty for profligacy? Besides, the real intention was +not to assail you, but the people here who admitted you.’ Thus talking, he +led Walpole to own that he had no acquaintanceship with the Kearneys, that +a mere passing curiosity to see the interesting house had provoked his +request, to which the answer, coming from an old friend, led to his visit. +Through this channel Atlee drew him on to the subject of the Greek girl +and her parentage. As Walpole sketched the society of Rome, Atlee, who had +cultivated the gift of listening fully as much as that of talking, knew +where to seem interested by the views of life thrown out, and where to show +a racy enjoyment of the little humoristic bits of description which the +other was rather proud of his skill in deploying; and as Atlee always +appeared so conversant with the family history of the people they were +discussing, Walpole spoke with unbounded freedom and openness. + +‘You must have been astonished to meet the “Titian Girl” in Ireland?’ said +Joe at last, for he had caught up the epithet dropped accidentally in the +other’s narrative, and kept it for use. + +‘Was I not! but if my memory had been clearer, I should have remembered she +had Irish connections. I had heard of Lord Kilgobbin on the other side of +the Alps.’ + +‘I don’t doubt that the title would meet a readier acceptance there than +here.’ + +‘Ah, you think so!’ cried Walpole. ‘What is the meaning of a rank that +people acknowledge or deny at pleasure? Is this peculiar to Ireland?’ + +‘If you had asked whether persons anywhere else would like to maintain such +a strange pretension, I might perhaps have answered you.’ + +‘For the few minutes of this visit to me, I liked him; he seemed frank, +hearty, and genial.’ + +‘I suppose he is, and I suspect this folly of the lordship is no fancy of +his own.’ + +‘Nor the daughter’s, then, I’ll be bound?’ + +‘No; the son, I take it, has all the ambition of the house.’ + +‘Do you know them well?’ + +‘No, I never saw them till yesterday. The son and I are chums: we live +together, and have done so these three years.’ + +‘You like your visit here, however?’ + +‘Yes. It’s rather good fun on the whole. I was afraid of the indoor life +when I was coming down, but it’s pleasanter than I looked for.’ + +‘When I asked you the question, it was not out of idle curiosity. I had a +strong personal interest in your answer. In fact, it was another way of +inquiring whether it would be a great sacrifice to tear yourself away from +this.’ + +‘No, inasmuch as the tearing-away process must take place in a couple of +days--three at farthest.’ + +‘That makes what I have to propose all the easier. It is a matter of great +urgency for me to reach Dublin at once. This unlucky incident has been so +represented by the newspapers as to give considerable uneasiness to the +Government, and they are even threatened with a discussion on it in the +House. Now, I’d start to-morrow, if I thought I could travel with safety. +You have so impressed me with your skill, that, if I dared, I’d ask you to +convoy me up. Of course I mean as my physician.’ + +‘But I’m not one, nor ever intend to be.’ + +‘You studied, however?’ + +‘As I have done scores of things. I know a little bit of criminal law, have +done some shipbuilding, rode _haute école_ in Cooke’s circus, and, after M. +Dumas, I am considered the best amateur macaroni-maker in Europe.’ + +‘And which of these careers do you intend to abide by?’ + +‘None, not one of them. “Financing” is the only pursuit that pays largely. +I intend to go in for money.’ + +‘I should like to hear your ideas on that subject.’ + +‘So you shall, as we travel up to town.’ + +‘You accept my offer, then?’ + +‘Of course I do. I am delighted to have so many hours in your company. I +believe I can safely say I have that amount of skill to be of service +to you. One begins his medical experience with fractures. They are the +pothooks and hangers of surgery, and I have gone that far. Now, what are +your plans?’ + +‘My plans are to leave this early to-morrow, so as to rest during the hot +hours of the day, and reach Dublin by nightfall. Why do you smile?’ + +‘I smile at your notion of climate; but I never knew any man who had been +once in Italy able to disabuse himself of the idea that there were three +or four hours every summer day to be passed with closed shutters and iced +drinks.’ + +‘Well, I believe I was thinking of a fiercer sun and a hotter soil than +these. To return to my project: we can find means of posting, carriage and +horses, in the village. I forget its name.’ + +‘I’ll take care of all that. At what hour will you start?’ + +‘I should say by six or seven. I shall not sleep; and I shall be all +impatience till we are away.’ + +‘Well, is there anything else to be thought of?’ + +‘There is--that is, I have something on my mind, and I am debating with +myself how far, on a half-hour’s acquaintance, I can make you a partner in +it.’ + +‘I cannot help you by my advice. I can only say that if you like to trust +me, I’ll know how to respect the confidence.’ + +Walpole looked steadily and steadfastly at him, and the examination seemed +to satisfy him, for he said, ‘I will trust you--not that the matter is a +secret in any sense that involves consequences; but it is a thing that +needs a little tact and discretion, a slight exercise of a light hand, +which is what my friend Lockwood fails in. Now you could do it.’ + +‘If I can, I will. What is it?’ + +‘Well, the matter is this. I have written a few lines here, very illegibly +and badly, as you may believe, for they were with my left hand; and +besides having the letter conveyed to its address, I need a few words of +explanation.’ + +‘The Titian Girl,’ muttered Joe, as though thinking aloud. + +‘Why do you say so?’ + +‘Oh, it was easy enough to see her greater anxiety and uneasiness about +you. There was an actual flash of jealousy across her features when Miss +Kearney proposed coming up to see you.’ + +‘And was this remarked, think you?’ + +‘Only by me. _I_ saw, and let her see I saw it, and we understood each +other from that moment.’ + +‘I mustn’t let you mistake me. You are not to suppose that there is +anything between Mademoiselle Kostalergi and myself. I knew a good deal +about her father, and there were family circumstances in which I was once +able to be of use; and I wished to let her know that if at any time she +desired to communicate with me, I could procure an address, under which she +could write with freedom.’ + +‘As for instance: “J. Atlee, 48 Old Square, Trinity College, Dublin.”’ + +‘Well, I did not think of that at the moment,’ said Walpole, smiling. +‘Now,’ continued he, ‘though I have written all this, it is so blotted +and disgraceful generally--done with the left hand, and while in great +pain--that I think it would be as well not to send the letter, but simply a +message--’ + +Atlee nodded, and Walpole went on: ‘A message to say that I was wishing to +write, but unable; and that if I had her permission, so soon as my fingers +could hold a pen, to finish--yes, to finish that communication I had +already begun, and if she felt there was no inconvenience in writing to me, +under cover to your care, I should pledge myself to devote all my zeal and +my best services to her interests.’ + +‘In fact, I am to lead her to suppose she ought to have the most implicit +confidence in you, and to believe in me, because I say so.’ + +‘I do not exactly see that these are my instructions to you.’ + +‘Well, you certainly want to write to her.’ + +‘I don’t know that I do.’ + +‘At all events, you want her to write to _you_.’ + +‘You are nearer the mark now.’ + +‘That ought not to be very difficult to arrange. I’ll go down now and +have a cup of tea, and I may, I hope, come up and see you again before +bed-time.’ + +‘Wait one moment,’ cried Walpole, as the other was about to leave the room. +‘Do you see a small tray on that table yonder, with some trinkets? Yes, +that is it. Well, will you do me the favour to choose something amongst +them as your fee? Come, come, you know you are my doctor now, and I +insist on this. There’s nothing of any value there, and you will have no +misgivings.’ + +‘Am I to take it haphazard?’ asked Atlee. + +‘Whatever you like,’ said the other indolently. + +‘I have selected a ring,’ said Atlee, as he drew it on his finger. + +‘Not an opal?’ + +‘Yes, it is an opal with brilliants round it.’ + +‘I’d rather you’d taken all the rest than that. Not that I ever wear it, +but somehow it has a bit of memory attached to it!’ + +‘Do you know,’ said Atlee gravely, ‘you are adding immensely to the value +I desired to see in it? I wanted something as a souvenir of you--what the +Germans call an _Andenken_, and here is evidently what has some secret clue +to your affections. It was not an old love-token?’ + +‘No; or I should certainly not part with it.’ + +‘It did not belong to a friend now no more?’ + +‘Nor that either,’ said he, smiling at the other’s persistent curiosity. + +‘Then if it be neither the gift of an old love nor a lost friend, I’ll not +relinquish it,’ cried Joe. + +‘Be it so,’ said Walpole, half carelessly. ‘Mine was a mere caprice after +all. It is linked with a reminiscence--there’s the whole of it; but if you +care for it, pray keep it.’ + +‘I do care for it, and I will keep it.’ + +It was a very peculiar smile that curled Walpole’s lip as he heard this +speech, and there was an expression in his eyes that seemed to say, ‘What +manner of man is this, what sort of nature, new and strange to me, is he +made of?’ + +‘Bye-bye!’ said Atlee carelessly, and he strolled away. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +IN THE GARDEN AT DUSK + + +When Atlee quitted Walpole’s room, he was far too full of doubt and +speculation to wish to join the company in the drawing-room. He had need +of time to collect his thoughts, too, and arrange his plans. This sudden +departure of his would, he well knew, displease Kearney. It would savour +of a degree of impertinence, in treating their hospitality so cavalierly, +that Dick was certain to resent, and not less certain to attribute to a +tuft-hunting weakness on Atlee’s part of which he had frequently declared +he detected signs in Joe’s character. + +‘Be it so. I’ll only say, you’ll not see me cultivate “swells” for the +pleasure of their society, or even the charms of their cookery. If I turn +them to no better uses than display, Master Dick, you may sneer freely at +me. I have long wanted to make acquaintance with one of these fellows, and +luck has now given me the chance. Let us see if I know how to profit by +it.’ + +And, thus muttering to himself, he took his way to the farmyard, to find a +messenger to despatch to the village for post-horses. + +The fact that he was not the owner of a half-crown in the world very +painfully impressed itself on a negotiation, which, to be prompt, should be +prepaid, and which he was endeavouring to explain to two or three very idle +but very incredulous listeners--not one of whom could be induced to accept +a ten miles’ tramp on a drizzling night without the prompting of a tip in +advance. + +‘It’s every step of eight miles,’ cried one. + +‘No, but it’s ten,’ asseverated another with energy, ‘by rayson that you +must go by the road. There’s nobody would venture across the bog in the +dark.’ + +‘Wid five shillings in my hand--’ + +‘And five more when ye come back,’ continued another, who was terrified at +the low estimate so rashly adventured. + +‘If one had even a shilling or two to pay for a drink when he got in to +Kilbeggan wet through and shivering--’ + +The speaker was not permitted to finish his ignominiously low proposal, and +a low growl of disapprobation smothered his words. + +‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said Joe angrily, ‘that there’s not a man here +will step over to the town to order a chaise and post-horses?’ + +‘And if yer honour will put his hand in his pocket and tempt us with a +couple of crown-pieces, there’s no saying what we wouldn’t do,’ said a +little bandy old fellow, who was washing his face at the pump. + +‘And are crown-pieces so plentiful with you down here that you can earn +them so easily?’ said Atlee, with a sneer. + +‘Be me sowl, yer honour, it’s thinking that they’re not so aisy to come at, +makes us a bit lazy this evening!’ said a ragged fellow, with a grin, which +was quickly followed by a hearty laugh from those around him. + +Something that sounded like a titter above his head made Atlee look up, and +there, exactly over where he stood, was Nina, leaning over a little stone +balcony in front of a window, an amused witness of the scene beneath. + +‘I have two words for yourself,’ cried he to her in Italian. ‘Will you come +down to the garden for one moment?’ + +‘Cannot the two words be said in the drawing-room?’ asked she, half +saucily, in the same language. + +‘No, they cannot be said in the drawing-room,’ continued he sternly. + +‘It’s dropping rain. I should get wet.’ + +‘Take an umbrella, then, but come. Mind me, Signora Nina, I am the bearer +of a message for you.’ + +There was something almost disdainful in the toss of her head as she heard +these words, and she hastily retired from the balcony and entered the room. + +Atlee watched her, by no means certain what her gesture might portend. +Was she indignant with him for the liberty he had taken? or was she about +to comply with his request, and meet him? He knew too little of her to +determine which was the more likely; and he could not help feeling that, +had he only known her longer, his doubt might have been just as great. Her +mind, thought he, is perhaps like my own: it has many turnings, and she’s +never very certain which one of them she will follow. Somehow, this imputed +wilfulness gave her, to his eyes, a charm scarcely second to that of her +exceeding beauty. And what beauty it was! The very perfection of symmetry +in every feature when at rest, while the varied expressions of her face as +she spoke, or smiled, or listened, imparted a fascination which only needed +the charm of her low liquid voice to be irresistible. + +How she vulgarises that pretty girl, her cousin, by mere contrast! What +subtle essence is it, apart from hair and eyes and skin, that spreads an +atmosphere of conquest over these natures, and how is it that men have no +ascendencies of this sort--nothing that imparts to their superiority the +sense that worship of them is in itself an ecstasy? + +‘Take my message into town,’ said he to a fellow near, ‘and you shall have +a sovereign when you come back with the horses’; and with this he strolled +away across a little paddock and entered the garden. It was a large, +ill-cultivated space, more orchard than garden, with patches of smooth +turf, through which daffodils and lilies were scattered, and little +clusters of carnations occasionally showed where flower-beds had once +existed. ‘What would I not give,’ thought Joe, as he strolled along the +velvety sward, over which a clear moonlight had painted the forms of many +a straggling branch--‘What would I not give to be the son of a house like +this, with an old and honoured name, with an ancestry strong enough to +build upon for future pretensions, and then with an old home, peaceful, +tranquil, and unmolested, where, as in such a spot as this, one might dream +of great things, perhaps more, might achieve them! What books would I not +write! What novels, in which, fashioning the hero out of my own heart, I +could tell scores of impressions the world had made upon me in its aspect +of religion, or of politics, or of society! What essays could I not compose +here--the mind elevated by that buoyancy which comes of the consciousness +of being free for a great effort! Free from the vulgar interruptions that +cling to poverty like a garment, free from the paltry cares of daily +subsistence, free from the damaging incidents of a doubtful position and a +station that must be continually asserted. That one disparagement, perhaps, +worst of all,’ cried he aloud: ‘how is a man to enjoy his estate if he is +“put upon his title” every day of the week? One might as well be a French +Emperor, and go every spring to the country for a character.’ + +‘What shocking indignity is this you are dreaming of?’ said a very soft +voice near him, and turning he saw Nina, who was moving across the grass, +with her dress so draped as to show the most perfect instep and ankle with +a very unguarded indifference. + +‘This is very damp for you; shall we not come out into the walk?’ said he. + +‘It is very damp,’ said she quickly; ‘but I came because you said you had a +message for me: is this true?’ + +‘Do you think I could deceive you?’ said he, with a sort of tender +reproachfulness. + +‘It might not be so very easy, if you were to try,’ replied she, laughing. + +‘That is not the most gracious way to answer me.’ + +‘Well, I don’t believe we came here to pay compliments; certainly I did +not, and my feet are very wet already--look there, and see the ruin of a +_chaussure_ I shall never replace in this dear land of coarse leather and +hobnails.’ + +As she spoke she showed her feet, around which her bronzed shoes hung limp +and misshapen. + +‘Would that I could be permitted to dry them with my kisses,’ said he, as, +stooping, he wiped them with his handkerchief, but so deferentially and so +respectfully, as though the homage had been tendered to a princess. Nor did +she for a moment hesitate to accept the service. + +‘There, that will do,’ said she haughtily. ‘Now for your message.’ + +‘We are going away, mademoiselle,’ said Atlee, with a melancholy tone. + +‘And who are “we,” sir?’ + +‘By “we,” mademoiselle, I meant to convey Walpole and myself.’ And now he +spoke with the irritation of one who had felt a pull-up. + +‘Ah, indeed!’ said she, smiling, and showing her pearly teeth. ‘“We” meant +Mr. Walpole and Mr. Atlee.’ + +‘You should never have guessed it?’ cried he in question. + +‘Never--certainly,’ was her cool rejoinder. + +‘Well! _He_ was less defiant, or mistrustful, or whatever be the name +for it. We were only friends of half-an-hour’s growth when he proposed +the journey. He asked me to accompany him as a favour; and he did more, +mademoiselle: he confided to me a mission--a very delicate and confidential +mission--such an office as one does not usually depute to him of whose +fidelity or good faith he has a doubt, not to speak of certain smaller +qualities, such as tact and good taste.’ + +‘Of whose possession Mr. Atlee is now asserting himself?’ said she quietly. + +He grew crimson at a sarcasm whose impassiveness made it all the more +cutting. + +‘My mission was in this wise, mademoiselle,’ said he, with a forced calm +in his manner. ‘I was to learn from Mademoiselle Kostalergi if she should +desire to communicate with Mr. Walpole touching certain family interests in +which his counsels might be of use; and in this event, I was to place at +her disposal an address by which her letters should reach him.’ + +‘No, sir,’ said she quietly, ‘you have totally mistaken any instructions +that were given you. Mr. Walpole never pretended that I had written or was +likely to write to him; he never said that he was in any way concerned +in family questions that pertained to me; least of all did he presume to +suppose that if I had occasion to address him by letter, I should do so +under cover to another.’ + +‘You discredit my character of envoy, then?’ said he, smiling easily. + +‘Totally and completely, Mr. Atlee; and I only wait for you yourself +to admit that I am right, to hold out my hand to you and say let us be +friends.’ + +‘I’d perjure myself twice at such a price. Now for the hand.’ + +‘Not so fast--first the confession,’ said she, with a faint smile. + +‘Well, on my honour,’ cried he seriously, ‘he told me he hoped you might +write to him. I did not clearly understand about what, but it pointed to +some matter in which a family interest was mixed up, and that you might +like your communication to have the reserve of secrecy.’ + +‘All this is but a modified version of what you were to disavow.’ + +‘Well, I am only repeating it now to show you how far I am going to perjure +myself.’ + +‘That is, you see, in fact, that Mr. Walpole could never have presumed to +give you such instructions--that gentlemen do not send such messages to +young ladies--do not presume to say that they dare do so; and last of all, +if they ever should chance upon one whose nice tact and cleverness would +have fitted him to be the bearer of such a commission, those same qualities +of tact and cleverness would have saved him from undertaking it. That is +what you see, Mr. Atlee, is it not?’ + +‘You are right. I see it all.’ And now he seized her hand and kissed it as +though he had won the right to that rapturous enjoyment. + +She drew her hand away, but so slowly and so gently as to convey nothing of +rebuke or displeasure. ‘And so you are going away?’ said she softly. + +‘Yes; Walpole has some pressing reason to be at once in Dublin. He is +afraid to make the journey without a doctor; but rather than risk delay in +sending for one, he is willing to take _me_ as his body-surgeon, and I have +accepted the charge.’ + +The frankness with which he said this seemed to influence her in his +favour, and she said, with a tone of like candour, ‘You were right. +His family are people of influence, and will not readily forget such a +service.’ + +Though he winced under the words, and showed that it was not exactly the +mode in which he wanted his courtesy to be regarded, she took no account of +the passing irritation, but went on-- + +If you fancy you know something about me, Mr. Atlee, _I_ know far more +about _you_. Your chum, Dick Kearney, has been so outspoken as to his +friend, that my cousin Kate and I have been accustomed to discuss you like +a near acquaintance--what am I saying?--I mean like an old friend.’ + +‘I am very grateful for this interest; but will you kindly say what is +the version my friend Dick has given of me? what are the lights that have +fallen upon my humble character?’ + +[Illustration: ‘You are right, I see it all,’ and now he seized her hand +and kissed it] + +‘Do you fancy that either of us have time at this moment to open so large +a question? Would not the estimate of Mr. Joseph Atlee be another mode of +discussing the times we live in, and the young gentlemen, more or less +ambitious, who want to influence them? would not the question embrace +everything, from the difficulties of Ireland to the puzzling embarrassments +of a clever young man who has everything in his favour in life, except the +only thing that makes life worth living for?’ + +‘You mean fortune--money?’ + +‘Of course I mean money. What is so powerless as poverty? do I not know +it--not of yesterday, or the day before, but for many a long year? What so +helpless, what so jarring to temper, so dangerous to all principle, and so +subversive of all dignity? I can afford to say these things, and you can +afford to hear them, for there is a sort of brotherhood between us. We +claim the same land for our origin. Whatever our birthplace, we are both +Bohemians!’ + +She held out her hand as she spoke, and with such an air of cordiality and +frankness that Joe caught the spirit of the action at once, and, bending +over, pressed his lips to it, as he said, ‘I seal the bargain.’ + +‘And swear to it?’ + +‘I swear to it,’ cried he. + +‘There, that is enough. Let us go back, or rather, let me go back alone. I +will tell them I have seen you, and heard of your approaching departure.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE TWO ‘KEARNEYS’ + + +A visit to his father was not usually one of those things that young +Kearney either speculated on with pleasure beforehand, or much enjoyed +when it came. Certain measures of decorum, and some still more pressing +necessities of economy, required that he should pass some months of every +year at home; but they were always seasons looked forward to with a mild +terror, and when the time drew nigh, met with a species of dogged, fierce +resolution that certainly did not serve to lighten the burden of the +infliction; and though Kate’s experience of this temper was not varied by +any exceptions, she would still go on looking with pleasure for the time of +his visit, and plotting innumerable little schemes for enjoyment while he +should remain. The first day or two after his arrival usually went +over pleasantly enough. Dick came back full of his town life, and its +amusements; and Kate was quite satisfied to accept gaiety at second-hand. +He had so much to tell of balls, picnics, charming rides in the Phoenix, +of garden-parties in the beautiful environs of Dublin, or more pretentious +entertainments, which took the shape of excursions to Bray or Killiney, +that she came at last to learn all his friends and acquaintances by name, +and never confounded the stately beauties that he worshipped afar off with +the ‘awfully jolly girls’ whom he flirted with quite irresponsibly. +She knew, too, all about his male companions, from the flash young +fellow-commoner from Downshire, who had a saddle-horse and a mounted groom +waiting for him every day after morning lecture, down to that scampish Joe +Atlee, with whose scrapes and eccentricities he filled many an idle hour. + +Independently of her gift as a good listener, Kate would very willingly +have heard all Dick’s adventures and descriptions not only twice but +tenth-told; just as the child listens with unwearied attention to the +fairy-tale whose end he is well aware of, but still likes the little detail +falling fresh upon his ear, so would this young girl make him go over +some narratives she knew by heart, and would not suffer him to omit the +slightest incident or most trifling circumstance that heightened the +history of the story. + +As to Dick, however, the dull monotony of the daily life, the small and +vulgar interests of the house or the farm, which formed the only topics, +the undergrowl of economy that ran through every conversation, as though +penuriousness was the great object of existence--but, perhaps more than all +these together, the early hours--so overcame him that he at first became +low-spirited, and then sulky, seldom appearing save at meal-times, and +certainly contributing little to the pleasure of the meeting; so that at +last, though she might not easily have been brought to the confession, Kate +Kearney saw the time of Dick’s departure approach without regret, and was +actually glad to be relieved from that terror of a rupture between her +father and her brother of which not a day passed without a menace. + +Like all men who aspire to something in Ireland, Kearney desired to see his +son a barrister; for great as are the rewards of that high career, they are +not the fascinations which appeal most strongly to the squirearchy, who +love to think that a country gentleman may know a little law and be never +the richer for it--may have acquired a profession, and yet never know what +was a client or what a fee. + +That Kearney of Kilgobbin Castle should be reduced to tramping his way down +the Bachelor’s Walk to the Four Courts, with a stuff bag carried behind +him, was not to be thought of; but there were so many positions in life, so +many situations for which that gifted creature the barrister of six years’ +standing was alone eligible, that Kearney was very anxious his son should +be qualified to accept that £1000 or £1800 a year which a gentleman could +hold without any shadow upon his capacity, or the slightest reflection on +his industry. + +Dick Kearney, however, had not only been living a very gay life in town, +but, to avail himself of a variety of those flattering attentions which +this interested world bestows by preference on men of some pretension, had +let it be believed that he was the heir to a very considerable estate, and, +by great probability, also to a title. To have admitted that he thought it +necessary to follow any career at all, would have been to abdicate these +pretensions, and so he evaded that question of the law in all discussions +with his father, sometimes affecting to say he had not made up his mind, or +that he had scruples of conscience about a barrister’s calling, or that he +doubted whether the Bar of Ireland was not, like most high institutions, +going to be abolished by Act of Parliament, and all the litigation of the +land be done by deputy in Westminster Hall. + +On the morning after the visitors took their departure from Kilgobbin, old +Kearney, who usually relapsed from any exercise of hospitality into a more +than ordinary amount of parsimony, sat thinking over the various economies +by which the domestic budget could be squared, and after a very long séance +with old Gill, in which the question of raising some rents and diminishing +certain bounties was discussed, he sent up the steward to Mr. Richard’s +room to say he wanted to speak to him. + +Dick at the time of the message was stretched full length on a sofa, +smoking a meerschaum, and speculating how it was that the ‘swells’ took to +Joe Atlee, and what they saw in that confounded snob, instead of himself. +Having in a degree satisfied himself that Atlee’s success was all owing to +his intense and outrageous flattery, he was startled from his reverie by +the servant’s entrance. + +‘How is he this morning, Tim?’ asked he, with a knowing look. ‘Is he +fierce--is there anything up--have the heifers been passing the night in +the wheat, or has any one come over from Moate with a bill?’ + +‘No, sir, none of them; but his blood’s up about something. Ould Gill is +gone down the stair swearing like mad, and Miss Kate is down the road with +a face like a turkey-cock.’ + +‘I think you’d better say I was out, Tim--that you couldn’t find me in my +room.’ + +‘I daren’t, sir. He saw that little Skye terrier of yours below, and +he said to me, “Mr. Dick is sure to be at home; tell him I want him +immediately.”’ + +‘But if I had a bad headache, and couldn’t leave my bed, wouldn’t that be +excuse enough?’ + +‘It would make him come here. And if I was you, sir, I’d go where I could +get away myself, and not where he could stay as long as he liked.’ + +‘There’s something in that. I’ll go, Tim. Say I’ll be down in a minute.’ + +Very careful to attire himself in the humblest costume of his wardrobe, and +specially mindful that neither studs nor watch-chain should offer offensive +matter of comment, he took his way towards the dreary little den, +which, filled with old top-boots, driving-whips, garden-implements, and +fishing-tackle, was known as ‘the lord’s study,’ but whose sole literary +ornament was a shelf of antiquated almanacs. There was a strange grimness +about his father’s aspect which struck young Kearney as he crossed the +threshold. His face wore the peculiar sardonic expression of one who had +not only hit upon an expedient, but achieved a surprise, as he held an open +letter in one hand and motioned with the other to a seat. + +‘I’ve been waiting till these people were gone, Dick--till we had a quiet +house of it--to say a few words to you. I suppose your friend Atlee is not +coming back here?’ + +‘I suppose not, sir.’ + +‘I don’t like him, Dick; and I’m much mistaken if he is a good fellow.’ + +‘I don’t think he is actually a bad fellow, sir. He is often terribly hard +up and has to do scores of shifty things, but I never found him out in +anything dishonourable or false.’ + +‘That’s a matter of taste, perhaps. Maybe you and I might differ about what +was honourable or what was false. At all events, he was under our roof +here, and if those nobs--or swells, I believe you call them--were like to +be of use to any of us, we, the people that were entertaining them, were +the first to be thought of; but your pleasant friend thought differently, +and made such good use of his time that he cut you out altogether, Dick--he +left you nowhere.’ + +‘Really, sir, it never occurred to me till now to take that view of the +situation.’ + +‘Well, take that view of it now, and see how you’ll like it! _You_ have +your way to work in life as well as Mr. Atlee. From all I can judge, you’re +scarcely as well calculated to do it as he is. You have not his smartness, +you have not his brains, and you have not his impudence--and, ‘faith, I’m +much mistaken but it’s the best of the three!’ + +‘I don’t perceive, sir, that we are necessarily pitted against each other +at all.’ + +‘Don’t you? Well, so much the worse for you if you don’t see that every +fellow that has nothing in the world is the rival of every other fellow +that’s in the same plight. For every one that swims, ten, at least, sink.’ + +‘Perhaps, sir, to begin, I never fully realised the first condition. I was +not exactly aware that I was without anything in the world.’ + +‘I’m coming to that, if you’ll have a little patience. Here is a letter +from Tom McKeown, of Abbey Street. I wrote to him about raising a few +hundreds on mortgage, to clear off some of our debts, and have a trifle in +hand for drainage and to buy stock, and he tells me that there’s no use in +going to any of the money-lenders so long as your extravagance continues to +be the talk of the town. Ay, you needn’t grow red nor frown that way. The +letter was a private one to myself, and I’m only telling it to you in +confidence. Hear what he says: “You have a right to make your son a +fellow-commoner if you like, and he has a right, by his father’s own +showing, to behave like a man of fortune; but neither of you have a right +to believe that men who advance money will accept these pretensions as +good security, or think anything but the worse of you both for your +extravagance.”’ + +‘And you don’t mean to horsewhip him, sir?’ burst out Dick. + +‘Not, at any rate, till I pay off two thousand pounds that I owe him, and +two years’ interest at six per cent. that he has suffered me to become his +debtor for.’ + +‘Lame as he is, I’ll kick him before twenty-four hours are over.’ + +‘If you do, he’ll shoot you like a dog, and it wouldn’t be the first time +he handled a pistol. No, no, Master Dick. Whether for better or worse, I +can’t tell, but the world is not what it was when I was your age. There’s +no provoking a man to a duel nowadays; nor no posting him when he won’t +fight. Whether it’s your fortune is damaged or your feelings hurt, you must +look to the law to redress you; and to take your cause into your own hands +is to have the whole world against you.’ + +‘And this insult is, then, to be submitted to?’ + +‘It is, first of all, to be ignored. It’s the same as if you never heard +it. Just get it out of your head, and listen to what he says. Tom McKeown +is one of the keenest fellows I know; and he has business with men who know +not only what’s doing in Downing Street, but what’s going to be done there. +Now here’s two things that are about to take place: one is the same as +done, for it’s all ready prepared--the taking away the landlord’s right, +and making the State determine what rent the tenant shall pay, and how long +his tenure will be. The second won’t come for two sessions after, but it +will be law all the same. There’s to be no primogeniture class at all, +no entail on land, but a subdivision, like in America and, I believe, in +France.’ + +‘I don’t believe it, sir. These would amount to a revolution.’ + +‘Well, and why not? Ain’t we always going through a sort of mild +revolution? What’s parliamentary government but revolution, weakened, if +you like, like watered grog, but the spirit is there all the same. Don’t +fancy that, because you can give it a hard name, you can destroy it. +But hear what Tom is coming to. “Be early,” says he, “take time by the +forelock: get rid of your entail and get rid of your land. Don’t wait till +the Government does both for you, and have to accept whatever condition the +law will cumber you with, but be before them! Get your son to join you +in docking the entail; petition before the court for a sale, yourself or +somebody for you; and wash your hands clean of it all. It’s bad property, +in a very ticklish country,” says Tom--and he dashes the words--“bad +property in a very ticklish country; and if you take my advice, you’ll get +clear of both.” You shall read it all yourself by-and-by; I am only giving +you the substance of it, and none of the reasons.’ + +‘This is a question for very grave consideration, to say the least of it. +It is a bold proposal.’ + +‘So it is, and so says Tom himself; but he adds: “There’s no time to be +lost; for once it gets about how Gladstone’s going to deal with land, and +what Bright has in his head for eldest sons, you might as well whistle as +try to dispose of that property.” To be sure, he says,’ added he, after a +pause--‘he says, “If you insist on holding on--if you cling to the dirty +acres because they were your father’s and your great-grandfather’s, and if +you think that being Kearney of Kilgobbin is a sort of title, in the name +of God stay where you are, but keep down your expenses. Give up some of +your useless servants, reduce your saddle-horses”--_my_ saddle-horses, +Dick! “Try if you can live without foxhunting.” Foxhunting! “Make your +daughter know that she needn’t dress like a duchess”--poor Kitty’s very +like a duchess; “and, above all, persuade your lazy, idle, and very +self-sufficient son to take to some respectable line of life to gain his +living. I wouldn’t say that he mightn’t be an apothecary; but if he liked +law better than physic, I might be able to do something for him in my own +office.”’ + +‘Have you done, sir?’ said Dick hastily, as his father wiped his +spectacles, and seemed to prepare for another heat. + +‘He goes on to say that he always requires one hundred and fifty guineas +fee with a young man; “but we are old friends, Mathew Kearney,” says he, +“and we’ll make it pounds.”’ + +‘To fit me to be an attorney!’ said Dick, articulating each word with a +slow and almost savage determination. + +‘’Faith! it would have been well for us if one of the family had been +an attorney before now. We’d never have gone into that action about the +mill-race, nor had to pay those heavy damages for levelling Moore’s barn. +A little law would have saved us from evicting those blackguards at +Mullenalick, or kicking Mr. Hall’s bailiff before witnesses.’ + +To arrest his father’s recollection of the various occasions on which his +illegality had betrayed him into loss and damage, Dick blurted out, ‘I’d +rather break stones on the road than I’d be an attorney.’ + +‘Well, you’ll not have to go far for employment, for they are just laying +down new metal this moment; and you needn’t lose time over it,’ said +Kearney, with a wave of his hand, to show that the audience was over and +the conference ended. + +‘There’s just one favour I would ask, sir,’ said Dick, with his hand on the +lock. + +‘You want a hammer, I suppose,’ said his father, with a grin--‘isn’t _that_ +it?’ + +With something that, had it been uttered aloud, sounded very like a bitter +malediction, Dick rushed from the room, slamming the door violently after +him as he went. + +‘That’s the temper that helps a man to get on in life,’ said the old man, +as he turned once more to his accounts, and set to work to see where he had +blundered in his figures. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +DICK’S REVERIE + + +When Dick Kearney left his father, he walked from the house, and not +knowing or much caring in what direction he went, turned into the garden. + +It was a wild, neglected sort of spot, with fruit-trees of great size, long +past bearing, and close underwood in places that barred the passage. Here +and there little patches of cultivation appeared, sometimes flowering +plants, but oftener vegetables. One long alley, with tall hedges of box, +had been preserved, and led to a little mound planted with laurels and +arbutus, and known as ‘Laurel Hill’; here a little rustic summer-house had +once stood, and still, though now in ruins, showed where, in former days, +people came to taste the fresh breeze above the tree-tops, and enjoy the +wide range of a view that stretched to the Slieve-Bloom Mountains, nearly +thirty miles away. + +Young Kearney reached this spot, and sat down to gaze upon a scene every +detail of which was well known to him, but of which he was utterly +unconscious as he looked. ‘I am turned out to starve,’ cried he aloud, as +though there was a sense of relief in thus proclaiming his sorrow to the +winds. ‘I am told to go and work upon the roads, to live by my daily +labour. Treated like a gentleman until I am bound to that condition by +every tie of feeling and kindred, and then bade to know myself as an +outcast. I have not even Joe Atlee’s resource--I have not imbibed the +instincts of the lower orders, so as to be able to give them back to them +in fiction or in song. I cannot either idealise rebellion or make treason +tuneful. + +‘It is not yet a week since that same Atlee envied me my station as the son +and heir to this place, and owned to me that there was that in the sense of +name and lineage that more than balanced personal success, and here I am +now, a beggar! I can enlist, however, blessings on the noble career that +ignores character and defies capacity. I don’t know that I’ll bring much +loyalty to Her Majesty’s cause, but I’ll lend her the aid of as broad +shoulders and tough sinews as my neighbours.’ And here his voice grew +louder and harsher, and with a ring of defiance in it. ‘And no cutting off +the entail, my Lord Kilgobbin! no escape from that cruel necessity of +an heir! I may carry my musket in the ranks, but I’ll not surrender my +birthright!’ + +The thought that he had at length determined on the path he should follow +aroused his courage and made his heart lighter; and then there was that +in the manner he was vindicating his station and his claim that seemed to +savour of heroism. He began to fancy his comrades regarding him with a +certain deference, and treating him with a respect that recognised his +condition. ‘I know the shame my father will feel when he sees to what he +has driven me. What an offence to his love of rank and station to behold +his son in the coarse uniform of a private! An only son and heir, too! I +can picture to myself his shock as he reads the letter in which I shall +say good-bye, and then turn to tell my sister that her brother is a common +soldier, and in this way lost to her for ever! + +‘And what is it all about? What terrible things have I done? What +entanglements have I contracted? Where have I forged? Whose name have I +stolen? whose daughter seduced? What is laid to my charge, beyond that I +have lived like a gentleman, and striven to eat and drink and dress like +one? And I’ll wager my life that for one who will blame him, there will +be ten--no, not ten, fifty--to condemn me. I had a kind, trustful, +affectionate father, restricting himself in scores of ways to give me my +education among the highest class of my contemporaries. I was largely +supplied with means, indulged in every way, and if I turned my steps +towards home, welcomed with love and affection.’ + +‘And fearfully spoiled by all the petting he met with,’ said a soft voice +leaning over his shoulder, while a pair of very liquid grey eyes gazed into +his own. + +‘What, Nina!--Mademoiselle Nina, I mean,’ said he, ‘have you been long +there?’ + +‘Long enough to hear you make a very pitiful lamentation over a condition +that I, in my ignorance, used to believe was only a little short of +Paradise.’ + +‘You fancied that, did you?’ + +‘Yes, I did so fancy it.’ + +‘Might I be bold enough to ask from what circumstance, though? I entreat +you to tell me, what belongings of mine, what resources of luxury or +pleasure, what incident of my daily life, suggested this impression of +yours?’ + +‘Perhaps, as a matter of strict reasoning, I have little to show for my +conviction, but if you ask me why I thought as I did, it was simply from +contrasting your condition with my own, and seeing that in everything where +my lot has gloom and darkness, if not worse, yours, my ungrateful cousin, +was all sunshine.’ + +‘Let us see a little of this sunshine, Cousin Nina. Sit down here beside +me, and show me, I pray, some of those bright tints that I am longing to +gaze on.’ + +‘There’s not room for both of us on that bench.’ + +‘Ample room; we shall sit the closer.’ + +‘No, Cousin Dick; give me your arm and we’ll take a stroll together.’ + +‘Which way shall it be?’ + +‘You shall choose, cousin.’ + +‘If I have the choice, then, I’ll carry you off, Nina, for I’m thinking of +bidding good-bye to the old house and all within it.’ + +‘I don’t think I’ll consent that far,’ said she, smiling. ‘I have had my +experience of what it is to be without a home, or something very nearly +that. I’ll not willingly recall the sensation. But what has put such gloomy +thoughts in your head? What, or rather who is driving you to this?’ + +‘My father, Nina, my father!’ + +‘This is past my comprehending.’ + +‘I’ll make it very intelligible. My father, by way of curbing my +extravagance, tells me I must give up all pretension to the life of a +gentleman, and go into an office as a clerk. I refuse. He insists, and +tells me, moreover, a number of little pleasant traits of my unfitness to +do anything, so that I interrupt him by hinting that I might possibly break +stones on the highway. He seizes the project with avidity, and offers to +supply me with a hammer for my work. All fact, on my honour! I am neither +adding to nor concealing. I am relating what occurred little more than an +hour ago, and I have forgotten nothing of the interview. He, as I said, +offers to give me a stone-hammer. And now I ask you, is it for me to accept +this generous offer, or would it be better to wander over that bog yonder, +and take my chance of a deep pool, or the bleak world where immersion and +death are just as sure, though a little slower in coming?’ + +‘Have you told Kate of this?’ + +‘No, I have not seen her. I don’t know, if I had seen her, that I should +have told her. Kate has so grown to believe all my father’s caprices to be +absolute wisdom, that even his sudden gusts of passion seem to her like +flashes of a bright intelligence, too quick and too brilliant for mere +reason. She could give me no comfort nor counsel either.’ + +‘I am not of your mind,’ said she slowly. ‘She has the great gift of what +people so mistakingly call _common_ sense.’ + +‘And she’d recommend me, perhaps, not to quarrel with my father, and to go +and break the stones.’ + +‘Were you ever in love, Cousin Dick?’ asked she, in a tone every accent of +which betokened earnestness and even gravity. + +‘Perhaps I might say never. I have spooned or flirted or whatever the name +of it might be, but I was never seriously attached to one girl, and unable +to think of anything but her. But what has your question to do with this?’ + +‘Everything. If you really loved a girl--that is, if she filled every +corner of your heart, if she was first in every plan and project of your +life, not alone her wishes and her likings, but her very words and the +sound of her voice--if you saw her in everything that was beautiful, and +heard her in every tone that delighted you--if to be moving in the air +she breathed was ecstasy, and that heaven itself without her was +cheerless--if--’ + +‘Oh, don’t go on, Nina. None of these ecstasies could ever be mine. I have +no nature to be moved or moulded in this fashion. I might be very fond of a +girl, but she’d never drive me mad if she left me for another.’ + +‘I hope she may, then, if it be with such false money you would buy her,’ +said she fiercely. ‘Do you know,’ added she, after a pause, ‘I was almost +on the verge of saying, go and break the stones; the _métier_ is not much +beneath you, after all!’ + +‘This is scarcely civil, mademoiselle; see what my candour has brought upon +me!’ + +‘Be as candid as you like upon the faults of your nature. Tell +every wickedness that you have done or dreamed of, but don’t own to +cold-heartedness. For _that_ there is no sympathy!’ + +‘Let us go back a bit, then,’ said he, ‘and let us suppose that I did love +in the same fervent and insane manner you spoke of, what and how would it +help me here?’ + +‘Of course it would. Of all the ingenuity that plotters talk of, of all the +imagination that poets dream, there is nothing to compare with love. To +gain a plodding subsistence a man will do much. To win the girl he loves, +to make her his own, he will do everything: he will strive, and strain, and +even starve to win her. Poverty will have nothing mean if confronted for +her, hardship have no suffering if endured for her sake. With her before +him, all the world shows but one goal; without her, life is a mere dreary +task, and himself a hired labourer.’ + +‘I confess, after all this, that I don’t see how breaking stones would be +more palatable to me because some pretty girl that I was fond of saw me +hammering away at my limestone!’ + +‘If you could have loved as I would wish you to love, your career had never +fallen to this. The heart that loved would have stimulated the head that +thought. Don’t fancy that people are only better because they are in love, +but they are greater, bolder, brighter, more daring in danger, and more +ready in every emergency. So wonder-working is the real passion that even +in the base mockery of Love men have risen to genius. Look what it made +Petrarch, and I might say Byron too, though he never loved worthy of the +name.’ + +‘And how came you to know all this, cousin mine? I’m really curious to know +that.’ + +‘I was reared in Italy, Cousin Dick, and I have made a deep study of nature +through French novels.’ + +Now there was a laughing devilry in her eye as she said this that terribly +puzzled the young fellow, for just at the very moment her enthusiasm had +begun to stir his breast, her merry mockery wafted it away as with a +storm-wind. + +‘I wish I knew if you were serious,’ said he gravely. + +‘Just as serious as you were when you spoke of being ruined.’ + +‘I was so, I pledge my honour. The conversation I reported to you really +took place; and when you joined me, I was gravely deliberating with myself +whether I should take a header into a deep pool or enlist as a soldier.’ + +‘Fie, fie! how ignoble all that is. You don’t know the hundreds of +thousands of things one can do in life. Do you speak French or Italian?’ + +‘I can read them, but not freely; but how are they to help me?’ + +‘You shall see: first of all, let me be your tutor. We shall take two +hours, three if you like, every morning. Are you free now from all your +college studies?’ + +‘I can be after Wednesday next. I ought to go up for my term examination.’ + +‘Well, do so; but mind, don’t bring down Mr. Atlee with you.’ + +‘My chum is no favourite of yours?’ + +‘That’s as it may be,’ said she haughtily. ‘I have only said let us not +have the embarrassment, or, if you like it, the pleasure of his company. +I’ll give you a list of books to bring down, and my life be on it, but _my_ +course of study will surpass what you have been doing at Trinity. Is it +agreed?’ + +‘Give me till to-morrow to think of it, Nina.’ + +‘That does not sound like a very warm acceptance; but be it so: till +to-morrow.’ + +‘Here are some of Kate’s dogs,’ cried he angrily. ‘Down, Fan, down! I say. +I’ll leave you now before she joins us. Mind, not a word of what I told +you.’ + +And, without another word, he sprang over a low fence, and speedily +disappeared in the copse beyond it. + +‘Wasn’t that Dick I saw making his escape?’ cried Kate, as she came up. + +‘Yes, we were taking a walk together, and he left me very abruptly.’ + +‘I wish I had not spoiled a _tête-à-tête_,’ said Kate merrily. + +‘It is no great mischief: we can always renew it.’ + +‘Dear Nina,’ said the other caressingly, as she drew her arm around +her--‘dear, dear Nina, do not, do not, I beseech you.’ + +‘Don’t what, child?--you must not speak in riddles.’ + +‘Don’t make that poor boy in love with you. You yourself told me you could +save him from it if you liked.’ + +‘And so I shall, Kate, if you don’t dictate or order me. Leave me quite to +myself, and I shall be most merciful.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +MATHEW KEARNEY’S ‘STUDY’ + + +Had Mathew Kearney but read the second sheet of his correspondent’s letter, +it is more than likely that Dick had not taken such a gloomy view of his +condition. Mr. McKeown’s epistle continued in this fashion: ‘That ought to +do for him, Mathew, or my name ain’t Tom McKeown. It is not that he is any +worse or better than other young fellows of his own stamp, but he has the +greatest scamp in Christendom for his daily associate. Atlee is deep in +all the mischief that goes on in the National press. I believe he is a +head-centre of the Fenians, and I know he has a correspondence with the +French socialists, and that Rights-of-labour-knot of vagabonds who meet at +Geneva. Your boy is not too wise to keep himself out of these scrapes, +and he is just, by name and station, of consequence enough to make these +fellows make up to and flatter him. Give him a sound fright, then, and when +he is thoroughly alarmed about his failure, send him abroad for a short +tour, let him go study at Halle or Heidelberg--anything, in short, that +will take him away from Ireland, and break off his intimacy with this Atlee +and his companions. While he is with you at Kilgobbin, don’t let him make +acquaintance with those Radical fellows in the county towns. Keep him down, +Mathew, keep him down; and if you find that you cannot do this, make him +believe that you’ll be one day lords of Kilgobbin, and the more he has to +lose the more reluctant he’ll be to risk it. If he’d take to farming, and +marry some decent girl, even a little beneath him in life, it would save +you all uneasiness; but he is just that thing now that brings all the +misery on us in Ireland. He thinks he’s a gentleman because he can do +nothing; and to save himself from the disgrace of incapacity, ‘he’d like to +be a rebel.’ + +If Mr. Tom McKeown’s reasonings were at times somewhat abstruse and hard of +comprehension to his friend Kearney, it was not that he did not bestow +on them due thought and reflection; and over this private and strictly +confidential page he had now meditated for hours. + +‘Bad luck to me,’ cried he at last, ‘if I see what he’s at. If I’m to tell +the boy he is ruined to-day, and to-morrow to announce to him that he is a +lord--if I’m to threaten him now with poverty, and the morning after I’m to +send him to Halle, or Hell, or wherever it is--I’ll soon be out of my mind +myself through bare confusion. As to having him “down,” he’s low enough; +but so shall I be too, if I keep him there. I’m not used to seeing my house +uncomfortable, and I cannot bear it.’ + +Such were some of his reflections, over his agent’s advice; and it may be +imagined that the Machiavellian Mr. McKeown had fallen upon a very inapt +pupil. + +It must be owned that Mathew Kearney was somewhat out of temper with his +son even before the arrival of this letter. While the ‘swells,’ as he would +persist in calling the two English visitors, were there, Dick took no +trouble about them, nor to all seeming made any impression on them. As +Mathew said, ‘He let Joe Atlee make all the running, and, signs on it! Joe +Atlee was taken off to town as Walpole’s companion, and Dick not so much as +thought of. Joe, too, did the honours of the house as if it was his own, +and talked to Lockwood about coming down for the partridge-shooting as if +he was the head of the family. The fellow was a bad lot, and McKeown was +right so far--the less Dick saw of him the better.’ + +The trouble and distress these reflections, and others like them, cost him +would more than have recompensed Dick, had he been hard-hearted enough to +desire a vengeance. ‘For a quarter of an hour, or maybe twenty minutes,’ +said he, ‘I can be as angry as any man in Europe, and, if it was required +of me during that time to do anything desperate--downright wicked--I could +be bound to do it; and what’s more, I’d stand to it afterwards if it cost +me the gallows. But as for keeping up the same mind, as for being able to +say to myself my heart is as hard as ever, I’m just as much bent on cruelty +as I was yesterday--that’s clean beyond me; and the reason, God help me, is +no great comfort to me after all--for it’s just this: that when I do a hard +thing, whether distraining a creature out of his bit of ground, selling a +widow’s pig, or fining a fellow for shooting a hare, I lose my appetite and +have no heart for my meals; and as sure as I go asleep, I dream of all the +misfortunes in life happening to me, and my guardian angel sitting laughing +all the while and saying to me, “Didn’t you bring it on yourself, Mathew +Kearney? couldn’t you bear a little rub without trying to make a calamity +of it? Must somebody be always punished when anything goes wrong in life? +Make up your mind to have six troubles every day of your life, and see how +jolly you’ll be the day you can only count five, or maybe four.”’ + +As Mr. Kearney sat brooding in this wise, Peter Gill made his entrance into +the study with the formidable monthly lists and accounts, whose examination +constituted a veritable doomsday to the unhappy master. + +‘Wouldn’t next Saturday do, Peter?’ asked Kearney, in a tone of almost +entreaty. + +‘I’m afther ye since Tuesday last, and I don’t think I’ll be able to go on +much longer.’ + +Now as Mr. Gill meant by this speech to imply that he was obliged to trust +entirely to his memory for all the details which would have been committed +to writing by others, and to a notched stick for the manifold dates of a +vast variety of events, it was not really a very unfair request he had made +for a peremptory hearing. + +‘I vow to the Lord,’ sighed out Kearney, ‘I believe I’m the hardest-worked +man in the three kingdoms.’ + +‘Maybe you are,’ muttered Gill, though certainly the concurrence scarcely +sounded hearty, while he meanwhile arranged the books. + +‘Oh, I know well enough what you mean. If a man doesn’t work with a spade +or follow the plough, you won’t believe that he works at all. He must +drive, or dig, or drain, or mow. There’s no labour but what strains a man’s +back, and makes him weary about the loins; but I’ll tell you, Peter Gill, +that it’s here’--and he touched his forehead with his finger--‘it’s here is +the real workshop. It’s thinking and contriving; setting this against that; +doing one thing that another may happen, and guessing what will come if we +do this and don’t do that; carrying everything in your brain, and, whether +you are sitting over a glass with a friend or taking a nap after dinner, +thinking away all the time! What would you call that, Peter Gill--what +would you call that?’ + +‘Madness, begorra, or mighty near it!’ + +‘No; it’s just work--brain-work. As much above mere manual labour as +the intellect, the faculty that raises us above the brutes, is above +the--the--’ + +‘Yes,’ said Gill, opening the large volume and vaguely passing his hand +over a page. ‘It’s somewhere there about the Conacre!’ + +‘You’re little better than a beast!’ said Kearney angrily. + +‘Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. Let us finish this, now that we’re about +it.’ + +And so saying, he deposited his other books and papers on the table, and +then drew from his breast-pocket a somewhat thick roll of exceedingly dirty +bank-notes, fastened with a leather thong. + +‘I’m glad to see some money at last, Peter,’ cried Kearney, as his eye +caught sight of the notes. + +‘Faix, then, it’s little good they’ll do ye,’ muttered the other gruffly. + +‘What d’ye mean by that, sir?’ asked he angrily. + +‘Just what I said, my lord, the devil a more nor less, and that the money +you see here is no more yours nor it is mine! It belongs to the land it +came from. Ay, ay, stamp away, and go red in the face: you must hear the +truth, whether you like it or no. The place we’re living in is going to +rack and ruin out of sheer bad treatment. There’s not a hedge on the +estate; there isn’t a gate that could be called a gate; the holes the +people live in isn’t good enough for badgers; there’s no water for the +mill at the cross-roads; and the Loch meadows is drowned with wet--we’re +dragging for the hay, like seaweed! And you think you’ve a right to +these’--and he actually shook the notes at him--to go and squander them on +them “impedint” Englishmen that was laughing at you! Didn’t I hear them +myself about the tablecloth that one said was the sail of a boat.’ + +‘Will you hold your tongue?’ cried Kearney, wild with passion. + +‘I will not! I’ll die on the floore but I’ll speak my mind.’ + +This was not only a favourite phrase of Mr. Gill’s, but it was so far +significant that it always indicated he was about to give notice to +leave--a menace on his part of no unfrequent occurrence. + +‘Ye’s going, are ye?’ asked Kearney jeeringly. + +‘I just am; and I’m come to give up the books, and to get my receipts and +my charac--ter.’ + +‘It won’t be hard to give the last, anyway,’ said Kearney, with a grin. + +‘So much the better. It will save your honour much writing, with all that +you have to do.’ + +‘Do you want me to kick you out of the office, Peter Gill?’ + +‘No, my lord, I’m going quiet and peaceable. I’m only asking my rights.’ + +‘You’re bidding hard to be kicked out, you are.’ + +‘Am I to leave them here, or will your honour go over the books with me?’ + +‘Leave the notes, sir, and go to the devil.’ + +‘I will, my lord; and one comfort at least I’ll have--it won’t be harder to +put up with his temper.’ + +Mr. Gill’s head barely escaped the heavy account-book which struck the door +above him as he escaped from the room, and Mathew Kearney sat back in his +chair and grasped the arms of it like one threatened with a fit. + +‘Where’s Miss Kitty--where’s my daughter?’ cried he aloud, as though there +was some one within hearing. ‘Taking the dogs a walk, I’ll be bound,’ +muttered he, ‘or gone to see somebody’s child with the measles, devil fear +her! She has plenty on her hands to do anywhere but at home. The place +might be going to rack and ruin for her if there was only a young colt to +look at, or a new litter of pigs! And so you think to frighten me, Peter +Gill! You’ve been doing the same thing every Easter, and every harvest, +these five-and-twenty years! I can only say I wish you had kept your threat +long ago, and the property wouldn’t have as many tumble-down cabins and +ruined fences as it has now, and my rent-roll, too, wouldn’t have been the +worse. I don’t believe there’s a man in Ireland more cruelly robbed than +myself. There isn’t an estate in the county has not risen in value except +my own! There’s not a landed gentleman hasn’t laid by money in the barony +but myself, and if you were to believe the newspapers, I’m the hardest +landlord in the province of Leinster. Is that Mickey Doolan there? Mickey!’ +cried he, opening the window, ‘did you see Miss Kearney anywhere about?’ + +‘Yes, my lord. I see her coming up the Bog road with Miss O’Shea.’ + +‘The worse luck mine!’ muttered he, as he closed the window, and leaned his +head on his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +AN UNWELCOME VISIT + + +If Mathew Kearney had been put to the question, he could not have concealed +the fact that the human being he most feared and dreaded in life was his +neighbour Miss Betty O’Shea. + +With two years of seniority over him, Miss Betty had bullied him as a +child, snubbed him as a youth, and opposed and sneered at him ever after; +and to such an extent did her influence over his character extend, +according to his own belief, that there was not a single good trait of his +nature she had not thwarted by ridicule, nor a single evil temptation to +which he had yielded that had not come out of sheer opposition to that +lady’s dictation. + +Malevolent people, indeed, had said that Mathew Kearney had once had +matrimonial designs on Miss Betty, or rather, on that snug place and nice +property called ‘O’Shea’s Barn,’ of which she was sole heiress; but he most +stoutly declared this story to be groundless, and in a forcible manner +asseverated that had he been Robinson Crusoe and Miss Betty the only +inhabitant of the island with him, he would have lived and died in +celibacy. + +Miss Betty, to give her the name by which she was best known, was no +miracle of either tact or amiability, but she had certain qualities that +could not be disparaged. She was a strict Catholic, charitable, in her own +peculiar and imperious way, to the poor, very desirous to be strictly just +and honest, and such a sure foe to everything that she thought pretension +or humbug of any kind--which meant anything that did not square with her +own habits--that she was perfectly intolerable to all who did not accept +herself and her own mode of life as a model and an example. + +Thus, a stout-bodied copper urn on the tea-table, a very uncouth +jaunting-car, driven by an old man, whose only livery was a cockade, some +very muddy port as a dinner wine, and whisky-punch afterwards on the brown +mahogany, were so many articles of belief with her, to dissent from any of +which was a downright heresy. + +Thus, after Nina arrived at the castle, the appearance of napkins palpably +affected her constitution; with the advent of finger-glasses she ceased her +visits, and bluntly declined all invitations to dinner. That coffee and +some indescribable liberties would follow, as postprandial excesses, she +secretly imparted to Kate Kearney in a note, which concluded with the +assurance that when the day of these enormities arrived, O’Shea’s Barn +Would be open to her as a refuge and a sanctuary; ‘but not,’ added she, +‘with your cousin, for I’ll not let the hussy cross my doors.’ + +For months now this strict quarantine had lasted, and except for the +interchange of some brief and very uninteresting notes, all intimacy had +ceased between the two houses--a circumstance, I am loth to own, which was +most ungallantly recorded every day after dinner by old Kearney, who drank +‘Miss Betty’s health, and long absence to her.’ It was then with no small +astonishment Kate was overtaken in the avenue by Miss Betty on her old +chestnut mare Judy, a small bog-boy mounted on the croup behind to act as +groom; for in this way Paddy Walshe was accustomed to travel, without the +slightest consciousness that he was not in strict conformity with the ways +of Rotten Row and the ‘Bois.’ + +That there was nothing ‘stuck-up’ or pretentious about this mode of being +accompanied by one’s groom--a proposition scarcely assailable--was Miss +Betty’s declaration, delivered in a sort of challenge to the world. Indeed, +certain ticklesome tendencies in Judy, particularly when touched with the +heel, seemed to offer the strongest protest against the practice; for +whenever pushed to any increase of speed or admonished in any way, the +beast usually responded by a hoist of the haunches, which invariably +compelled Paddy to clasp his mistress round the waist for safety--a +situation which, however repugnant to maiden bashfulness, time, and perhaps +necessity, had reconciled her to. At all events, poor Paddy’s terror would +have been the amplest refutation of scandal, while the stern immobility of +Miss Betty during the embrace would have silenced even malevolence. + +On the present occasion, a sharp canter of several miles had reduced Judy +to a very quiet and decorous pace, so that Paddy and his mistress sat +almost back to back--a combination that only long habit enabled Kate to +witness without laughing. + +‘Are you alone up at the castle, dear?’ asked Miss Betty, as she rode +along at her side; ‘or have you the house full of what the papers call +“distinguished company”?’ + +‘We are quite alone, godmother. My brother is with us, but we have no +strangers.’ + +‘I am glad of it. I’ve come over to “have it out” with your father, and +it’s pleasant to know we shall be to ourselves.’ + +Now, as this announcement of having ‘it out’ conveyed to Kate’s mind +nothing short of an open declaration of war, a day of reckoning on which +Miss O’Shea would come prepared with a full indictment, and a resolution to +prosecute to conviction, the poor girl shuddered at a prospect so certain +to end in calamity. + +‘Papa is very far from well, godmother,’ said she, in a mild way. + +‘So they tell me in the town,’ said the other snappishly. ‘His brother +magistrates said that the day he came in, about that supposed attack--the +memorable search for arms--’ + +‘Supposed attack! but, godmother, pray don’t imagine we had invented all +that. I think you know me well enough and long enough to know--’ + +‘To know that you would not have had a young scamp of a Castle aide-de-camp +on a visit during your father’s absence, not to say anything about amusing +your English visitor by shooting down your own tenantry.’ + +‘Will you listen to me for five minutes?’ + +‘No, not for three.’ + +‘Two, then--one even--one minute, godmother, will convince you how you +wrong me.’ + +‘I won’t give you that. I didn’t come over about you nor your affairs. When +the father makes a fool of himself, why wouldn’t the daughter? The whole +country is laughing at him. His lordship indeed! a ruined estate and a +tenantry in rags; and the only remedy, as Peter Gill tells me, raising the +rents--raising the rents where every one is a pauper.’ + +‘What would you have him do, Miss O’Shea?’ said Kate, almost angrily. + +‘I’ll tell you what I’d have him do. I’d have him rise of a morning before +nine o’clock, and be out with his labourers at daybreak. I’d have him +reform a whole lazy household of blackguards, good for nothing but waste +and wickedness. I’d have him apprentice your brother to a decent trade or +a light business. I’d have him declare he’d kick the first man that called +him “My lord”; and for yourself, well, it’s no matter--’ + +‘Yes, but it is, godmother, a great matter to me at least. What about +myself?’ + +‘Well, I don’t wish to speak of it, but it just dropped out of my lips by +accident; and perhaps, though not pleasant to talk about, it’s as well it +was said and done with. I meant to tell your father that it must be all +over between you and my nephew Gorman; that I won’t have him back here on +leave as I intended. I know it didn’t go far, dear. There was none of what +they call love in the case. You would probably have liked one another well +enough at last; but I won’t have it, and it’s better we came to the right +understanding at once.’ + +‘Your curb-chain is loose, godmother,’ said the girl, who now, pale as +death and trembling all over, advanced to fasten the link. + +‘I declare to the Lord, he’s asleep!’ said Miss Betty, as the wearied head +of her page dropped heavily on her shoulder. ‘Take the curb off, dear, or +I may lose it. Put it in your pocket for me, Kate; that is, if you wear a +pocket.’ + +‘Of course I do, godmother. I carry very stout keys in it, too. Look at +these.’ + +‘Ay, ay. I liked all that, once on a time, well enough, and used to think +you’d be a good thrifty wife for a poor man; but with the viscount your +father, and the young princess your first cousin, and the devil knows what +of your fine brother, I believe the sooner we part good friends the better. +Not but if you like my plan for you, I’ll be just as ready as ever to aid +you.’ + +‘I have not heard the plan yet,’ said Kate faintly. + +‘Just a nunnery, then--no more nor less than that. The “Sacred Heart” at +Namur, or the Sisters of Mercy here at home in Bagot Street, I believe, if +you like better--eh?’ + +‘It is soon to be able to make up one’s mind on such a point. I want a +little time for this, godmother.’ + +‘You would not want time if your heart were in a holy work, Kate Kearney. +It’s little time you’d be asking if I said, will you have Gorman O’Shea for +a husband?’ + +‘There is such a thing as insult, Miss O’Shea, and no amount of long +intimacy can license that.’ + +‘I ask your pardon, godchild. I wish you could know how sorry I feel.’ + +‘Say no more, godmother, say no more, I beseech you,’ cried Kate, and her +tears now gushed forth, and relieved her almost bursting heart. ‘I’ll take +this short path through the shrubbery, and be at the door before you,’ +cried she, rushing away; while Miss Betty, with a sharp touch of the spur, +provoked such a plunge as effectually awoke Paddy, and apprised him that +his duties as groom were soon to be in request. + +While earnestly assuring him that some changes in his diet should be +speedily adopted against somnolency, Miss Betty rode briskly on, and +reached the hall door. + +‘I told you I should be first, godmother,’ said the girl; and the pleasant +ring of her voice showed she had regained her spirits, or at least such +self-control as enabled her to suppress her sorrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A DOMESTIC DISCUSSION + + +It is a not infrequent distress in small households, especially when some +miles from a market-town, to make adequate preparation for an unexpected +guest at dinner; but even this is a very inferior difficulty to that +experienced by those who have to order the repast in conformity with +certain rigid notions of a guest who will criticise the smallest deviation +from the most humble standard, and actually rebuke the slightest pretension +to delicacy of food or elegance of table-equipage. + +No sooner, then, had Kate learned that Miss O’Shea was to remain for +dinner, than she immediately set herself to think over all the possible +reductions that might be made in the fare, and all the plainness and +simplicity that could be imparted to the service of the meal. + +Napkins had not been the sole reform suggested by the Greek cousin. She had +introduced flowers on the table, and so artfully had she decked out the +board with fruit and ornamental plants, that she had succeeded in effecting +by artifice what would have been an egregious failure if more openly +attempted--the service of the dishes one by one to the guests without any +being placed on the table. These, with finger-glasses, she had already +achieved, nor had she in the recesses of her heart given up the hope of +seeing the day that her uncle would rise from the table as she did, give +her his arm to the drawing-room, and bow profoundly as he left her. Of the +inestimable advantages, social, intellectual, and moral, of this system, +she had indeed been cautious to hold forth; for, like a great reformer, +she was satisfied to leave her improvements to the slow test of time, +‘educating her public,’ as a great authority has called it, while she bided +the result in patience. + +Indeed, as poor Mathew Kearney was not to be indulged with the luxury of +whisky-punch during his dinner, it was not easy to reply to his question, +‘When am I to have my tumbler?’ as though he evidently believed the +aforesaid ‘tumbler’ was an institution that could not be abrogated or +omitted altogether. + +Coffee in the drawing-room was only a half-success so long as the gentlemen +sat over their wine; and as for the daily cigarette Nina smoked with it, +Kate, in her simplicity, believed it was only done as a sort of protest +at being deserted by those unnatural protectors who preferred poteen to +ladies. + +It was therefore in no small perturbation of mind that Kate rushed to +her cousin’s room with the awful tidings that Miss Betty had arrived and +intended to remain for dinner. + +‘Do you mean that odious woman with the boy and band-box behind her on +horseback?’ asked Nina superciliously. + +‘Yes, she always travels in that fashion; she is odd and eccentric in +scores of things, but a fine-hearted, honest woman, generous to the poor, +and true to her friends.’ + +‘I don’t care for her moral qualities, but I do bargain for a little +outward decency, and some respect for the world’s opinion.’ + +‘You will like her, Nina, when you know her.’ + +‘I shall profit by the warning. I’ll take care not to know her.’ + +‘She is one of the oldest, I believe the oldest, friend our family has in +the world.’ + +‘What a sad confession, child; but I have always deplored longevity.’ + +‘Don’t be supercilious or sarcastic, Nina, but help me with your own good +sense and wise advice. She has not come over in the best of humours. She +has, or fancies she has, some difference to settle with papa. They seldom +meet without a quarrel, and I fear this occasion is to be no exception; so +do aid me to get things over pleasantly, if it be possible.’ + +‘She snubbed me the only time I met her. I tried to help her off with her +bonnet, and, unfortunately, I displaced, if I did not actually remove, her +wig, and she muttered something “about a rope-dancer not being a dexterous +lady’s-maid.”’ + +‘O Nina, surely you do not mean--’ + +‘Not that I was exactly a rope-dancer, Kate, but I had on a Greek jacket +that morning of blue velvet and gold, and a white skirt, and perhaps these +had some memories of the circus for the old lady.’ + +‘You are only jesting now, Nina.’ + +‘Don’t you know me well enough to know that I never jest when I think, or +even suspect, I am injured?’ + +‘Injured!’ + +‘It’s not the word I wanted, but it will do; I used it in its French +sense.’ + +‘You bear no malice, I’m sure?’ said the other caressingly. + +‘No!’ replied she, with a shrug that seemed to deprecate even having a +thought about her. + +‘She will stay for dinner, and we must, as far as possible, receive her in +the way she has been used to here, a very homely dinner, served as she +has always seen it--no fruit or flowers on the table, no claret-cup, no +finger-glasses.’ + +‘I hope no tablecloth; couldn’t we have a tray on a corner table, and every +one help himself as he strolled about the room?’ + +‘Dear Nina, be reasonable just for this once.’ + +‘I’ll come down just as I am, or, better still, I’ll take down my hair and +cram it into a net; I’d oblige her with dirty hands, if I only knew how to +do it.’ + +‘I see you only say these things in jest; you really do mean to help me +through this difficulty.’ + +‘But why a difficulty? what reason can you offer for all this absurd +submission to the whims of a very tiresome old woman? Is she very rich, and +do you expect an heritage?’ + +‘No, no; nothing of the kind.’ + +‘Does she load you with valuable presents? Is she ever ready to commemorate +birthdays and family festivals?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Has she any especial quality or gift beyond riding double and a bad +temper? Oh, I was forgetting; she is the aunt of her nephew, isn’t +she?--the dashing lancer that was to spend his summer over here?’ + +‘You were indeed forgetting when you said this,’ said Kate proudly, and her +face grew scarlet as she spoke. + +‘Tell me that you like him or that he likes you; tell me that there is +something, anything, between you, child, and I’ll be discreet and mannerly, +too; and more, I’ll behave to the old lady with every regard to one who +holds such dear interests in her keeping. But don’t bandage my eyes, and +tell me at the same time to look out and see.’ + +‘I have no confidences to make you,’ said Kate coldly. ‘I came here to ask +a favour--a very small favour, after all--and you might have accorded it +without question or ridicule.’ + +‘But which you never need have asked, Kate,’ said the other gravely. ‘You +are the mistress here; I am but a very humble guest. Your orders are +obeyed, as they ought to be; my suggestions may be adopted now and +then--partly in caprice, part compliment--but I know they have no +permanence, no more take root here than--than myself.’ + +‘Do not say that, my dearest Nina,’ said Kate, as she threw herself on her +neck and kissed her affectionately again and again. ‘You are one of us, and +we are all proud of it. Come along with me, now, and tell me all that +you advise. You know what I wish, and you will forgive me even in my +stupidity.’ + +‘Where’s your brother?’ asked Nina hastily. + +‘Gone out with his gun. He’ll not be back till he is certain Miss Betty has +taken her departure.’ + +‘Why did he not offer to take me with him?’ + +‘Over the bog, do you mean?’ + +‘Anywhere; I’d not cavil about the road. Don’t you know that I have days +when “don’t care” masters me--when I’d do anything, go anywhere--’ + +‘Marry any one?’ said the other, laughing. + +‘Yes, marry any one, as irresponsibly as if I was dealing with the destiny +of some other that did not regard me. On these days I do not belong to +myself, and this is one of them.’ + +‘I know nothing of such humours, Nina; nor do I believe it a healthy mind +that has them.’ + +‘I did not boast of my mind’s health, nor tell you to trust to it. Come, +let us go down to the dinner-room, and talk that pleasant leg-of-mutton +talk you know you are fond of.’ + +‘And best fitted for, say that,’ said Kate, laughing merrily. + +The other did not seem to have heard her words, for she moved slowly away, +calling on Kate to follow her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +A SMALL DINNER-PARTY + + +It is sad to have to record that all Kate’s persuasions with her cousin, +all her own earnest attempts at conciliation, and her ably-planned schemes +to escape a difficulty, were only so much labour lost. A stern message +from her father commanded her to make no change either in the house or the +service of the dinner--an interference with domestic cares so novel on +his part as to show that he had prepared himself for hostilities, and was +resolved to meet his enemy boldly. + +‘It’s no use, all I have been telling you, Nina,’ said Kate, as she +re-entered her room, later in the day. ‘Papa orders me to have everything +as usual, and won’t even let me give Miss Betty an early dinner, though he +knows she has nine miles of a ride to reach home.’ + +‘That explains somewhat a message he has sent myself,’ replied Nina, ‘to +wear my very prettiest toilet and my Greek cap, which he admired so much +the other day.’ + +‘I am almost glad that _my_ wardrobe has nothing attractive,’ said Kate, +half sadly. ‘I certainly shall never be rebuked for my becomingness.’ + +‘And do you mean to say that the old woman would be rude enough to extend +her comments to _me_?’ + +‘I have known her do things quite as hardy, though I hope on the present +occasion the other novelties may shelter you.’ + +‘Why isn’t your brother here? I should insist on his coming down in +discreet black, with a white tie and that look of imposing solemnity young +Englishmen assume for dinner.’ + +‘Dick guessed what was coming, and would not encounter it.’ + +‘And yet you tell me you submit to all this for no earthly reason. She can +leave you no legacy, contribute in no way to your benefit. She has neither +family, fortune, nor connections; and, except her atrocious manners and +her indomitable temper, there is not a trait of her that claims to be +recorded.’ + +‘Oh yes; she rides capitally to hounds, and hunts her own harriers to +perfection.’ + +‘I am glad she has one quality that deserves your favour.’ + +‘She has others, too, which I like better than what they call +accomplishments. She is very kind to the poor, never deterred by any +sickness from visiting them, and has the same stout-hearted courage for +every casualty in life.’ + +‘A commendable gift for a squaw, but what does a gentlewoman want with this +same courage?’ + +‘Look out of the window, Nina, and see where you are living! Throw your +eyes over that great expanse of dark bog, vast as one of the great +campagnas you have often described to us, and bethink you how mere +loneliness--desolation--needs a stout heart to bear it; how the simple +fact that for the long hours of a summer’s day, or the longer hours of a +winter’s night, a lone woman has to watch and think of all the possible +casualties lives of hardship and misery may impel men to. Do you imagine +that she does not mark the growing discontent of the people? see their +careworn looks, dashed with a sullen determination, and hear in their +voices the rising of a hoarse defiance that was never heard before? Does +she not well know that every kindness she has bestowed, every merciful act +she has ministered, would weigh for nothing in the balance on the day that +she will be arraigned as a landowner--the receiver of the poor man’s rent! +And will you tell me after this she can dispense with courage?’ + +‘_Bel paese davvero!_’ muttered the other. + +‘So it is,’ cried Kate; ‘with all its faults I’d not exchange it for the +brightest land that ever glittered in a southern sun. But why should I tell +you how jarred and disconcerted we are by laws that have no reference to +our ways--conferring rights where we were once contented with trustfulness, +and teaching men to do everything by contract, and nothing by affection, +nothing by good-will.’ + +‘No, no, tell me none of all these; but tell me, shall I come down in my +Suliote jacket of yellow cloth, for I know it becomes me?’ + +‘And if we women had not courage,’ went on Kate, not heeding the question, +‘what would our men do? Should we see them lead lives of bolder daring than +the stoutest wanderer in Africa?’ + +‘And my jacket and my Theban belt?’ + +‘Wear them all. Be as beautiful as you like, but don’t be late for dinner.’ +And Kate hurried away before the other could speak. + +When Miss O’Shea, arrayed in a scarlet poplin and a yellow gauze +turban--the month being August--arrived in the drawing-room before dinner, +she found no one there--a circumstance that chagrined her so far that she +had hurried her toilet and torn one of her gloves in her haste. ‘When they +say six for the dinner-hour, they might surely be in the drawing-room by +that hour,’ was Miss Betty’s reflection as she turned over some of the +magazines and circulating-library books which since Nina’s arrival had +found their way to Kilgobbin. The contemptuous manner in which she treated +_Blackwood_ and _Macmillan_, and the indignant dash with which she flung +Trollope’s last novel down, showed that she had not been yet corrupted by +the light reading of the age. An unopened country newspaper, addressed to +the Viscount Kilgobbin, had however absorbed all her attention, and she +was more than half disposed to possess herself of the envelope, when Mr. +Kearney entered. + +His bright blue coat and white waistcoat, a profusion of shirt-frill, and +a voluminous cravat proclaimed dinner-dress, and a certain pomposity of +manner showed how an unusual costume had imposed on himself, and suggested +an important event. + +‘I hope I see Miss O’Shea in good health?’ said he, advancing. + +‘How are you, Mathew?’ replied she dryly. ‘When I heard that big bell +thundering away, I was so afraid to be late that I came down with one +bracelet, and I have torn my glove too.’ + +‘It was only the first bell--the dressing-bell,’ he said. + +‘Humph! That’s something new since I was here last,’ said she tartly. + +‘You remind me of how long it is since you dined with us, Miss O’Shea.’ + +‘Well, indeed, Mathew, I meant to be longer, if I must tell the truth. I +saw enough the last day I lunched here to show me Kilgobbin was not what +it used to be. You were all of you what my poor father--who was always +thinking of the dogs--used to call “on your hind-legs,” walking about very +stately and very miserable. There were three or four covered dishes on +the table that nobody tasted; and an old man in red breeches ran about in +half-distraction, and said, “Sherry, my lord, or Madeira?” Many’s the time +I laughed over it since.’ And, as though to vouch for the truth of the +mirthfulness, she lay back in her chair and shook with hearty laughter. + +Before Kearney could reply--for something like a passing apoplexy had +arrested his words--the girls entered, and made their salutations. + +‘If I had the honour of knowing you longer, Miss Costigan,’ said Miss +O’Shea--for it was thus she translated the name Kostalergi--‘I’d ask you +why you couldn’t dress like your cousin Kate. It may be all very well in +the house, and it’s safe enough here, there’s no denying it; but my name’s +not Betty if you’d walk down Kilbeggan without a crowd yelling after you +and calling names too, that a respectable young woman wouldn’t bargain for; +eh, Mathew, is that true?’ + +‘There’s the dinner-bell now,’ said Mathew; ‘may I offer my arm?’ + +‘It’s thin enough that arm is getting, Mathew Kearney,’ said she, as he +walked along at her side. ‘Not but it’s time, too. You were born in the +September of 1809, though your mother used to deny it; and you’re now a +year older than your father was when he died.’ + +‘Will you take this place?’ said Kearney, placing her chair for her. ‘We +‘re a small party to-day. I see Dick does not dine with us.’ + +‘Maybe I hunted him away. The young gentlemen of the present day are frank +enough to say what they think of old maids. That’s very elegant, and I’m +sure it’s refined,’ said she, pointing to the mass of fruit and flowers so +tastefully arranged before her. ‘But I was born in a time when people liked +to see what they were going to eat, Mathew Kearney, and as I don’t intend +to break my fast on a stockgilly-flower, or make a repast of raisins, I +prefer the old way. Fill up my glass whenever it’s empty,’ said she to the +servant, ‘and don’t bother me with the name of it. As long as I know the +King’s County, and that’s more than fifty years, we’ve been calling Cape +Madeira, Sherry!’ + +‘If we know what we are drinking, Miss O’Shea, I don’t suppose it matters +much.’ + +‘Nothing at all, Mathew. Calling you the Viscount Kilgobbin, as I read a +while ago, won’t confuse me about an old neighbour.’ + +‘Won’t you try a cutlet, godmother?’ asked Kate hurriedly. + +‘Indeed I will, my dear. I don’t know why I was sending the man away. I +never saw this way of dining before, except at the poorhouse, where each +poor creature has his plateful given him, and pockets what he can’t eat.’ +And here she laughed long and heartily at the conceit. + +Kearney’s good-humour relished the absurdity, and he joined in the laugh, +while Nina stared at the old woman as an object of dread and terror. + +‘And that boy that wouldn’t dine with us. How is he turning out, Mathew? +They tell me he’s a bit of a scamp.’ + +‘He’s no such thing, godmother. Dick is as good a fellow and as +right-minded as ever lived, and you yourself would be the first to say it +if you saw him,’ cried Kate angrily. + +‘So would the young lady yonder, if I might judge from her blushes,’ said +Miss Betty, looking at Nina. ‘Not indeed but it’s only now I’m remembering +that you’re not a boy. That little red cap and that thing you wear round +your throat deceived me.’ + +‘It is not the lot of every one to be so fortunate in a head-dress as Miss +O’Shea,’ said Nina, very calmly. + +‘If it’s my wig you are envying me, my dear,’ replied she quietly, ‘there’s +nothing easier than to have the own brother of it. It was made by Crimp, of +Nassau Street, and box and all cost four pound twelve.’ + +‘Upon my life, Miss Betty,’ broke in Kearney, ‘you are tempting me to an +extravagance.’ And he passed his hand over his sparsely-covered head as he +spoke. + +‘And I would not, if I was you, Mathew Kearney,’ said she resolutely. ‘They +tell me that in that House of Lords you are going to, more than half of +them are bald.’ + +There was no possible doubt that she meant by this speech to deliver a +challenge, and Kate’s look, at once imploring and sorrowful, appealed to +her for mercy. + +‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Betty to the servant who presented a dish, +‘though, indeed, maybe I’m wrong, for I don’t know what’s coming.’ + +‘This is the _menu_,’ said Nina, handing a card to her. + +‘The bill of fare, godmother,’ said Kate hastily. + +‘Well, indeed, it’s a kindness to tell me, and if there is any more +novelties to follow, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to inform me, for I +never dined in the Greek fashion before.’ + +‘The Russian, I believe, madam, not the Greek,’ said Nina. + +‘With all my heart, my dear. It’s about the same, for whatever may happen +to Mathew Kearney or myself, I don’t suspect either of us will go to live +at Moscow.’ + +‘You’ll not refuse a glass of port with your cheese?’ said Kearney. + +‘Indeed I will, then, if there’s any beer in the house, though perhaps it’s +too vulgar a liquor to ask for.’ + +While the beer was being brought, a solemn silence ensued, and a less +comfortable party could not easily be imagined. + +When the interval had been so far prolonged that Kearney himself saw the +necessity to do something, he placed his napkin on the table, leaned +forward with a half-motion of rising, and, addressing Miss Betty, said, +‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room and take our coffee?’ + +‘I’d rather stay where I am, Mathew Kearney, and have that glass of port +you offered me a while ago, for the beer was flat. Not that I’ll detain the +young people, nor keep yourself away from them very long.’ + +When the two girls withdrew, Nina’s look of insolent triumph at Kate +betrayed the tone she was soon to take in treating of the old lady’s good +manners. + +‘You had a very sorry dinner, Miss Betty, but I can promise you an honest +glass of wine,’ said Kearney, filling her glass. + +‘It’s very nice,’ said she, sipping it, ‘though, maybe, like myself, it’s +just a trifle too old.’ + +‘A good fault, Miss Betty, a good fault.’ + +‘For the wine, perhaps,’ said she dryly, ‘but maybe it would taste better +if I had not bought it so dearly.’ + +‘I don’t think I understand you.’ + +‘I was about to say that I have forfeited that young lady’s esteem by the +way I obtained it. She’ll never forgive me, instead of retiring for my +coffee, sitting here like a man--and a man of that old hard-drinking +school, Mathew, that has brought all the ruin on Ireland.’ + +‘Here’s to their memory, anyway,’ said Kearney, drinking off his glass. + +‘I’ll drink no toasts nor sentiments, Mathew Kearney, and there’s no +artifice or roguery will make me forget I’m a woman and an O’Shea.’ + +‘Faix, you’ll not catch me forgetting either,’ said Mathew, with a droll +twinkle of his eye, which it was just as fortunate escaped her notice. + +‘I doubted for a long time, Mathew Kearney, whether I’d come over myself, +or whether I ‘d write you a letter; not that I’m good at writing, but, +somehow, one can put their ideas more clear, and say things in a way that +will fix them more in the mind; but at last I determined I’d come, though +it’s more than likely it’s the last time Kilgobbin will see me here.’ + +‘I sincerely trust you are mistaken, so far.’ + +‘Well, Mathew, I’m not often mistaken! The woman that has managed an estate +for more than forty years, been her own land-steward and her own law-agent, +doesn’t make a great many blunders; and, as I said before, if Mathew has no +friend to tell him the truth among the men of his acquaintance, it’s well +that there is a woman to the fore, who has courage and good sense to go up +and do it.’ + +She looked fixedly at him, as though expecting some concurrence in the +remark, if not some intimation to proceed; but neither came, and she +continued. + +‘I suppose you don’t read the Dublin newspapers?’ said she civilly. + +‘I do, and every day the post brings them.’ + +‘You see, therefore, without my telling you, what the world is saying about +you. You see how they treat “the search for arms,” as they head it, and +“the Maid of Saragossa!” O Mathew Kearney! Mathew Kearney! whatever +happened the old stock of the land, they never made themselves ridiculous.’ + +‘Have you done, Miss Betty?’ asked he, with assumed calm. + +‘Done! Why, it’s only beginning I am,’ cried she. ‘Not but I’d bear a deal +of blackguarding from the press--as the old woman said when the soldier +threatened to run his bayonet through her: “Devil thank you, it’s only your +trade.” But when we come to see the head of an old family making ducks and +drakes of his family property, threatening the old tenants that have been +on the land as long as his own people, raising the rent here, evicting +there, distressing the people’s minds when they’ve just as much as they can +to bear up with--then it’s time for an old friend and neighbour to give a +timely warning, and cry “Stop.’” + +‘Have you done, Miss Betty?’ And now his voice was more stern than before. + +‘I have not, nor near done, Mathew Kearney. I’ve said nothing of the way +you’re bringing up your family--that son, in particular--to make him think +himself a young man of fortune, when you know, in your heart, you’ll leave +him little more than the mortgages on the estate. I have not told you +that it’s one of the jokes of the capital to call him the Honourable Dick +Kearney, and to ask him after his father the viscount.’ + +‘You haven’t done yet, Miss O’Shea?’ said he, now with a thickened voice. + +‘No, not yet,’ replied she calmly--‘not yet; for I’d like to remind you +of the way you’re behaving to the best of the whole of you--the only one, +indeed, that’s worth much in the family--your daughter Kate.’ + +‘Well, what have I done to wrong _her_?’ said he, carried beyond his +prudence by so astounding a charge. + +‘The very worst you could do, Mathew Kearney; the only mischief it was in +your power, maybe. Look at the companion you have given her! Look at the +respectable young lady you’ve brought home to live with your decent child!’ + +‘You’ll not stop?’ cried he, almost choking with passion. + +‘Not till I’ve told you why I came here, Mathew Kearney; for I’d beg you to +understand it was no interest about yourself or your doings brought me. +I came to tell you that I mean to be free about an old contract we once +made--that I revoke it all. I was fool enough to believe that an alliance +between our families would have made me entirely happy, and my nephew +Gorman O’Shea was brought up to think the same. I have lived to know +better, Mathew Kearney: I have lived to see that we don’t suit each other +at all, and I have come here to declare to you formally that it’s all off. +No nephew of mine shall come here for a wife. The heir to Shea’s Barn +shan’t bring the mistress of it out of Kilgobbin Castle.’ + +‘Trust _me_ for that, old lady,’ cried he, forgetting all his good manners +in his violent passion. + +‘You’ll be all the freer to catch a young aide-de-camp from the Castle,’ +said she sneeringly; ‘or maybe, indeed, a young lord--a rank equal to your +own.’ + +‘Haven’t you said enough?’ screamed he, wild with rage. + +‘No, nor half, or you wouldn’t be standing there, wringing your hands with +passion and your hair bristling like a porcupine. You’d be at my feet, +Mathew Kearney--ay, at my feet.’ + +‘So I would, Miss Betty,’ chimed he in, with a malicious grin, ‘if I was +only sure you’d be as cruel as the last time I knelt there. Oh dear! oh +dear! and to think that I once wanted to marry that woman!’ + +‘That you did! You’d have put your hand in the fire to win her.’ + +‘By my conscience, I’d have put myself altogether there, if I had won her.’ + +‘You understand now, sir,’ said she haughtily, ‘that there’s no more +between us.’ + +‘Thank God for the same!’ ejaculated he fervently. + +‘And that no nephew of mine comes courting a daughter of yours?’ + +‘For his own sake, he’d better not.’ + +‘It’s for his own sake I intend it, Mathew Kearney. It’s of himself I’m +thinking. And now, thanking you for the pleasant evening I’ve passed, and +your charming society, I’ll take my leave.’ + +‘I hope you’ll not rob us of your company till you take a dish of tea,’ +said he, with well-feigned politeness. + +‘It’s hard to tear one’s self away, Mr. Kearney; but it’s late already.’ + +‘Couldn’t we induce you to stop the night, Miss Betty?’ asked he, in a tone +of insinuation. ‘Well, at least you’ll let me ring to order your horse?’ + +‘You may do that if it amuses you, Mathew Kearney; but, meanwhile, I’ll +just do what I’ve always done in the same place--I’ll just go look for my +own beast and see her saddled myself; and as Peter Gill is leaving you +to-morrow, I’ll take him back with me to-night.’ + +‘Is he going to you?’ cried he passionately. + +‘He’s going to _me_, Mr. Kearney, with your leave, or without it, I don’t +know which I like best.’ And with this she swept out of the room, while +Kearney closed his eyes and lay back in his chair, stunned and almost +stupefied. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A CONFIDENTIAL TALK + + +Dick Kearney walked the bog from early morning till dark without firing a +shot. The snipe rose almost at his feet, and wheeling in circles through +the air, dipped again into some dark crevice of the waste, unnoticed by +him! One thought only possessed, and never left him, as he went. He had +overheard Nina’s words to his sister, as he made his escape over the fence, +and learned how she promised to ‘spare him’; and that if not worried about +him, or asked to pledge herself, she should be ‘merciful,’ and not entangle +the boy in a hopeless passion. + +He would have liked to have scoffed at the insolence of this speech, and +treated it as a trait of overweening vanity; he would have gladly accepted +her pity as a sort of challenge, and said, ‘Be it so; let us see who will +come safest out of this encounter,’ and yet he felt in his heart he could +not. + +First of all, her beauty had really dazzled him, and the thousand graces +of a manner of which he had known nothing captivated and almost bewildered +him. He could not reply to her in the same tone he used to any other. If +he fetched her a book or a chair, he gave it with a sort of deference that +actually reacted on himself, and made him more gentle and more courteous, +for the time. ‘What would this influence end in making me?’ was his +question to himself. ‘Should I gain in sentiment or feeling? Should I have +higher and nobler aims? Should I be anything of that she herself described +so glowingly, or should I only sink to a weak desire to be her slave, and +ask for nothing better than some slight recognition of my devotion? I take +it that she would say the choice lay with _her_, and that I should be the +one or the other as she willed it, and though I would give much to believe +her wrong, my heart tells me that I cannot. I came down here resolved to +resist any influence she might attempt to have over me. Her likeness +showed me how beautiful she was, but it could not tell me the dangerous +fascination of her low liquid voice, her half-playful, half-melancholy +smile, and that bewitching walk, with all its stately grace, so that every +fold as she moves sends its own thrill of ecstasy. And now that I know all +these, see and feel them, I am told that to me they can bring no hope! That +I am too poor, too ignoble, too undistinguished, to raise my eyes to such +attraction. I am nothing, and must live and die nothing. + +‘She is candid enough, at all events. There is no rhapsody about her when +she talks of poverty. She chronicles every stage of the misery, as though +she had felt them all; and how unlike it she looks! There is an almost +insolent well-being about her that puzzles me. She will not heed this, or +suffer that, because it looks mean. Is this the subtle worship she offers +Wealth, and is it thus she offers up her prayer to Fortune? + +‘But why should she assume I must be her slave?’ cried he aloud, in a sort +of defiance. ‘I have shown her no such preference, nor made any advances +that would show I want to win her favour. Without denying that she is +beautiful, is it so certain it is the kind of beauty I admire? She has +scores of fascinations--I do not deny it; but should I say that I trust +her? And if I should trust her and love her too, where must it all end in? +I do not believe in her theory that love will transform a fellow of my +mould into a hero, not to say that I have my own doubt if she herself +believes it. I wonder if Kate reads her more clearly? Girls so often +understand each other by traits we have no clue to; and it was Kate who +asked her, almost in tone of entreaty, “to spare me,” to save me from a +hopeless passion, just as though I were some peasant-boy who had set his +affection on a princess. Is that the way, then, the world would read our +respective conditions? The son of a ruined house or the guest of a beggared +family leaves little to choose between! Kate--the world--would call my lot +the better of the two. The man’s chance is not irretrievable, at least such +is the theory. Those half-dozen fellows, who in a century or so contrive +to work their way up to something, make a sort of precedent, and tell the +others what they might be if they but knew how. + +‘I’m not vain enough to suppose I am one of these, and it is quite plain +that she does not think me so.’ He pondered long over this thought, and +then suddenly cried aloud, ‘Is it possible she may read Joe Atlee in this +fashion? is that the stuff out of which she hopes to make a hero?’ There +was more bitterness in this thought than he had first imagined, and there +was that of jealousy in it too that pained him deeply. + +Had she preferred either of the two Englishmen to himself, he could have +understood and, in a measure, accepted it. They were, as he called them, +‘swells.’ They might become, he knew not what. The career of the Saxon +in fortune was a thing incommensurable by Irish ideas; but Joe was like +himself, or in reality less than himself, in worldly advantages. + +This pang of jealousy was very bitter; but still it served to stimulate him +and rouse him from a depression that was gaining fast upon him. It is true, +he remembered she had spoken slightingly of Joe Atlee. Called him noisy, +pretentious, even vulgar; snubbed him openly on more than one occasion, and +seemed to like to turn the laugh against him; but with all that she had +sung duets with him, corrected some Italian verses he wrote, and actually +made a little sketch in his note-book for him as a souvenir. A souvenir! +and of what? Not of the ridicule she had turned upon him! not the jest she +had made upon his boastfulness. Now which of these two did this argue: was +this levity, or was it falsehood? Was she so little mindful of honesty that +she would show these signs of favour to one she held most cheaply, or was +it that her distaste to this man was mere pretence, and only assumed to +deceive others. + +After all, Joe Atlee was a nobody; flattery might call him an adventurer, +but he was not even so much. Amongst the men of the dangerous party he +mixed with he was careful never to compromise himself. He might write the +songs of rebellion, but he was little likely to tamper with treason itself. +So much he would tell her when he got back. Not angrily, nor passionately, +for that would betray him and disclose his jealousy, but in the tone of a +man revealing something he regretted--confessing to the blemish of one +he would have liked better to speak well of. There was not, he thought, +anything unfair in this. He was but warning her against a man who was +unworthy of her. Unworthy of her! What words could express the disparity +between them? Not but if she liked him--and this he said with a certain +bitterness--or thought she liked him, the disproportion already ceased to +exist. + +Hour after hour of that long summer day he walked, revolving such thoughts +as these; all his conclusions tending to the one point, that _he_ was not +the easy victim she thought him, and that, come what might, _he_ should not +be offered up as a sacrifice to her worship of Joe Atlee. + +‘There is nothing would gratify the fellow’s vanity,’ thought he, ‘like a +successful rivalry of him! Tell him he was preferred to me, and he would be +ready to fall down and worship whoever had made the choice.’ + +By dwelling on all the possible and impossible issues of such an +attachment, he had at length convinced himself of its existence, and even +more, persuaded himself to fancy it was something to be regretted and +grieved over for worldly considerations, but not in any way regarded as +personally unpleasant. + +As he came in sight of home and saw a light in the small tower where Kate’s +bedroom lay, he determined he would go up to his sister and tell her so +much of his mind as he believed was finally settled, and in such a way as +would certainly lead her to repeat it to Nina. + +‘Kate shall tell her that if I have left her suddenly and gone back +to Trinity to keep my term, I have not fled the field in a moment of +faint-heartedness. I do not deny her beauty. I do not disparage one of her +attractions, and she has scores of them. I will not even say that when I +have sat beside her, heard her low soft voice, and watched the tremor of +that lovely mouth vibrating with wit, or tremulous with feeling, I have +been all indifference; but this I will say, she shall not number _me_ +amongst the victims of her fascinations; and when she counts the trinkets +on her wrist that record the hearts she has broken--a pastime I once +witnessed--not one of them shall record the initial of Dick Kearney.’ + +[Illustration: Kate, still dressed, had thrown herself on the bed, and was +sound asleep] + +With these brave words he mounted the narrow stair and knocked at his +sister’s door. No answer coming, he knocked again, and after waiting a few +seconds, he slowly opened the door and saw that Kate, still dressed, had +thrown herself on her bed, and was sound asleep. The table was covered with +account-books and papers; tax-receipts, law-notices, and tenants’ letters +lay littered about, showing what had been the task she was last engaged on; +and her heavy breathing told the exhaustion which it had left behind it. + +‘I wish I could help her with her work,’ muttered he to himself, as a pang +of self-reproach shot through him. This certainly should have been his own +task rather than hers; the question was, however, Could he have done it? +And this doubt increased as he looked over the long column of tenants’ +names, whose holdings varied in every imaginable quantity of acres, +roods, and perches. Besides these there were innumerable small details of +allowances for this and compensation for that. This one had given so many +days’ horse-and-car hire at the bog; that other had got advances ‘in +seed-potatoes’; such a one had a claim for reduced rent, because the +mill-race had overflowed and deluged his wheat crop; such another had fed +two pigs of ‘the lord’s’ and fattened them, while himself and his own were +nigh starving. + +Through an entire column there was not one case without its complication, +either in the shape of argument for increased liability or claim for +compensation. It was makeshift everywhere, and Dick could not but ask +himself whether any tenant on the estate really knew how far he was +hopelessly in debt or a solvent man? It only needed Peter Gill’s peculiar +mode of collecting the moneys due, and recording the payment by the notched +stick, to make the complication perfect; and there, indeed, upon the table, +amid accounts and bills and sale warrants, lay the memorable bits of wood +themselves, as that worthy steward had deposited them before quitting his +master’s service. + +Peter’s character, too, written out in Kate’s hand, and only awaiting her +father’s signature, was on the table--the first intimation Dick Kearney had +that old Gill had quitted his post. + +‘All this must have occurred to-day,’ thought Dick; ‘there were no +evidences of these changes when I left this morning! Was it the backwater +of my disgrace, I wonder, that has overwhelmed poor Gill?’ thought he, ‘or +can I detect Miss Betty’s fine Roman hand in this incident?’ + +In proportion to the little love he bore Miss O’Shea, were his convictions +the stronger that she was the cause of all mischief. She was one of those +who took very ‘utilitarian’ notions of his own career, and he bore her +small gratitude for the solicitude. There were short sentences in pencil +along the margin of the chief book in Kate’s handwriting which could not +fail to strike him as he read them, indicating as they did her difficulty, +if not utter incapacity, to deal with the condition of the estate. Thus:-- + +‘There is no warranty for this concession. It cannot be continued.’--‘The +notice in this case was duly served, and Gill knows that it was to papa’s +generosity they were indebted for remaining.’--‘These arrears have never +been paid, on that point I am positive!’--‘Malone’s holding was not +fairly measured, he has a just claim to compensation, and shall have +it.’--‘Hannigan’s right to tenancy must not be disputed, but cannot be used +as a precedent by others on the same part of the estate, and I will state +why.’--‘More of Peter Gill’s conciliatory policy! The Regans, for having +been twice in gaol, and once indicted, and nearly convicted of Ribbonism, +have established a claim to live rent-free! This I will promise to +rectify.’--‘I shall make no more allowances for improvements without a +guarantee, and a penalty besides on non-completion.’ + +And last of all came these ominous words:-- + +‘It will thus be seen that our rent-roll since ‘64 has been progressively +decreasing, and that we have only been able to supply our expenses by sales +of property. Dick must be spoken to on this, and at once.’ + +Several entries had been already rubbed out, and it was clear that she had +been occupied in the task of erasion on that very night. Poor girl! her +sleep was the heavy repose of one utterly exhausted; and her closely +clasped lips and corrugated brow showed in what frame of intense thought +she had sunk to rest. He closed the book noiselessly, as he looked at her, +replaced the various objects on the table, and rose to steal quietly away. + +The accidental movement of a chair, however, startled her; she turned, and +leaning on her elbow, she saw him as he tried to move away. ‘Don’t go, +Dick, don’t go. I’m awake, and quite fresh again. Is it late?’ + +‘It’s not far from one o’clock,’ said he, half-roughly, to hide his +emotion; for her worn and wearied features struck him now more forcibly +than when she slept. + +‘And are you only returned now? How hungry you must be. Poor fellow--have +you dined to-day?’ + +‘Yes; I got to Owen Molloy’s as they were straining the potatoes, and sat +down with them, and ate very heartily too.’ + +‘Weren’t they proud of it? Won’t they tell how the young lord shared their +meal with them?’ + +‘I don’t think they are as cordial as they used to be, Kate; they did not +talk so openly, nor seem at their ease, as I once knew them. And they did +one thing, significant enough in its way, that I did not like. They quoted +the county newspaper twice or thrice when we talked of the land.’ + +‘I am aware of that, Dick; they have got other counsellors than their +landlords now,’ said she mournfully, ‘and it is our own fault if they +have.’ + +‘What, are you turning Nationalist, Kitty?’ said he, laughing. + +‘I was always a Nationalist in one sense,’ said she, ‘and mean to continue +so; but let us not get upon this theme. Do you know that Peter Gill has +left us?’ + +‘What, for America?’ + +‘No; for “O’Shea’s Barn.” Miss Betty has taken him. She came here to-day to +“have it out” with papa, as she said; and she has kept her word. Indeed, +not alone with him, but with all of us--even Nina did not escape.’ + +‘Insufferable old woman. What did she dare to say to Nina?’ + +‘She got off the cheapest of us all, Dick,’ said she, laughing. ‘It was +only some stupid remark she made her about looking like a boy, or being +dressed like a rope-dancer. A small civility of this sort was her share of +the general attention.’ + +‘And how did Nina take the insolence?’ + +‘With great good-temper, or good-breeding. I don’t know exactly which +covered the indifference she displayed, till Miss Betty, when taking her +leave, renewed the impertinence in the hall, by saying something about the +triumphant success such a costume would achieve in the circus, when Nina +curtsied, and said: “I am charmed to hear you say so, madam, and shall wear +it for my benefit; and if I could only secure the appearance of yourself +and your little groom, my triumph would be, indeed, complete.” I did not +dare to wait for more, but hurried out to affect to busy myself with the +saddle, and pretend that it was not tightly girthed.’ + +‘I’d have given twenty pounds, if I had it, to have seen the old woman’s +face. No one ever ventured before to pay her back with her own money.’ + +‘But I give you such a wrong version of it, Dick. I only convey the +coarseness of the rejoinder, and I can give you no idea of the ineffable +grace and delicacy which made her words sound like a humble apology. Her +eyelids drooped as she curtsied, and when she looked up again, in a way +that seemed humility itself, to have reproved her would have appeared +downright cruelty.’ + +‘She is a finished coquette,’ said he bitterly; ‘a finished coquette.’ + +Kate made no answer, though he evidently expected one; and after waiting a +while, he went on: ‘Not but her high accomplishments are clean thrown away +in such a place as this, and amongst such people. What chance of fitting +exercise have they with my father or myself? Or is it on Joe Atlee she +would try the range of her artillery?’ + +‘Not so very impossible this, after all,’ muttered Kate quietly. + +‘What, and is it to _that_ her high ambitions tend? Is _he_ the prize she +would strive to win?’ + +‘I can be no guide to you in this matter, Dick. She makes no confidences +with me, and of myself I see nothing.’ + +‘You have, however, some influence over her.’ + +‘No; not much.’ + +‘I did not say much; but enough to induce her to yield to a strong +entreaty, as when, for instance, you implored her to spare your +brother--that poor fellow about to fall so hopelessly in love--’ + +‘I’m not sure that my request did not come too late after all,’ said she, +with a laughing malice in her eye. + +‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ retorted he, almost fiercely. + +‘Oh, I never bargained for what you might do in a moment of passion or +resentment.’ + +‘There is neither one nor the other here. I am perfectly cool, calm, and +collected, and I tell you this, that whoever your pretty Greek friend is to +make a fool of, it shall not be Dick Kearney.’ + +‘It might be very nice fooling, all the same, Dick.’ + +‘I know--that is, I believe I know--what you mean. You have listened to +some of those high heroics she ascends to in showing what the exaltation +of a great passion can make of any man who has a breast capable of the +emotion, and you want to see the experiment tried in its least favourable +conditions--on a cold, soulless, selfish fellow of my own order; but, take +my word for it, Kate, it would prove a sheer loss of time to us both. +Whatever she might make of me, it would not be a _hero_; and whatever I +should strive for, it would not be her _love_.’ + +‘I don’t think I’d say that if I were a man.’ + +He made no answer to these words, but arose and walked the room with hasty +steps. ‘It was not about these things I came here to talk to you, Kitty,’ +said he earnestly. ‘I had my head full of other things, and now I cannot +remember them. Only one occurs to me. Have you got any money? I mean a mere +trifle--enough to pay my fare to town?’ + +‘To be sure I have that much, Dick; but you are surely not going to leave +us?’ + +‘Yes. I suddenly remembered I must be up for the last day of term in +Trinity. Knocking about here--I’ll scarcely say amusing myself--I had +forgotten all about it. Atlee used to jog my memory on these things when he +was near me, and now, being away, I have contrived to let the whole escape +me. You can help me, however, with a few pounds?’ + +‘I have got five of my own, Dick; but if you want more--’ + +‘No, no; I’ll borrow the five of your own, and don’t blend it with more, or +I may cease to regard it as a debt of honour.’ + +‘And if you should, my poor dear Dick--’ + +‘I’d be only pretty much what I have ever been, but scarcely wish to be any +longer,’ and he added the last words in a whisper. ‘It’s only to be a brief +absence, Kitty,’ said he, kissing her; ‘so say good-bye for me to the +others, and that I shall be soon back again.’ + +‘Shall I kiss Nina for you, Dick?’ + +‘Do; and tell her that I gave you the same commission for Miss O’Shea, and +was grieved that both should have been done by deputy!’ + +And with this he hurried away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +A HAPHAZARD VICEROY + + +When the Government came into office, they were sorely puzzled where to +find a Lord-Lieutenant for Ireland. It is, unhappily, a post that the men +most fitted for generally refuse, while the Cabinet is besieged by a class +of applicants whose highest qualification is a taste for mock-royalty +combined with an encumbered estate. + +Another great requisite, beside fortune and a certain amount of ability, +was at this time looked for. The Premier was about, as newspapers call it, +‘to inaugurate a new policy,’ and he wanted a man who knew nothing about +Ireland! Now, it might be carelessly imagined that here was one of those +essentials very easily supplied. Any man frequenting club-life or dining +out in town could have safely pledged himself to tell off a score or two +of eligible Viceroys, so far as this qualification went. The Minister, +however, wanted more than mere ignorance: he wanted that sort of +indifference on which a character for impartiality could so easily be +constructed. Not alone a man unacquainted with Ireland, but actually +incapable of being influenced by an Irish motive or affected by an Irish +view of anything. + +Good-luck would have it that he met such a man at dinner. He was an +ambassador at Constantinople, on leave from his post, and so utterly dead +to Irish topics as to be uncertain whether O’Donovan Rossa was a Fenian +or a Queen’s Counsel, and whether he whom he had read of as the ‘Lion of +Judah’ was the king of beasts or the Archbishop of Tuam! + +The Minister was pleased with his new acquaintance, and talked much to him, +and long. He talked well, and not the less well that his listener was a +fresh audience, who heard everything for the first time, and with all the +interest that attaches to a new topic. Lord Danesbury was, indeed, that +‘sheet of white paper’ the head of the Cabinet had long been searching for, +and he hastened to inscribe him with the characters he wished. + +‘You must go to Ireland for me, my lord,’ said the Minister. ‘I have met +no one as yet so rightly imbued with the necessities of the situation. You +must be our Viceroy.’ + +Now, though a very high post and with great surroundings, Lord Danesbury +had no desire to exchange his position as an ambassador, even to become a +Lord-Lieutenant. Like most men who have passed their lives abroad, he grew +to like the ways and habits of the Continent. He liked the easy indulgences +in many things, he liked the cosmopolitanism that surrounds existence, and +even in its littleness is not devoid of a certain breadth; and best of all +he liked the vast interests at stake, the large questions at issue, the +fortunes of states, the fate of dynasties! To come down from the great +game, as played by kings and kaisers, to the small traffic of a local +government wrangling over a road-bill, or disputing over a harbour, seemed +too horrible to confront, and he eagerly begged the Minister to allow him +to return to his post, and not risk a hard-earned reputation on a new and +untried career. + +‘It is precisely from the fact of its being new and untried I need you,’ +was the reply, and his denial was not accepted. + +Refusal was impossible; and with all the reluctance a man consents to what +his convictions are more opposed to even than his reasons, Lord Danesbury +gave in, and accepted the viceroyalty of Ireland. + +He was deferential to humility in listening to the great aims and noble +conceptions of the mighty Minister, and pledged himself--as he could safely +do--to become as plastic as wax in the powerful hands which were about to +remodel Ireland. + +He was gazetted in due course, went over to Dublin, made a state entrance, +received the usual deputations, complimented every one, from the Provost of +Trinity College to the Chief Commissioner of Pipewater; praised the coast, +the corporation, and the city; declared that he had at length reached the +highest goal of his ambition; entertained the high dignitaries at dinner, +and the week after retired to his ancestral seat in North Wales, to recruit +after his late fatigue, and throw off the effects of that damp, moist +climate which already he fancied had affected him. + +He had been sworn in with every solemnity of the occasion; he had sat on +the throne of state, named the officers of his household, made a master of +the horse, and a state steward, and a grand chamberlain; and, till stopped +by hearing that he could not create ladies and maids of honour, he fancied +himself every inch a king; but now that he had got over to the tranquil +quietude of his mountain home, his thoughts went away to the old channels, +and he began to dream of the Russians in the Balkan and the Greeks in +Thessaly. Of all the precious schemes that had taken him months to weave, +what was to come of them _now_? How and with what would his successor, +whoever he should be, oppose the rogueries of Sumayloff or the chicanery of +Ignatief? what would any man not trained to the especial watchfulness of +this subtle game know of the steps by which men advanced? Who was to watch +Bulgaria and see how far Russian gold was embellishing the life of Athens? +There was not a hungry agent that lounged about the Russian embassy in +Greek petticoats and pistols whose photograph the English ambassador did +not possess, with a biographical note at the back to tell the fellow’s name +and birthplace, what he was meant for, and what he cost. Of every interview +of his countrymen with the Grand-Vizier he was kept fully informed, and +whether a forage magazine was established on the Pruth, or a new frigate +laid down at Nickolief, the news reached him by the time it arrived at St. +Petersburg. It is true he was aware how hopeless it was to write home about +these things. The ambassador who writes disagreeable despatches is a bore +or an old woman. He who dares to shake the security by which we daily boast +we are surrounded, is an alarmist, if not worse. Notwithstanding this, he +held his cards well ‘up’ and played them shrewdly. And now he was to turn +from this crafty game, with all its excitement, to pore over constabulary +reports and snub justices of the peace! + +But there was worse than this. There was an Albanian spy who had been much +employed by him of late, a clever fellow, with access to society, and great +facilities for obtaining information. Seeing that Lord Danesbury should not +return to the embassy, would this fellow go over to the enemy? If so, there +were no words for the mischief he might effect. By a subordinate position +in a Greek government-office, he had often been selected to convey +despatches to Constantinople, and it was in this way his lordship first +met him; and as the fellow frankly presented himself with a very momentous +piece of news, he at once showed how he trusted to British faith not to +betray him. It was not alone the incalculable mischief such a man might do +by change of allegiance, but the whole fabric on which Lord Danesbury’s +reputation rested was in this man’s keeping; and of all that wondrous +prescience on which he used to pride himself before the world, all the +skill with which he baffled an adversary, and all the tact with which he +overwhelmed a colleague, this same ‘Speridionides’ could give the secret +and show the trick. + +How much more constantly, then, did his lordship’s thoughts revert to the +Bosporus than the Liffey! all this home news was mean, commonplace, and +vulgar. The whole drama--scenery, actors, plot--all were low and ignoble; +and as for this ‘something that was to be done for Ireland,’ it would of +course be some slowly germinating policy to take root now, and blossom in +another half-century: one of those blessed parliamentary enactments which +men who dealt in heroic remedies like himself regarded as the chronic +placebo of the political quack. + +‘I am well aware,’ cried he aloud, ‘for what they are sending me over. I am +to “make a case” in Ireland for a political legislation, and the bill is +already drawn and ready; and while I am demonstrating to Irish Churchmen +that they will be more pious without a religion, and the landlords richer +without rent, the Russians will be mounting guard at the Golden Horn, and +the last British squadron steaming down the Levant.’ + +It was in a temper kindled by these reflections he wrote this note:-- + +PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES. + +‘DEAR WALPOLE,--I can make nothing out of the papers you have sent me; nor +am I able to discriminate between what you admit to be newspaper slander +and the attack on the castle with the unspeakable name. At all events, your +account is far too graphic for the Treasury lords, who have less of the +pictorial about them than Mr. Mudie’s subscribers. If the Irish peasants +are so impatient to assume their rights that they will not wait for the +“Hatt-Houmaïoun,” or Bill in Parliament that is to endow them, I suspect a +little further show of energy might save us a debate and a third reading. I +am, however, far more eager for news from Therapia. Tolstai has been twice +over with despatches; and Boustikoff, pretending to have sprained his +ankle, cannot leave Odessa, though I have ascertained that he has laid down +new lines of fortification, and walked over twelve miles per day. You may +have heard of the great “Speridionides,” a scoundrel that supplied me with +intelligence. I should like much to get him over here while I am on my +leave, confer with him, and, if possible, save him _from the necessity of +other engagements_. It is not every one could be trusted to deal with a man +of this stamp, nor would the fellow himself easily hold relations with any +but a gentleman. Are you sufficiently recovered from your sprained arm to +undertake this journey for me? If so, come over at once, that I may give +you all necessary indications as to the man and his whereabouts. + +‘Maude has been “on the sick-list,” but is better, and able to ride out +to-day. I cannot fill the law-appointments till I go over, nor shall I go +over till I cannot help it. The Cabinet is scattered over the Scotch lakes. +C. alone in town, and preparing for the War Ministry by practising the +goose-step. Telegraph, if possible, that you are coming, and believe me +yours, + +DANESBURY.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +TWO FRIENDS AT BREAKFAST + + +Irishmen may reasonably enough travel for climate, they need scarcely go +abroad in search of scenery. Within even a very short distance from the +capital, there are landscapes which, for form, outline, and colour, equal +some of the most celebrated spots of continental beauty. + +One of these is the view from Bray Head over the wide expanse of the Bay of +Dublin, with Howth and Lambay in the far distance. Nearer at hand lies the +sweep of that graceful shore to Killiney, with the Dalky Islands dotting +the calm sea; while inland, in wild confusion, are grouped the Wicklow +Mountains, massive with wood and teeming with a rich luxuriance. + +When sunlight and stillness spread colour over the blue mirror of the +sea--as is essential to the scene--I know of nothing, not even Naples or +Amalfi, can surpass this marvellous picture. + +It was on a terrace that commanded this view that Walpole and Atlee sat +at breakfast on a calm autumnal morning; the white-sailed boats scarcely +creeping over their shadows; and the whole scene, in its silence and +softened effect, presenting a picture of almost rapturous tranquillity. + +‘With half-a-dozen days like this,’ said Atlee, as he smoked his cigarette, +in a sort of languid grace, ‘one would not say O’Connell was wrong in his +glowing admiration for Irish scenery. If I were to awake every day for a +week to this, I suspect I should grow somewhat crazy myself about the green +island.’ + +‘And dash the description with a little treason too,’ said the other +superciliously. ‘I have always remarked the ingenious connection with which +Irishmen bind up a love of the picturesque with a hate of the Saxon.’ + +‘Why not? They are bound together in the same romance. Can you look on the +Parthenon and not think of the Turk?’ + +‘Apropos of the Turk,’ said the other, laying his hand on a folded letter +which lay before him, ‘here’s a long letter from Lord Danesbury about that +wearisome “Eastern question,” as they call the ten thousand issues that +await the solution of the Bosporus. Do you take interest in these things.’ + +‘Immensely. After I have blown myself with a sharp burst on home politics, +I always take a canter among the Druses and the Lebanites; and I am such +an authority on the “Grand Idea,” that Rangabe refers to me as “the +illustrious statesman whose writings relieve England from the stain of +universal ignorance about Greece.”’ + +‘And do you know anything on the subject?’ + +‘About as much as the present Cabinet does of Ireland. I know all the +clap-traps: the grand traditions that have sunk down into a present +barbarism--of course, through ill government; the noble instincts depraved +by gross usage; I know the inherent love of freedom we cherish, which makes +men resent rents as well as laws, and teaches that taxes are as great a +tyranny as the rights of property.’ + +‘And do the Greeks take this view of it?’ + +‘Of course they do; and it was in experimenting on them that your great +Ministers learned how to deal with Ireland. There was but one step from +Thebes to Tipperary. Corfu was “pacified”--that’s the phrase for it--by +abolishing the landlords. The peasants were told they might spare a little +if they liked to the ancient possessor of the soil; and so they took the +ground, and they gave him the olive-trees. You may imagine how fertile +these were, when the soil around them was utilised to the last fraction of +productiveness.’ + +‘Is that a fair statement of the case?’ + +‘Can you ask the question? I’ll show it to you in print.’ + +‘Perhaps written by yourself?’ + +‘And why not? What convictions have not broken on my mind by reading my own +writings? You smile at this; but how do you know your face is clean till +you look in a glass?’ + +Walpole, however, had ceased to attend to the speaker, and was deeply +engaged with the letter before him. + +‘I see here,’ cried he, ‘his Excellency is good enough to say that some +mark of royal favour might be advantageously extended to those Kilgobbin +people, in recognition of their heroic defence. What should it be, is the +question.’ + +‘Confer on him the peerage, perhaps.’ + +‘That is totally out of the question.’ + +‘It was Kate Kearney made the defence; why not give her a commission in the +army?--make it another “woman’s right.”’ + +‘You are absurd, Mr. Atlee.’ + +‘Suppose you endowed her out of the Consolidated Fund? Give her twenty +thousand pounds, and I can almost assure you that a very clever fellow I +know will marry her.’ + +‘A strange reward for good conduct.’ + +‘A prize of virtue. They have that sort of thing in France, and they say it +gives a great support to purity of morals.’ + +‘Young Kearney might accept something, if we knew what to offer him.’ + +‘I’d say a pair of black trousers; for I think I’m now wearing his last in +that line.’ + +‘Mr. Atlee,’ said the other grimly, ‘let me remind you once again, that the +habit of light jesting--_persiflage_--is so essentially Irish, you should +keep it for your countrymen; and if you persist in supposing the career of +a private secretary suits you, this is an incongruity that will totally +unfit you for the walk.’ + +‘I am sure you know your countrymen, sir, and I am grateful for the +rebuke.’ + +Walpole’s cheek flushed at this, and it was plain that there was a hidden +meaning in the words which he felt, and resented. + +‘I do not know,’ continued Walpole, ‘if I am not asking you to curb one +of the strongest impulses of your disposition; but it rests entirely with +yourself whether my counsel be worth following.’ + +‘Of course it is, sir. I shall follow your advice to the letter, and keep +all my good spirits and my bad manners for my countrymen.’ + +It was evident that Walpole had to exercise some strong self-control not to +reply sharply; but he refrained, and turned once more to Lord Danesbury’s +letter, in which he was soon deeply occupied. At last he said: ‘His +Excellency wants to send me out to Turkey to confer with a man with whom he +has some confidential relations. It is quite impossible that, in my present +state of health, I could do this. Would the thing suit you, Atlee--that is, +if, on consideration, I should opine that _you_ would suit _it_?’ + +‘I suspect,’ replied Atlee, but with every deference in his manner, ‘if you +would entertain the last part of the contingency first, it would be more +convenient to each of us. I mean whether I were fit for the situation.’ + +‘Well, perhaps so,’ said the other carelessly; ‘it is not at all +impossible, it may be one of the things you would acquit yourself well in. +It is a sort of exercise for tact and discretion--an occasion in which that +light hand of yours would have a field for employment, and that acute skill +in which I know you pride yourself as regards reading character--’ + +‘You have certainly piqued my curiosity,’ said Atlee. + +‘I don’t know that I ought to have said so much; for, after all, it remains +to be seen whether Lord Danesbury would estimate these gifts of yours as +highly as I do. What I think of doing is this: I shall send you over to his +Excellency in your capacity as my own private secretary, to explain how +unfit I am in my present disabled condition to undertake a journey. I shall +tell my lord how useful I have found your services with regard to Ireland, +how much you know of the country and the people, and how worthy of trust I +have found your information and your opinions; and I shall hint--but only +hint, remember--that, for the mission he speaks of, he might possibly +do worse than fix upon yourself. As, of course, it rests with him to be +like-minded with me or not upon this matter--to take, in fact, his own +estimate of Mr. Atlee from his own experiences of him--you are not to know +anything whatever of this project till his Excellency thinks proper to open +it to you. You understand that?’ + +‘Thoroughly.’ + +‘Your mission will be to explain--when asked to explain--certain +difficulties of Irish life and habits, and if his lordship should direct +conversation to topics of the East, to be careful to know nothing of the +subject whatever--mind that.’ + +‘I shall be careful. I have read the _Arabian Nights_--but that’s all.’ + +‘And of that tendency to small joking and weak epigram I would also caution +you to beware; they will have no success in the quarter to which you are +going, and they will only damage other qualities which you might possibly +rely on.’ + +Atlee bowed a submissive acquiescence. + +‘I don’t know that you’ll see Lady Maude Bickerstaffe, his lordship’s +niece.’ He stopped as if he had unwittingly uttered an awkwardness, and +then added--‘I mean she has not been well, and may not appear while you are +at the castle; but if you should--and if, which is not at all likely, but +still possible, you should be led to talk of Kilgobbin and the incident +that has got into the papers, you must be very guarded in all you say. It +is a county family of station and repute. We were there as visitors. The +ladies--I don’t know that I ‘d say very much of the ladies.’ + +‘Except that they were exceedingly plain in looks, and somewhat _passées_ +besides,’ added Atlee gravely. + +‘I don’t see why you should say that, sir,’ replied the other stiffly. ‘If +you are not bent on compromising me by an indiscretion, I don’t perceive +the necessity of involving me in a falsehood.’ + +‘You shall be perfectly safe in my hands,’ said Atlee. + +‘And that I may be so, say as little about me as you can. I know the +injunction has its difficulties, Mr. Atlee, but pray try and observe it.’ + +The conversation had now arrived at a point in which one angry word more +must have produced a rupture between them; and though Atlee took in the +whole situation and its consequences at a glance, there was nothing in the +easy jauntiness of his manner that gave any clue to a sense of anxiety or +discomfort. + +‘Is it likely,’ asked he at length, ‘that his Excellency will advert to the +idea of recognising or rewarding these people for their brave defence?’ + +‘I am coming to that, if you will spare me a little patience: Saxon +slowness is a blemish you’ll have to grow accustomed to. If Lord Danesbury +should know that you are an acquaintance of the Kilgobbin family, and ask +you what would be a suitable mode of showing how their conduct has been +appreciated in a high quarter, you should be prepared with an answer.’ + +Atlee’s eyes twinkled with a malicious drollery, and he had to bite his +lips to repress an impertinence that seemed almost to master his prudence, +and at last he said carelessly-- + +‘Dick Kearney might get something.’ + +‘I suppose you know that his qualifications will be tested. You bear that +in mind, I hope--’ + +‘Yes. I was just turning it over in my head, and I thought the best thing +to do would be to make him a Civil Service Commissioner. They are the only +people taken on trust.’ + +‘You are severe, Mr. Atlee. Have these gentlemen earned this dislike on +your part?’ + +‘Do you mean by having rejected me? No, that they have not. I believe I +could have survived that; and if, however, they had come to the point of +telling me that they were content with my acquirements, and what is +called “passed me,” I fervently believe I should have been seized with an +apoplexy.’ + +‘Mr. Atlee’s opinion of himself is not a mean one,’ said Walpole, with a +cold smile. + +‘On the contrary, sir, I have occasion to feel pretty often in every +twenty-four hours what an ignominious part a man plays in life who has to +affect to be taught what he knows already--to be asking the road where he +has travelled every step of the way--and to feel that a threadbare coat and +broken boots take more from the value of his opinions than if he were a +knave or a blackleg.’ + +‘I don’t see the humility of all this.’ + +‘I feel the shame of it, though,’ said Atlee; and as he arose and walked +out upon the terrace, the veins in his forehead were swelled and knotted, +and his lips trembled with suppressed passion. + +In a tone that showed how thoroughly indifferent he felt to the other’s +irritation, Walpole went on to say: ‘You will then make it your business, +Mr. Atlee, to ascertain in what way most acceptable to those people at +Kilgobbin his Excellency may be able to show them some mark of royal +favour--bearing in mind not to commit yourself to anything that may raise +great expectations. In fact, a recognition is what is intended, not a +reward.’ + +Atlee’s eyes fell upon the opal ring, which he always wore since the day +Walpole had given it to him, and there was something so significant in the +glance that the other flushed as he caught it. + +‘I believe I appreciate the distinction,’ said Atlee quietly. ‘It is to be +something in which the generosity of the donor is more commemorated than +the merits of the person rewarded, and, consequently, a most appropriate +recognition of the Celt by the Saxon. Do you think I ought to go down to +Kilgobbin Castle, sir?’ + +‘I am not quite sure about that; I’ll turn it over in my mind. Meanwhile +I’ll telegraph to my lord that, if he approves, I shall send you over to +Wales; and you had better make what arrangements you have to make, to be +ready to start at a moment.’ + +‘Unfortunately, sir, I have none. I am in the full enjoyment of such +complete destitution, that I am always ready to go anywhere.’ + +Walpole did not notice the words, but arose and walked over to a +writing-table to compose his message for the telegraph. + +‘There,’ said he, as he folded it, ‘have the kindness to despatch this at +once, and do not be out of the way about five, or half-past, when I shall +expect an answer.’ + +‘Am I free to go into town meanwhile?’ asked Atlee. + +Walpole nodded assent without speaking. + +‘I wonder if this sort of flunkeydom be good for a man,’ muttered Atlee to +himself as he sprang down the stairs. ‘I begin to doubt it. At all events, +I understand now the secret of the first lieutenant’s being a tyrant: he +has once been a middy. And so I say, let me only reach the ward-room, and +Heaven help the cockpit!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +ATLEE’S EMBARRASSMENTS + + +When Atlee returned to dress for dinner, he was sent for hurriedly by +Walpole, who told him that Lord Danesbury’s answer had arrived with the +order, ‘Send him over at once, and write fully at the same time.’ + +‘There is an eleven o’clock packet, Atlee, to-night,’ said he: ‘you must +manage to start by that. You’ll reach Holyhead by four or thereabouts, and +can easily get to the castle by mid-day.’ + +‘I wish I had had a little more time,’ muttered the other. ‘If I am to +present myself before his Excellency in such a “rig” as this--’ + +‘I have thought of that. We are nearly of the same size and build; you are, +perhaps, a trifle taller, but nothing to signify. Now Buckmaster has +just sent me a mass of things of all sorts from town; they are in my +dressing-room, not yet unpacked. Go up and look at them after dinner: take +what suits you--as much--all, if you like--but don’t delay now. It only +wants a few minutes of seven o’clock.’ + +Atlee muttered his thanks hastily, and went his way. If there was a +thoughtfulness in the generosity of this action, the mode in which it +was performed--the measured coldness of the words--the look of impassive +examination that accompanied them, and the abstention from anything that +savoured of apology for a liberty--were all deeply felt by the other. + +It was true, Walpole had often heard him tell of the freedom with which he +had treated Dick Kearney’s wardrobe, and how poor Dick was scarcely sure he +could call an article of dress his own, whenever Joe had been the first +to go out into the town. The innumerable straits to which he reduced that +unlucky chum, who had actually to deposit a dinner-suit at an hotel to save +it from Atlee’s rapacity, had amused Walpole; but then these things were +all done in the spirit of the honest familiarity that prevailed between +them--the tie of true _camaraderie_ that neither suggested a thought of +obligation on one side nor of painful inferiority on the other. Here it +was totally different. These men did not live together with that daily +interchange of liberties which, with all their passing contentions, so +accustom people to each other’s humours as to establish the soundest and +strongest of all friendships. Walpole had adopted Atlee because he +found him useful in a variety of ways. He was adroit, ready-witted, and +intelligent; a half-explanation sufficed with him on anything--a mere hint +was enough to give him for an interview or a reply. He read people readily, +and rarely failed to profit by the knowledge. Strange as it may seem, +the great blemish of his manner--his snobbery--Walpole rather liked than +disliked it. I was a sort of qualifying element that satisfied him, as +though it said, ‘With all that fellow’s cleverness, he is not “one of us.” + He might make a wittier reply, or write a smarter note; but society has +its little tests--not one of which he could respond to.’ And this was an +inferiority Walpole loved to cherish and was pleased to think over. + +Atlee felt that Walpole might, with very little exercise of courtesy, have +dealt more considerately by him. + +‘I’m not exactly a valet,’ muttered he to himself, ‘to whom a man flings a +waistcoat as he chucks a shilling to a porter. I am more than Mr. Walpole’s +equal in many things, which are not accidents of fortune.’ + +He knew scores of things he could do better than him; indeed, there were +very few he could not. + +Poor Joe was not, however, aware that it was in the ‘not doing’ lay +Walpole’s secret of superiority; that the inborn sense of abstention is the +great distinguishing element of the class Walpole belonged to; and he +might harass himself for ever, and yet never guess where it was that the +distinction evaded him. + +Atlee’s manner at dinner was unusually cold and silent. He habitually made +the chief efforts of conversation, now he spoke little and seldom. When +Walpole talked, it was in that careless discursive way it was his wont to +discuss matters with a familiar. He often put questions, and as often went +on without waiting for the answers. + +As they sat over the dessert and were alone, he adverted to the other’s +mission, throwing out little hints, and cautions as to manner, which Atlee +listened to in perfect silence, and without the slightest sign that could +indicate the feeling they produced. + +‘You are going into a new country, Atlee,’ said he at last, ‘and I am sure +you will not be sorry to learn something of the geography.’ + +‘Though it may mar a little of the adventure,’ said the other, smiling. + +‘Ah, that’s exactly what I want to warn you against. With us in England, +there are none of those social vicissitudes you are used to here. The game +of life is played gravely, quietly, and calmly. There are no brilliant +successes of bold talkers, no _coups de théâtre_ of amusing _raconteurs_: +no one tries to push himself into any position of eminence.’ + +A half-movement of impatience, as Atlee pushed his wine-glass before him, +arrested the speaker. + +‘I perceive,’ said he stiffly, ‘you regard my counsels as unnecessary.’ + +‘Not that, sir, so much as hopeless,’ rejoined the other coldly. + +‘His Excellency will ask you, probably, some questions about this country: +let me warn you not to give him Irish answers.’ + +‘I don’t think I understand you, sir.’ + +‘I mean, don’t deal in any exaggerations, avoid extravagance, and never be +slapdash.’ + +‘Oh, these are Irish, then?’ + +Without deigning reply to this, Walpole went on-- + +‘Of course you have your remedy for all the evils of Ireland. I never met +an Irishman who had not. But I beg you spare his lordship your theory, +whatever it is, and simply answer the questions he will ask you.’ + +‘I will try, sir,’ was the meek reply. + +‘Above all things, let me warn you against a favourite blunder of your +countrymen. Don’t endeavour to explain peculiarities of action in this +country by singularities of race or origin; don’t try to make out that +there are special points of view held that are unknown on the other side of +the Channel, or that there are other differences between the two peoples, +except such as more rags and greater wretchedness produce. We have got over +that very venerable and time-honoured blunder, and do not endeavour to +revive it.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Fact, I assure you. It is possible in some remote country-house to chance +upon some antiquated Tory who still cherishes these notions; but you’ll not +find them amongst men of mind or intelligence, nor amongst any class of our +people.’ + +It was on Atlee’s lip to ask, ‘Who were our people?’ but he forbore by a +mighty effort, and was silent. + +‘I don’t know if I have any other cautions to give you. Do you?’ + +‘No, sir. I could not even have reminded you of these, if you had not +yourself remembered them.’ + +‘Oh, I had almost forgotten it. If his Excellency should give you anything +to write out, or to copy, don’t smoke while you are over it: he abhors +tobacco. I should have given you a warning to be equally careful as regards +Lady Maude’s sensibilities; but, on the whole, I suspect you’ll scarcely +see her.’ + +‘Is that all, sir?’ said the other, rising. + +‘Well, I think so. I shall be curious to hear how you acquit yourself--how +you get on with his Excellency, and how he takes you; and you must write it +all to me. Ain’t you much too early? it’s scarcely ten o’clock.’ + +‘A quarter past ten; and I have some miles to drive to Kingstown.’ + +‘And not yet packed, perhaps?’ said the other listlessly. + +‘No, sir; nothing ready.’ + +‘Oh! you’ll be in ample time; I’ll vouch for it. You are one of the +rough-and-ready order, who are never late. Not but in this same flurry of +yours you have made me forget something I know I had to say; and you tell +me you can’t remember it?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘And yet,’ said the other sententiously, ‘the crowning merit of a private +secretary is exactly that sort of memory. _Your_ intellects, if properly +trained, should be the complement of your chief’s. The infinite number of +things that are too small and too insignificant for _him_, are to have +their place, duly docketed and dated, in _your_ brain; and the very +expression of his face should be an indication to you of what he is looking +for and yet cannot remember. Do you mark me?’ + +‘Half-past ten,’ cried Atlee, as the clock chimed on the mantel-piece; and +he hurried away without another word. + +It was only as he saw the pitiable penury of his own scanty wardrobe that +he could persuade himself to accept of Walpole’s offer. + +‘After all,’ he said, ‘the loan of a dress-coat may be the turning-point of +a whole destiny. Junot sold all he had to buy a sword, to make his first +campaign; all I have is my shame, and here it goes for a suit of clothes!’ +And, with these words, he rushed down to Walpole’s dressing-room, and not +taking time to inspect and select the contents, carried off the box, as it +was, with him. ‘I’ll tell him all when I write,’ muttered he, as he drove +away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS + + +When Dick Kearney quitted Kilgobbin Castle for Dublin, he was very far from +having any projects in his head, excepting to show his cousin Nina that he +could live without her. + +‘I believe,’ muttered he to himself, ‘she counts upon me as another +“victim.” These coquettish damsels have a theory that the “whole drama of +life” is the game of their fascinations and the consequences that come +of them, and that we men make it our highest ambition to win them, and +subordinate all we do in life to their favour. I should like to show her +that one man at least refuses to yield this allegiance, and that whatever +her blandishments do with others, with him they are powerless.’ + +These thoughts were his travelling-companions for nigh fifty miles of +travel, and, like most travelling-companions, grew to be tiresome enough +towards the end of the journey. + +When he arrived in Dublin, he was in no hurry to repair to his quarters in +Trinity; they were not particularly cheery in the best of times, and now it +was long vacation, with few men in town, and everything sad and spiritless; +besides this, he was in no mood to meet Atlee, whose free-and-easy +jocularity he knew he would not endure, even with his ordinary patience. +Joe had never condescended to write one line since he had left Kilgobbin, +and Dick, who felt that in presenting him to his family he had done him +immense honour, was proportionately indignant at this show of indifference. +But, by the same easy formula with which he could account for anything in +Nina’s conduct by her ‘coquetry,’ he was able to explain every deviation +from decorum of Joe Atlee’s by his ‘snobbery.’ And it is astonishing how +comfortable the thought made him, that this man, in all his smartness and +ready wit, in his prompt power to acquire, and his still greater quickness +to apply knowledge, was after all a most consummate snob. + +He had no taste for a dinner at commons, so he ate his mutton-chop at a +tavern, and went to the play. Ineffably bored, he sauntered along the +almost deserted streets of the city, and just as midnight was striking, he +turned under the arched portal of the college. Secretly hoping that Atlee +might be absent, he inserted the key and entered his quarters. + +The grim old coal-bunker in the passage, the silent corridor, and the +dreary room at the end of it, never looked more dismal than as he surveyed +them now by the light of a little wax-match he had lighted to guide his +way. There stood the massive old table in the middle, with its litter of +books and papers--memories of many a headache; and there was the paper of +coarse Cavendish, against which he had so often protested, as well as a +pewter-pot--a new infraction against propriety since he had been away. +Worse, however, than all assaults on decency, were a pair of coarse +highlows, which had been placed within the fender, and had evidently +enjoyed the fire so long as it lingered in the grate. + +‘So like the fellow! so like him!’ was all that Dick could mutter, and he +turned away in disgust. + +As Atlee never went to bed till daybreak, it was quite clear that he was +from home, and as the college gates could not reopen till morning, Dick was +not sorry to feel that he was safe from all intrusion for some hours. With +this consolation, he betook him to his bedroom, and proceeded to undress. +Scarcely, however, had he thrown off his coat than a heavy, long-drawn +respiration startled him. He stopped and listened: it came again, and from +the bed. He drew nigh, and there, to his amazement, on his own pillow, lay +the massive head of a coarse-looking, vulgar man of about thirty, with a +silk handkerchief fastened over it as nightcap. A brawny arm lay outside +the bedclothes, with an enormous hand of very questionable cleanness, +though one of the fingers wore a heavy gold ring. + +Wishing to gain what knowledge he might of his guest before awaking +him, Dick turned to inspect his clothes, which, in a wild disorder, lay +scattered through the room. They were of the very poorest; but such +still as might have belonged to a very humble clerk, or a messenger in a +counting-house. A large black leather pocket-book fell from a pocket of the +coat, and, in replacing it, Dick perceived it was filled with letters. +On one of these, as he closed the clasp, he read the name, ‘Mr. Daniel +Donogan, Dartmouth Gaol.’ + +‘What!’ cried he, ‘is this the great head-centre, Donogan, I have read so +much of? and how is he here?’ + +Though Dick Kearney was not usually quick of apprehension, he was not +long here in guessing what the situation meant: it was clear enough that +Donogan, being a friend of Joe Atlee, had been harboured here as a safe +refuge. Of all places in the capital, none were so secure from the visits +of the police as the college; indeed, it would have been no small hazard +for the public force to have invaded these precincts. Calculating therefore +that Kearney was little likely to leave Kilgobbin at present, Atlee had +installed his friend in Dick’s quarters. The indiscretion was a grave +one; in fact, there was nothing--even to expulsion itself--might not have +followed on discovery. + +‘So like him! so like him!’ was all he could mutter, as he arose and walked +about the room. + +While he thus mused, he turned into Atlee’s bedroom, and at once it +appeared why Mr. Donogan had been accommodated in his room. Atlee’s was +perfectly destitute of everything: bed, chest of drawers, dressing-table, +chair, and bath were all gone. The sole object in the chamber was a coarse +print of a well-known informer of the year ‘98, ‘Jemmy O’Brien,’ +under whose portrait was written, in Atlee’s hand, ‘Bought in at +fourpence-halfpenny, at the general sale, in affectionate remembrance of +his virtues, by one who feels himself to be a relative.--J.A.’ Kearney tore +down the picture in passion, and stamped upon it; indeed, his indignation +with his chum had now passed all bounds of restraint. + +‘So like him in everything!’ again burst from him in utter bitterness. + +Having thus satisfied himself that he had read the incident aright, he +returned to the sitting-room, and at once decided that he would leave +Donogan to his rest till morning. + +‘It will be time enough then to decide what is to be done,’ thought he. + +He then proceeded to relight the fire, and drawing a sofa near, he wrapped +himself in a railway-rug, and lay down to sleep. For a long time he could +not compose himself to slumber: he thought of Nina and her wiles--ay, they +were wiles; he saw them plainly enough. It was true he was no prize--no +‘catch,’ as they call it--to angle for, and such a girl as she was could +easily look higher; but still he might swell the list of those followers +she seemed to like to behold at her feet offering up every homage to +her beauty, even to their actual despair. And he thought of his own +condition--very hopeless and purposeless as it was. + +‘What a journey, to be sure, was life without a goal to strive for. +Kilgobbin would be his one day; but by that time would it be able to pay +off the mortgages that were raised upon it? It was true Atlee was no +richer, but Atlee was a shifty, artful fellow, with scores of contrivances +to go windward of fortune in even the very worst of weather. Atlee would do +many a thing _he_ would not stoop to.’ + +And as Kearney said this to himself, he was cautious in the use of his +verb, and never said ‘could,’ but always ‘would’ do; and oh dear! is it +not in this fashion that so many of us keep up our courage in life, and +attribute to the want of will what we well know lies in the want of power. + +Last of all he bethought himself of this man Donogan, a dangerous fellow in +a certain way, and one whose companionship must be got rid of at any price. +Plotting over in his mind how this should be done in the morning, he at +last fell fast asleep. + +So overcome was he by slumber, that he never awoke when that venerable +institution called the college woman--the hag whom the virtue of unerring +dons insists o imposing as a servant on resident students--entered, made up +the fire, swept up the room, and arranged the breakfast-table. It was only +as she jogged his arm to ask him for an additional penny to buy more milk, +that he awoke and remembered where he was. + +‘Will I get yer honour a bit of bacon?’ asked she, in a tone intended to be +insinuating. + +‘Whatever you like,’ said he drowsily. + +‘It’s himself there likes a rasher--when he can get it,’ said she, with a +leer, and a motion of her thumb towards the adjoining room. + +‘Whom do you mean?’ asked he, half to learn what and how much she knew of +his neighbour. + +‘Oh! don’t I know him well?--Dan Donogan,’ replied she, with a grin. +‘Didn’t I see him in the dock with Smith O’Brien in ‘48, and wasn’t he in +trouble again after he got his pardon; and won’t he always be in trouble?’ + +‘Hush! don’t talk so loud,’ cried Dick warningly. + +‘He’d not hear me now if I was screechin’; it’s the only time he sleeps +hard; for he gets up about three or half-past--before it’s day--and he +squeezes through the bars of the window, and gets out into the park, and he +takes his exercise there for two hours, most of the time running full speed +and keeping himself in fine wind. Do you know what he said to me the other +day? “Molly,” says he, “when I know I can get between those bars there, and +run round the college park in three minutes and twelve seconds, I feel that +there’s not many a gaol in Ireland can howld, and the divil a policeman in +the island could catch, me.”’ And she had to lean over the back of a chair +to steady herself while she laughed at the conceit. + +‘I think, after all,’ said Kearney, ‘I’d rather keep out of the scrape than +trust to that way of escaping it.’ + +‘_He_ wouldn’t,’ said she. ‘He’d rather be seducin’ soldiers in Barrack +Street, or swearing in a new Fenian, or nailing a death-warnin’ on a hall +door, than he’d be lord mayor! If he wasn’t in mischief he’d like to be in +his grave.’ + +‘And what comes of it all?’ said Kearney, scarcely giving any exact meaning +to his words. + +‘That’s what I do be saying myself,’ cried the hag. ‘When they can +transport you for singing a ballad, and send you to pick oakum for a green +cravat, it’s time to take to some other trade than patriotism!’ And with +this reflection she shuffled away, to procure the materials for breakfast. + +The fresh rolls, the watercress, a couple of red herrings devilled as those +ancient damsels are expert in doing, and a smoking dish of rashers and +eggs, flanked by a hissing tea-kettle, soon made their appearance, the hag +assuring Kearney that a stout knock with the poker on the back of the grate +would summon Mr. Donogan almost instantaneously--so rapidly, indeed, and +with such indifference as to raiment, that, as she modestly declared, ‘I +have to take to my heels the moment I call him,’ and the modest avowal was +confirmed by her hasty departure. + +The assurance was so far correct, that scarcely had Kearney replaced the +poker, when the door opened, and one of the strangest figures he had ever +beheld presented itself in the room. He was a short, thick-set man with a +profusion of yellowish hair, which, divided in the middle of the head, hung +down on either side to his neck--beard and moustache of the same hue, left +little of the face to be seen but a pair of lustrous blue eyes, deep-sunken +in their orbits, and a short wide-nostrilled nose, which bore the closest +resemblance to a lion’s. Indeed, a most absurd likeness to the king of +beasts was the impression produced on Kearney as this wild-looking fellow +bounded forward, and stood there amazed at finding a stranger to confront +him. + +His dress was a flannel-shirt and trousers, and a pair of old slippers +which had once been Kearney’s own. + +‘I was told by the college woman how I was to summon you, Mr. Donogan,’ +said Kearney good-naturedly. ‘You are not offended with the liberty?’ + +‘Are you Dick?’ asked the other, coming forward. + +‘Yes. I think most of my friends know me by that name.’ + +‘And the old devil has told you mine?’ asked he quickly. + +‘No, I believe I discovered that for myself. I tumbled over some of your +things last night, and saw a letter addressed to you.’ + +‘You didn’t read it?’ + +‘Certainly not. It fell out of your pocket-book, and I put it back there.’ + +‘So the old hag didn’t blab on me? I’m anxious about this, because it’s got +out somehow that I’m back again. I landed at Kenmare in a fishing-boat from +the New York packet, the _Osprey_, on Tuesday fortnight, and three of the +newspapers had it before I was a week on shore.’ + +‘Our breakfast is getting cold; sit down here and let me help you. Will you +begin with a rasher?’ + +Not replying to the invitation, Donogan covered his plate with bacon, and +leaning his arm on the table, stared fixedly at Kearney. + +‘I’m as glad as fifty pounds of it,’ muttered he slowly to himself. + +‘Glad of what?’ + +‘Glad that you’re not a swell, Mr. Kearney,’ said he gravely. ‘“The +Honourable Richard Kearney,” whenever I repeated that to myself, it gave me +a cold sweat. I thought of velvet collars and a cravat with a grand pin in +it, and a stuck-up creature behind both, that wouldn’t condescend to sit +down with me.’ + +‘I’m sure Joe Atlee gave you no such impression of me.’ + +A short grunt that might mean anything was all the reply. + +‘He was my chum, and knew me better,’ reiterated the other. + +‘He knows many a thing he doesn’t say, and he says plenty that he doesn’t +know. “Kearney will be a swell,” said I, “and he’ll turn upon me just out +of contempt for my condition.’” + +‘That was judging me hardly, Mr. Donogan.’ + +‘No, it wasn’t; it’s the treatment the mangy dogs meet all the world over. +Why is England insolent to us, but because we’re poor--answer me that? Are +we mangy? Don’t you feel mangy?--I know _I_ do!’ + +Dick smiled a sort of mild contradiction, but said nothing. + +‘Now that I see you, Mr. Kearney,’ said the other, ‘I’m as glad as a +ten-pound note about a letter I wrote you--’ + +‘I never received a letter from you.’ + +‘Sure I know you didn’t! haven’t I got it here?’ And he drew forth a +square-shaped packet and held it up before him. ‘I never said that I sent +it, nor I won’t send it now: here’s its present address,’ added he, as he +threw it on the fire and pressed it down with his foot. + +‘Why not have given it to me now?’ asked the other. + +‘Because three minutes will tell you all that was in it, and better than +writing; for I can reply to anything that wants an explanation, and that’s +what a letter cannot. First of all, do you know that Mr. Claude Barry, your +county member, has asked for the Chiltern, and is going to resign?’ + +‘No, I have not heard it.’ + +‘Well, it’s a fact. They are going to make him a second secretary +somewhere, and pension him off. He has done his work: he voted an Arms Bill +and an Insurrection Act, and he had the influenza when the amnesty petition +was presented, and sure no more could be expected from any man.’ + +‘The question scarcely concerns me; our interest in the county is so small +now, we count for very little.’ + +‘And don’t you know how to make your influence greater?’ + +‘I cannot say that I do.’ + +‘Go to the poll yourself, Richard Kearney, and be the member.’ + +‘You are talking of an impossibility, Mr. Donogan. First of all, we have no +fortune, no large estates in the county, with a wide tenantry and plenty of +votes; secondly, we have no place amongst the county families, as our old +name and good blood might have given us; thirdly, we are of the wrong +religion, and, I take it, with as wrong politics; and lastly, we should not +know what to do with the prize if we had won it.’ + +‘Wrong in every one of your propositions--wholly wrong,’ cried the other. +‘The party that will send you in won’t want to be bribed, and they’ll be +proud of a man who doesn’t overtop them with his money. You don’t need the +big families, for you’ll beat them. Your religion is the right one, for it +will give you the Priests; and your politics shall be Repeal, and it +will give you the Peasants; and as to not knowing what to do when you’re +elected, are you so mighty well off in life that you’ve nothing to wish +for?’ + +‘I can scarcely say that,’ said Dick, smiling. + +‘Give me a few minutes’ attention,’ said Donogan, ‘and I think I’ll show +you that I’ve thought this matter out and out; indeed, before I sat down to +write to you, I went into all the details.’ + +And now, with a clearness and a fairness that astonished Kearney, this +strange-looking fellow proceeded to prove how he had weighed the whole +difficulty, and saw how, in the nice balance of the two great parties who +would contest the seat, the Repealer would step in and steal votes from +both. + +He showed not only that he knew every barony of the county, and every +estate and property, but that he had a clear insight into the different +localities where discontent prevailed, and places where there was something +more than discontent. + +‘It is down there,’ said he significantly, ‘that I can be useful. The man +that has had his foot in the dock, and only escaped having his head in the +noose, is never discredited in Ireland. Talk Parliament and parliamentary +tactics to the small shopkeepers in Moate, and leave me to talk treason to +the people in the bog.’ + +‘But I mistake you and your friends greatly,’ said Kearney, ‘if these were +the tactics you always followed; I thought that you were the physical-force +party, who sneered at constitutionalism and only believed in the pike.’ + +‘So we did, so long as we saw O’Connell and the lawyers working the game of +that grievance for their own advantage, and teaching the English Government +how to rule Ireland by a system of concession to _them_ and to _their_ +friends. Now, however, we begin to perceive that to assault that heavy +bastion of Saxon intolerance, we must have spies in the enemy’s fortress, +and for this we send in so many members to the Whig party. There are scores +of men who will aid us by their vote who would not risk a bone in our +cause. Theirs is a sort of subacute patriotism; but it has its use. It +smashes an Established Church, breaks down Protestant ascendency, destroys +the prestige of landed property, and will in time abrogate entail and +primogeniture, and many another fine thing; and in this way it clears the +ground for our operations, just as soldiers fell trees and level houses +lest they interfere with the range of heavy artillery.’ + +‘So that the place you would assign me is that very honourable one you have +just called a “spy in the camp”?’ + +‘By a figure I said that, Mr. Kearney; but you know well enough what I +meant was, that there’s many a man will help us on the Treasury benches +that would not turn out on Tallaght; and we want both. I won’t say,’ added +he, after a pause, ‘I’d not rather see you a leader in our ranks than +a Parliament man. I was bred a doctor, Mr. Kearney, and I must take +an illustration from my own art. To make a man susceptible of certain +remedies, you are often obliged to reduce his strength and weaken his +constitution. So it is here. To bring Ireland into a condition to be +bettered by Repeal, you must crush the Church and smash the bitter +Protestants. The Whigs will do these for us, but we must help them. Do you +understand me now?’ + +‘I believe I do. In the case you speak of, then, the Government will +support my election.’ + +‘Against a Tory, yes; but not against a pure Whig--a thorough-going +supporter, who would bargain for nothing for his country, only something +for his own relations.’ + +‘If your project has an immense fascination for me at one moment, and +excites my ambition beyond all bounds, the moment I turn my mind to the +cost, and remember my own poverty, I see nothing but hopelessness.’ + +‘That’s not my view of it, nor when you listen to me patiently, will it, I +believe, be yours. Can we have another talk over this in the evening?’ + +‘To be sure! we’ll dine here together at six.’ + +‘Oh, never mind me, think of yourself, Mr. Kearney, and your own +engagements. As to the matter of dining, a crust of bread and a couple of +apples are fully as much as I want or care for.’ + +‘We’ll dine together to-day at six,’ said Dick, ‘and bear in mind, I am +more interested in this than you are.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR + + +As they were about to sit down to dinner on that day, a telegram, +re-directed from Kilgobbin, reached Kearney’s hand. It bore the date of +that morning from Plmnuddm Castle, and was signed ‘Atlee.’ Its contents +were these: ‘H. E. wants to mark the Kilgobbin defence with some sign of +approval. What shall it be? Reply by wire.’ + +‘Read that, and tell us what you think of it.’ + +‘Joe Atlee at the Viceroy’s castle in Wales!’ cried the other. ‘We’re going +up the ladder hand over head, Mr. Kearney! A week ago his ambition was +bounded on the south by Ship Street, and on the east by the Lower Castle +Yard.’ + +‘How do you understand the despatch?’ asked Kearney quickly. + +‘Easily enough. His Excellency wants to know what you’ll have for shooting +down three--I think they were three--Irishmen.’ + +‘The fellows came to demand arms, and with loaded guns in their hands.’ + +‘And if they did! Is not the first right of a man the weapon that defends +him? He that cannot use it or does not possess it, is a slave. By what +prerogative has Kilgobbin Castle within its walls what can take the life of +any, the meanest, tenant on the estate?’ + +‘I am not going to discuss this with you; I think I have heard most of it +before, and was not impressed when I did so. What I asked was, what sort of +a recognition one might safely ask for and reasonably expect?’ + +‘That’s not long to look for. Let them support you in the county. Telegraph +back, “I’m going to stand, and, if I get in, will be a Whig whenever I am +not a Nationalist. Will the party stand by me?”’ + +‘Scarcely with that programme.’ + +‘And do you think that the priests’ nominees, who are three-fourths of the +Irish members, offer better terms? Do you imagine that the men that crowd +the Whig lobby have not reserved their freedom of action about the Pope, +and the Fenian prisoners, and the Orange processionists? If they were not +free so far, I’d ask you with the old Duke, How is Her Majesty’s Government +to be carried on?’ + +Kearney shook his head in dissent. + +‘And that’s not all,’ continued the other; ‘but you must write to the +papers a flat contradiction of that shooting story. You must either declare +that it never occurred at all, or was done by that young scamp from the +Castle, who happily got as much as he gave.’ + +‘That I could not do,’ said Kearney firmly. + +‘And it is that precisely that you must do,’ rejoined the other. ‘If you go +into the House to represent the popular feeling of Irishmen, the hand that +signs the roll must not be stained with Irish blood.’ + +‘You forget; I was not within fifty miles of the place.’ + +‘And another reason to disavow it. Look here, Mr. Kearney: if a man in a +battle was to say to himself, I’ll never give any but a fair blow, he’d +make a mighty bad soldier. Now, public life is a battle, and worse than a +battle in all that touches treachery and falsehood. If you mean to do any +good in the world, to yourself and your country, take my word for it, +you’ll have to do plenty of things that you don’t like, and, what’s worse, +can’t defend.’ + +‘The soup is getting cold all this time. Shall we sit down?’ + +‘No, not till we answer the telegram. Sit down and say what I told you.’ + +‘Atlee will say I’m mad. He knows that I have not a shilling in the world.’ + +‘Riches is not the badge of the representation,’ said the other. + +‘They can at least pay the cost of the elections.’ + +‘Well, we’ll pay ours too--not all at once, but later on; don’t fret +yourself about that.’ + +‘They’ll refuse me flatly.’ + +‘No, we have a lien on the fine gentleman with the broken arm. What would +the Tories give for that story, told as I could tell it to them? At all +events, whatever you do in life, remember this--that if asked your price +for anything you have done, name the highest, and take nothing if it’s +refused you. It’s a waiting race, but I never knew it fail in the end.’ + +Kearney despatched his message, and sat down to the table, far too much +flurried and excited to care for his dinner. Not so his guest, who ate +voraciously, seldom raising his head and never uttering a word. ‘Here’s to +the new member for King’s County,’ said he at last, and he drained off his +glass; ‘and I don’t know a pleasanter way of wishing a man prosperity than +in a bumper. Has your father any politics, Mr. Kearney?’ + +‘He thinks he’s a Whig, but, except hating the Established Church and +having a print of Lord Russell over the fireplace, I don’t know he has +other reason for the opinion.’ + +‘All right; there’s nothing finer for a young man entering public life than +to be able to sneer at his father for a noodle. That’s the practical way to +show contempt for the wisdom of our ancestors. There’s no appeal the public +respond to with the same certainty as that of the man who quarrels with his +relations for the sake of his principles, and whether it be a change in +your politics or your religion, they’re sure to uphold you.’ + +‘If differing with my father will ensure my success, I can afford to be +confident,’ said Dick, smiling. + +‘Your sister has her notions about Ireland, hasn’t she?’ + +‘Yes, I believe she has; but she fancies that laws and Acts of Parliament +are not the things in fault, but ourselves and our modes of dealing with +the people, that were not often just, and were always capricious. I am not +sure how she works out her problem, but I believe we ought to educate each +other; and that in turn, for teaching the people to read and write, there +are scores of things to be learned from them.’ + +‘And the Greek girl?’ + +‘The Greek girl’--began Dick haughtily, and with a manner that betokened +rebuke, and which suddenly changed as he saw that nothing in the other’s +manner gave any indication of intended freedom or insolence--‘The Greek is +my first cousin, Mr. Donogan,’ said he calmly; ‘but I am anxious to know +how you have heard of her, or indeed of any of us.’ + +‘From Joe--Joe Atlee! I believe we have talked you over--every one of +you--till I know you all as well as if I lived in the castle and called you +by your Christian names. Do you know, Mr. Kearney’--and his voice trembled +now as he spoke--‘that to a lone and desolate man like myself, who has no +home, and scarcely a country, there is something indescribably touching in +the mere picture of the fireside, and the family gathered round it, talking +over little homely cares and canvassing the changes of each day’s fortune. +I could sit here half the night and listen to Atlee telling how you lived, +and the sort of things that interested you.’ + +‘So that you’d actually like to look at us?’ + +Donogan’s eyes grew glassy, and his lips trembled, but he could not utter a +word. + +‘So you shall, then,’ cried Dick resolutely. ‘We’ll start to-morrow by the +early train. You’ll not object to a ten miles’ walk, and we’ll arrive for +dinner.’ + +‘Do you know who it is you are inviting to your father’s house? Do you know +that I am an escaped convict, with a price on my head this minute? Do you +know the penalty of giving me shelter, or even what the law calls comfort?’ + +‘I know this, that in the heart of the Bog of Allen, you’ll be far safer +than in the city of Dublin; that none shall ever learn who you are, nor, if +they did, is there one--the poorest in the place--would betray you.’ + +‘It is of you, sir, I’m thinking, not of me,’ said Donogan calmly. + +‘Don’t fret yourself about us. We are well known in our county, and above +suspicion. Whenever you yourself should feel that your presence was like to +be a danger, I am quite willing to believe you’d take yourself off.’ + +‘You judge me rightly, sir, and I am proud to see it; but how are you to +present me to your friends?’ + +‘As a college acquaintance--a friend of Atlee’s and of mine--a gentleman +who occupied the room next me. I can surely say that with truth.’ + +‘And dined with you every day since you knew him. Why not add that?’ + +He laughed merrily over this conceit, and at last Donogan said, ‘I’ve a +little kit of clothes--something decenter than these--up in Thomas Street, +No. 13, Mr. Kearney; the old house Lord Edward was shot in, and the safest +place in Dublin now, because it is so notorious. I’ll step up for them this +evening, and I’ll be ready to start when you like.’ + +‘Here’s good fortune to us, whatever we do next,’ said Kearney, filling +both their glasses; and they touched the brims together, and clinked them +before they drained them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +‘ON THE LEADS’ + + +Kate Kearney’s room was on the top of the castle, and ‘gave’ by a window +over the leads of a large square tower. On this space she had made a +little garden of a few flowers, to tend which was of what she called her +‘dissipations.’ + +[Illustration: ‘Is not that as fine as your boasted Campagna?’] + +Some old packing-cases filled with mould sufficed to nourish a few stocks +and carnations, a rose or two, and a mass of mignonette, which possibly, +like the children of the poor, grew up sturdy and healthy from some of the +adverse circumstances of their condition. It was a very favourite spot with +her; and if she came hither in her happiest moments, it was here also her +saddest hours were passed, sure that in the cares and employments of her +loved plants she would find solace and consolation. It was at this window +Kate now sat with Nina, looking over the vast plain, on which a rich +moonlight was streaming, the shadows of fast-flitting clouds throwing +strange and fanciful effects over a space almost wide enough to be a +prairie. + +‘What a deal have mere names to do with our imaginations, Nina!’ said Kate. +‘Is not that boundless sweep before us as fine as your boasted Campagna? +Does not the night wind career over it as joyfully, and is not the +moonlight as picturesque in its breaks by turf-clamp and hillock as by +ruined wall and tottering temple? In a word, are not we as well here, to +drink in all this delicious silence, as if we were sitting on your loved +Pincian?’ + +‘Don’t ask me to share such heresies. I see nothing out there but bleak +desolation. I don’t know if it ever had a past; I can almost swear it will +have no future. Let us not talk of it.’ + +‘What shall we talk of?’ asked Kate, with an arch smile. + +‘You know well enough what led me up here. I want to hear what you know of +that strange man Dick brought here to-day to dinner.’ + +‘I never saw him before--never even heard of him.’ + +‘Do you like him?’ + +‘I have scarcely seen him.’ + +‘Don’t be so guarded and reserved. Tell me frankly the impression he makes +on you. Is he not vulgar--very vulgar?’ + +‘How should I say, Nina? Of all the people you ever met, who knows so +little of the habits of society as myself? Those fine gentlemen who were +here the other day shocked my ignorance by numberless little displays +of indifference. Yet I can feel that they must have been paragons of +good-breeding, and that what I believed to be a very cool self-sufficiency, +was in reality the very latest London version of good manners.’ + +‘Oh, you did not like that charming carelessness of Englishmen that goes +where it likes and when it likes, that does not wait to be answered when it +questions, and only insists on one thing, which is--“not to be bored.” If +you knew, dearest Kate, how foreigners school themselves, and strive to +catch up that insouciance, and never succeed--never!’ + +‘My brother’s friend certainly is no adept in it.’ + +‘He is insufferable. I don’t know that the man ever dined in the company of +ladies before; did you remark that he did not open the door as we left the +dinner-room? and if your brother had not come over, I should have had to +open it for myself. I declare I’m not sure he stood up as we passed.’ + +‘Oh yes; I saw him rise from his chair.’ + +‘I’ll tell you what you did not see. You did not see him open his napkin +at dinner. He stole his roll of bread very slyly from the folds, and then +placed the napkin, carefully folded, beside him.’ + +‘You seem to have observed him closely, Nina.’ + +‘I did so, because I saw enough in his manner to excite suspicion of his +class, and I want to know what Dick means by introducing him here.’ + +‘Papa liked him; at least he said that after we left the room a good deal +of his shyness wore off, and that he conversed pleasantly and well. Above +all, he seems to know Ireland perfectly.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said she, half disdainfully. + +‘So much so that I was heartily sorry to leave the room when I heard them +begin the topic; but I saw papa wished to have some talk with him, and I +went.’ + +‘They were gallant enough not to join us afterwards, though I think we +waited tea till ten.’ + +‘Till nigh eleven, Nina; so that I am sure they must have been interested +in their conversation.’ + +‘I hope the explanation excuses them.’ + +‘I don’t know that they are aware they needed an apology. Perhaps they were +affecting a little of that British insouciance you spoke of--’ + +‘They had better not. It will sit most awkwardly on their Irish habits.’ + +‘Some day or other I’ll give you a formal battle on this score, Nina, and I +warn you you’ll not come so well out of it.’ + +‘Whenever you like. I accept the challenge. Make this brilliant companion +of your brother’s the type, and it will test your cleverness, I promise +you. Do you even know his name?’ + +‘Mr. Daniel, my brother called him; but I know nothing of his country or of +his belongings.’ + +‘Daniel is a Christian name, not a family name, is it not? We have scores +of people like that--Tommasina, Riccardi, and such like--in Italy, but they +mean nothing.’ + +‘Our friend below-stairs looks as if _that_ was not his failing. I should +say that he means a good deal.’ + +‘Oh, I know you are laughing at my stupid phrase--no matter; you understand +me, at all events. I don’t like that man.’ + +‘Dick’s friends are not fortunate with you. I remember how unfavourably you +judged of Mr. Atlee from his portrait.’ + +‘Well, he looked rather better than his picture--less false, I mean; or +perhaps it was that he had a certain levity of manner that carried off the +perfidy.’ + +‘What an amiable sort of levity!’ + +‘You are too critical on me by half this evening,’ said Nina pettishly; and +she arose and strolled out upon the leads. + +For some time Kate was scarcely aware she had gone. Her head was full of +cares, and she sat trying to think some of them ‘out,’ and see her way to +deal with them. At last the door of the room slowly and noiselessly opened, +and Dick put in his head. + +‘I was afraid you might be asleep, Kate,’ said he, entering, ‘finding all +so still and quiet here.’ + +‘No. Nina and I were chatting here--squabbling, I believe, if I were to +tell the truth; and I can’t tell when she left me.’ + +‘What could you be quarrelling about?’ asked he, as he sat down beside her. + +‘I think it was with that strange friend of yours. We were not quite agreed +whether his manners were perfect, or his habits those of the well-bred +world. Then we wanted to know more of him, and each was dissatisfied that +the other was so ignorant; and, lastly, we were canvassing that very +peculiar taste you appear to have in friends, and were wondering where you +find your odd people.’ + +‘So then you don’t like Donogan?’ said he hurriedly. + +‘Like whom? And you call him Donogan!’ + +‘The mischief is out,’ said he. ‘Not that I wanted to have secrets from +you; but all the same, I am a precious bungler. His name is Donogan, and +what’s more, it’s Daniel Donogan. He was the same who figured in the dock +at, I believe, sixteen years of age, with Smith O’Brien and the others, +and was afterwards seen in England in ‘59, known as a head-centre, and +apprehended on suspicion in ‘60, and made his escape from Dartmoor the same +year. There’s a very pretty biography in skeleton, is it not?’ + +‘But, my dear Dick, how are you connected with him?’ + +‘Not very seriously. Don’t be afraid. I’m not compromised in any way, +nor does he desire that I should be. Here is the whole story of our +acquaintance.’ + +And now he told what the reader already knows of their first meeting and +the intimacy that followed it. + +‘All that will take nothing from the danger of harbouring a man charged as +he is,’ said she gravely. + +‘That is to say, if he be tracked and discovered.’ + +‘It is what I mean.’ + +‘Well, one has only to look out of that window, and see where we are, and +what lies around us on every side, to be tolerably easy on that score.’ + +And, as he spoke, he arose and walked out upon the terrace. + +‘What, were you here all this time?’ asked he, as he saw Nina seated on the +battlement, and throwing dried leaves carelessly to the wind. + +‘Yes, I have been here this half-hour, perhaps longer.’ + +‘And heard what we have been saying within there?’ + +‘Some chance words reached me, but I did not follow them.’ + +‘Oh, it was here you were, then, Nina!’ cried Kate. ‘I am ashamed to say I +did not know it.’ + +‘We got so warm in discussing your friend’s merits or demerits, that we +parted in a sort of huff,’ said Nina. ‘I wonder was he worth quarrelling +for?’ + +‘What should _you_ say?’ asked Dick inquiringly, as he scanned her face. + +‘In any other land, I might say he was--that is, that some interest might +attach to him; but here, in Ireland, you all look so much brighter, and +wittier, and more impetuous, and more out of the common than you really +are, that I give up all divination of you, and own I cannot read you at +all.’ + +‘I hope you like the explanation,’ said Kate to her brother, laughing. + +‘I’ll tell my friend of it in the morning,’ said Dick; ‘and as he is a +great national champion, perhaps he’ll accept it as a defiance.’ + +‘You do not frighten me by the threat,’ said Nina calmly. + +Dick looked from her face to her sister’s and back again to hers, to +discern if he might how much she had overheard; but he could read nothing +in her cold and impassive bearing, and he went his way in doubt and +confusion. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +ON A VISIT AT KILGOBBIN + + +Before Kearney had risen from his bed the next morning, Donogan was in his +room, his look elated and his cheek glowing with recent exercise. ‘I have +had a burst of two hours’ sharp walking over the bog,’ cried he; ‘and it +has put me in such spirits as I have not known for many a year. Do you +know, Mr. Kearney, that what with the fantastic effects of the morning +mists, as they lift themselves over these vast wastes--the glorious patches +of blue heather and purple anemone that the sun displays through the +fog--and, better than all, the springiness of a soil that sends a thrill to +the heart, like a throb of youth itself, there is no walking in the world +can compare with a bog at sunrise! There’s a sentiment to open a paper on +nationalities! I came up with the postboy, and took his letters to save him +a couple of miles. Here’s one for you, I think from Atlee; and this is also +to your address, from Dublin; and here’s the last number of the _Pike_, +and you’ll see they have lost no time. There’s a few lines about you. “Our +readers will be grateful to us for the tidings we announce to-day, with +authority--that Richard Kearney, Esq., son of Mathew Kearney, o Kilgobbin +Castle, will contest his native county at the approaching election. It will +be a proud day for Ireland when she shall see her representation in the +names of those who dignify the exalted station they hold in virtue of their +birth and blood, by claims of admitted talent and recognised ability. Mr. +Kearney, junior, has swept the university of its prizes, and the college +gate has long seen his name at the head of her prizemen. He contests the +seat in the National interest. It is needless to say all our sympathies, +and hopes, and best wishes go with him.”’ + +Dick shook with laughing while the other read out the paragraph in a +high-sounding and pretentious tone. + +‘I hope,’ said Kearney at last, ‘that the information as to my college +successes is not vouched for on authority.’ + +‘Who cares a fig about them? The phrase rounds off a sentence, and nobody +treats it like an affidavit.’ + +‘But some one may take the trouble to remind the readers that my victories +have been defeats, and that in my last examination but one I got +“cautioned.”’ + +‘Do you imagine, Mr. Kearney, the House of Commons in any way reflects +college distinction? Do you look for senior-wranglers and double-firsts on +the Treasury bench? and are not the men who carry away distinction the men +of breadth, not depth? Is it not the wide acquaintance with a large field +of knowledge, and the subtle power to know how other men regard these +topics, that make the popular leader of the present day? and remember, it +is talk, and not oratory, is the mode. You must be commonplace, and even +vulgar, practical, dashed with a small morality, so as not to be classed +with the low Radical; and if then you have a bit of high-faluting for the +peroration, you’ll do. The morning papers will call you a young man of +great promise, and the whip will never pass you without a shake-hands.’ + +‘But there are good speakers.’ + +‘There is Bright--I don’t think I know another--and he only at times. Take +my word for it, the secret of success with “the collective wisdom” is +reiteration. Tell them the same thing, not once or twice or even ten, but +fifty times, and don’t vary very much even the way you tell it. Go on +repeating your platitudes, and by the time you find you are cursing your +own stupid persistence, you may swear you have made a convert to your +opinions. If you are bent on variety, and must indulge it, ring your +changes on the man who brought these views before them--yourself, but +beyond these never soar. O’Connell, who had a variety at will for his own +countrymen, never tried it in England: he knew better. The chawbacons that +we sneer at are not always in smock-frocks, take my word for it; they many +of them wear wide-brimmed hats and broadcloth, and sit above the gangway. +Ay, sir,’ cried he, warming with the theme, ‘once I can get my countrymen +fully awakened to the fact of who and what are the men who rule them, I’ll +ask for no Catholic Associations, or Repeal Committees, or Nationalist +Clubs--the card-house of British supremacy will tumble of itself; there +will be no conflict, but simply submission.’ + +‘We’re a long day’s journey from these convictions, I suspect,’ said +Kearney doubtfully. + +‘Not so far, perhaps, as you think. Do you remark how little the English +press deal in abuse of us to what was once their custom? They have not, I +admit, come down to civility; but they don’t deride us in the old fashion, +nor tell us, as I once saw, that we are intellectually and physically +stamped with inferiority. If it was true, Mr. Kearney, it was stupid to +tell it to us.’ + +‘I think we could do better than dwell upon these things.’ + +‘I deny that: deny it _in toto_. The moment you forget, in your dealings +with the Englishman, the cheap estimate he entertains, not alone of your +brains and your skill, but of your resolution, your persistence, your +strong will, ay, your very integrity, that moment, I say, places him in a +position to treat you as something below him. Bear in mind, however, how he +is striving to regard you, and it’s your own fault if you’re not his equal, +and something more perhaps. There was a man more than the master of them +all, and his name was Edmund Burke; and how did they treat _him_? How +insolently did they behave to O’Connell in the House till he put his heel +on them? Were they generous to Sheil? Were they just to Plunket? No, no. +The element that they decry in our people they know they have not got, and +they’d like to crush the race, when they cannot extinguish the quality.’ + +Donogan had so excited himself now that he walked up and down the room, +his voice ringing with emotion, and his arms wildly tossing in all the +extravagance of passion. ‘This is from Joe Atlee,’ said Kearney, as he tore +open the envelope:-- + +‘“DEAR DICK,--I cannot account for the madness that seems to have seized +you, except that Dan Donogan, the most rabid dog I know, has bitten you. If +so, for Heaven’s sake have the piece cut out at once, and use the strongest +cautery of common sense, if you know of any one who has a little to spare. +I only remembered yesterday that I ought to have told you I had sheltered +Dan in our rooms, but I can already detect that you have made his +acquaintance. He is not a bad fellow. He is sincere in his opinions, and +incorruptible, if that be the name for a man who, if bought to-morrow, +would not be worth sixpence to his owner. + +‘“Though I resigned all respect for my own good sense in telling it, I was +obliged to let H. E. know the contents of your despatch, and then, as I saw +he had never heard of Kilgobbin, or the great Kearney family, I told +more lies of your estated property, your county station, your influence +generally, and your abilities individually, than the fee-simple of your +property, converted into masses, will see me safe through purgatory; and I +have consequently baited the trap that has caught myself; for, persuaded +by my eloquent advocacy of you all, H. E. has written to Walpole to make +certain inquiries concerning you, which, if satisfactory, he, Walpole, will +put himself in communication with you, as to the extent and the mode to +which the Government will support you. I think I can see Dan Donogan’s fine +hand in that part of your note which foreshadows a threat, and hints that +the Walpole story would, if published abroad, do enormous damage to the +Ministry. This, let me assure you, is a fatal error, and a blunder which +could only be committed by an outsider in political life. The days are long +past since a scandal could smash an administration; and we are so +strong now that arson or forgery could not hurt, and I don’t think that +infanticide would affect us. + +‘“If you are really bent on this wild exploit, you should see Walpole, +and confer with him. You don’t talk well, but you write worse, so avoid +correspondence, and do all your indiscretions verbally. Be angry if you +like with my candour, but follow my counsel. + +‘“See him, and show him, if you are able, that, all questions of +nationality apart, he may count upon your vote; that there are certain +impracticable and impossible conceits in politics--like repeal, subdivision +of land, restoration of the confiscated estates, and such like--on which +Irishmen insist on being free to talk balderdash, and air their patriotism; +but that, rightfully considered, they are as harmless and mean just as +little as a discussion on the Digamma, or a debate on perpetual motion. The +stupid Tories could never be brought to see this. Like genuine dolts, they +would have an army of supporters, one-minded with them in everything. We +know better, and hence we buy the Radical vote by a little coquetting +with communism, and the model working-man and the rebel by an occasional +gaol-delivery, and the Papist by a sop to the Holy Father. Bear in mind, +Dick--and it is the grand secret of political life--it takes all sort of +people to make a ‘party.’ When you have thoroughly digested this aphorism, +you are fit to start in the world. + +‘“If you were not so full of what I am sure you would call your ‘legitimate +ambitions,’ I’d like to tell you the glorious life we lead in this place. +Disraeli talks of ‘the well-sustained splendour of their stately lives,’ +and it is just the phrase for an existence in which all the appliances to +ease and enjoyment are supplied by a sort of magic, that never shows its +machinery, nor lets you hear the sound of its working. The saddle-horses +know when I want to ride by the same instinct that makes the butler give +me the exact wine I wish at my dinner. And so on throughout the day, ‘the +sustained splendour’ being an ever-present luxuriousness that I drink in +with a thirst that knows no slaking. + +‘“I have made a hit with H.E., and from copying some rather muddle-headed +despatches, I am now promoted to writing short skeleton sermons on +politics, which, duly filled out and fattened with official nutriment, +will one day astonish the Irish Office, and make one of the Nestors of +bureaucracy exclaim, ‘See how Danesbury has got up the Irish question.’ + +‘“I have a charming collaborateur, my lord’s niece, who was acting as his +private secretary up to the time of my arrival, and whose explanation of a +variety of things I found to be so essential that, from being at first in +the continual necessity of seeking her out, I have now arrived at a point +at which we write in the same room, and pass our mornings in the library +till luncheon. She is stunningly handsome, as tall as the Greek cousin, and +with a stately grace of manner and a cold dignity of demeanour I’d give my +heart’s blood to subdue to a mood of womanly tenderness and dependence. Up +to this, my position is that of a very humble courtier in the presence of a +queen, and she takes care that by no momentary forgetfulness shall I lose +sight of the ‘situation.’ + +‘“She is engaged, they say, to be married to Walpole; but as I have not +heard that he is heir-apparent, or has even the reversion to the crown of +Spain, I cannot perceive what the contract means. + +‘“I rode out with her to-day by special invitation, or permission--which +was it?--and in the few words that passed between us, she asked me if I had +long known Mr. Walpole, and put her horse into a canter without waiting for +my answer. + +‘“With H. E. I can talk away freely, and without constraint. I am never +very sure that he does not know the things he questions me on better than +myself--a practice some of his order rather cultivate; but, on the whole, +our intercourse is easy. I know he is not a little puzzled about me, and I +intend that he should remain so. + +‘“When you have seen and spoken with Walpole, write me what has taken +place between you; and though I am fully convinced that what you intend is +unmitigated folly, I see so many difficulties in the way, such obstacles, +and such almost impossibilities to be overcome, that I think Fate will +be more merciful to you than your ambitions, and spare you, by an early +defeat, from a crushing disappointment. + +‘“Had you ambitioned to be a governor of a colony, a bishop, or a Queen’s +messenger--they are the only irresponsible people I can think of--I +might have helped you; but this conceit to be a Parliament man is such +irredeemable folly, one is powerless to deal with it. + +‘“At all events, your time is not worth much, nor is your public character +of a very grave importance. Give them both, then, freely to the effort, but +do not let it cost you money, nor let Donogan persuade you that you are one +of those men who can make patriotism self-supporting. + +‘“H. E. hints at a very confidential mission on which he desires to employ +me; and though I should leave this place now with much regret, and a more +tender sorrow than I could teach you to comprehend, I shall hold myself +at his orders for Japan if he wants me. Meanwhile, write to me what +takes place with Walpole, and put your faith firmly in the good-will and +efficiency of yours truly, + +‘“JOE ATLEE. + +‘“If you think of taking Donogan down with you to Kilgobbin, I ought to +tell you that it would be a mistake. Women invariably dislike him, and he +would do you no credit.’” + +Dick Kearney, who had begun to read this letter aloud, saw himself +constrained to continue, and went on boldly, without stop or hesitation, to +the last word. + +‘I am very grateful to you, Mr. Kearney, for this mark of trustfulness, and +I’m not in the least sore about all Joe has said of me.’ + +‘He is not over complimentary to myself,’ said Kearney, and the irritation +he felt was not to be concealed. + +‘There’s one passage in his letter,’ said the other thoughtfully, ‘well +worth all the stress he lays on it. He tells you never to forget it “takes +all sorts of men to make a party.” Nothing can more painfully prove the +fact than that we need Joe Atlee amongst ourselves! And it is true, Mr. +Kearney,’ said he sternly, ‘treason must now, to have any chance at all, be +many-handed. We want not only all sorts of men, but in all sorts of places; +and at tables where rebel opinions dared not be boldly announced and +defended, we want people who can coquet with felony, and get men to talk +over treason with little if any ceremony. Joe can do this--he can write, +and, what is better, sing you a Fenian ballad, and if he sees he has made a +mistake, he can quiz himself and his song as cavalierly as he has sung it! +And now, on my solemn oath I say it, I don’t know that anything worse has +befallen us than the fact that there are such men as Joe Atlee amongst us, +and that we need them--ay, sir, we need them!’ + +‘This is brief enough, at any rate,’ said Kearney, as he broke open the +second letter:-- + +‘“DUBLIN CASTLE, _Wednesday Evening_. + +‘“DEAR SIR,--Would you do me the great favour to call on me here at your +earliest convenient moment? I am still an invalid, and confined to a sofa, +or would ask for permission to meet you at your chambers.--Believe me, +yours faithfully, + +CECIL WALPOLE.”’ + +‘That cannot be delayed, I suppose?’ said Kearney, in the tone of a +question. + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘I’ll go up by the night-mail. You’ll remain where you are, and where I +hope you feel you are with a welcome.’ + +‘I feel it, sir--I feel it more than I can say.’ And his face was blood-red +as he spoke. + +‘There are scores of things you can do while I am away. You’ll have to +study the county in all its baronies and subdivisions. There, my sister can +help you; and you’ll have to learn the names and places of our great county +swells, and mark such as may be likely to assist us. You’ll have to stroll +about in our own neighbourhood, and learn what the people near home say of +the intention, and pick up what you can of public opinion in our towns of +Moate and Kilbeggan.’ + +‘I have bethought me of all that---’ He paused here and seemed to hesitate +if he should say more; and after an effort, he went on: ‘You’ll not take +amiss what I’m going to say, Mr. Kearney. You’ll make full allowance for a +man placed as I am; but I want, before you go, to learn from you in what +way, or as what, you have presented me to your family? Am I a poor sizar of +Trinity, whose hard struggle with poverty has caught your sympathy? Am I a +chance acquaintance, whose only claim on you is being known to Joe Atlee? +I’m sure I need not ask you, have you called me by my real name and given +me my real character?’ + +Kearney flushed up to the eyes, and laying his hand on the other’s +shoulder, said, ‘This is exactly what I have done. I have told my sister +that you are the noted Daniel Donogan, United Irishman and rebel.’ + +‘But only to your sister?’ + +‘To none other.’ + +‘_She_’ll not betray me, I know that.’ + +‘You are right there, Donogan. Here’s how it happened, for it was not +intended.’ And now he related how the name had escaped him. + +‘So that the cousin knows nothing?’ + +‘Nothing whatever. My sister Kate is not one to make rash confidences, and +you may rely on it she has not told her.’ + +‘I hope and trust that this mistake will serve you for a lesson, Mr. +Kearney, and show you that to keep a secret, it is not enough to have an +honest intention, but a man must have a watch over his thoughts and a +padlock on his tongue. And now to something of more importance. In your +meeting with Walpole, mind one thing: no modesty, no humility; make your +demands boldly, and declare that your price is well worth the paying; +let him feel that, as he must make a choice between the priests and the +nationalists, we are the easier of the two to deal with: first of all, we +don’t press for prompt payment; and, secondly, we’ll not shock Exeter Hall! +Show him that strongly, and tell him that there are clever fellows amongst +us who’ll not compromise him or his party, and will never desert him on a +close division. Oh dear me, how I wish I was going in your place.’ + +‘So do I, with all my heart; but there’s ten striking, and we shall be late +for breakfast.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +THE MOATE STATION + + +The train by which Miss Betty O’Shea expected her nephew was late in its +arrival at Moate, and Peter Gill, who had been sent with the car to fetch +him over, was busily discussing his second supper when the passengers +arrived. + +‘Are you Mr. Gorman O’Shea, sir?’ asked Peter of a well-dressed and +well-looking young man, who had just taken his luggage from the train. + +‘No; here he is,’ replied he, pointing to a tall, powerful young fellow, +whose tweed suit and billycock hat could not completely conceal a +soldierlike bearing and a sort of compactness that comes of ‘drill.’ + +‘That’s my name. What do you want with me?’ cried he, in a loud but +pleasant voice. + +‘Only that Miss Betty has sent me over with the car for your honour, if +it’s plazing to you to drive across.’ + +‘What about this broiled bone, Miller?’ asked O’Shea. ‘I rather think I +like the notion better than when you proposed it.’ + +‘I suspect you do,’ said the other; ‘but we’ll have to step over to the +“Blue Goat.” It’s only a few yards off, and they’ll be ready, for I +telegraphed them from town to be prepared as the train came in.’ + +‘You seem to know the place well.’ + +‘Yes. I may say I know something about it. I canvassed this part of the +county once for one of the Idlers, and I secretly determined, if I ever +thought of trying for a seat in the House, I’d make the attempt here. They +are a most pretentious set of beggars these small townsfolk, and they’d +rather hear themselves talk politics, and give their notions of what they +think “good for Ireland,” than actually pocket bank-notes; and that, +my dear friend, is a virtue in a constituency never to be ignored or +forgotten. The moment, then, I heard of M----‘s retirement, I sent off a +confidential emissary down here to get up what is called a requisition, +asking me to stand for the county. Here it is, and the answer, in this +morning’s _Freeman_. You can read it at your leisure. Here we are now at +the “Blue Goat”; and I see they are expecting us.’ + +Not only was there a capital fire in the grate, and the table ready laid +for supper, but a half-dozen or more of the notabilities of Moate were in +waiting to receive the new candidate, and confer with him over the coming +contest. + +‘My companion is the nephew of an old neighbour of yours, gentlemen,’ said +Miller; ‘Captain Gorman O’Shea, of the Imperial Lancers of Austria. I know +you have heard of, if you have not seen him.’ + +A round of very hearty and demonstrative salutations followed, and O’Gorman +was well pleased at the friendly reception accorded him. + +Austria was a great country, one of the company observed. They had got +liberal institutions and a free press, and they were good Catholics, who +would give those heretical Prussians a fine lesson one of these days; and +Gorman O’Shea’s health, coupled with these sentiments, was drank with all +the honours. + +‘There’s a jolly old face that I ought to remember well,’ said Gorman, as +he looked up at the portrait of Lord Kilgobbin over the chimney. ‘When I +entered the service, and came back here on leave, he gave me the first +sword I ever wore, and treated me as kindly as if I was his son.’ + +The hearty speech elicited no response from the hearers, who only exchanged +significant looks with each other, while Miller, apparently less under +restraint, broke in with, ‘That stupid adventure the English newspapers +called “The gallant resistance of Kilgobbin Castle” has lost that man the +esteem of Irishmen.’ + +A perfect burst of approval followed these words; and while young O’Shea +eagerly pressed for an explanation of an incident of which he heard for the +first time, they one and all proceeded to give their versions of what had +occurred; but with such contradictions, corrections, and emendations that +the young man might be pardoned if he comprehended little of the event. + +‘They say his son will contest the county with you, Mr. Miller,’ cried one. + +‘Let me have no weightier rival, and I ask no more.’ + +‘Faix, if he’s going to stand,’ said another, ‘his father might have taken +the trouble to ask us for our votes. Would you believe it, sir, it’s going +on six months since he put his foot in this room?’ + +‘And do the “Goats” stand that?’ asked Miller. + +‘I don’t wonder he doesn’t care to come into Moate. There’s not a shop in +the town he doesn’t owe money to.’ + +‘And we never refused him credit---’ + +‘For anything but his principles,’ chimed in an old fellow, whose oratory +was heartily relished. + +‘He’s going to stand in the National interest,’ said one. + +‘That’s the safe ticket when you have no money,’ said another. + +‘Gentlemen,’ said Miller, who rose to his legs to give greater importance +to his address:--‘If we want to make Ireland a country to live in, the +only party to support is the Whig Government! The Nationalist may open the +gaols, give license to the press, hunt down the Orangemen, and make the +place generally too hot for the English. But are these the things that you +and I want or strive for? We want order and quietness in the land, and the +best places in it for ourselves to enjoy these blessings. Is Mr. Casey down +there satisfied to keep the post-office in Moate when he knows he could +be the first secretary in Dublin, at the head office, with two thousand a +year? Will my friend Mr. McGloin say that he’d rather pass his life here +than be a Commissioner of Customs, and live in Merrion Square? Ain’t +we men? Ain’t we fathers and husbands? Have we not sons to advance and +daughters to marry in the world, and how much will Nationalism do for +these? + +‘I will not tell you that the Whigs love us or have any strong regard for +us; but they need us, gentlemen, and they know well that, without the +Radicals, and Scotland, and our party here, they couldn’t keep power for +three weeks. Now why is Scotland a great and prosperous country? I’ll tell +you. Scotland has no sentimental politics. Scotland says, in her own homely +adage, “Claw me and I’ll claw thee.” Scotland insists that there should +be Scotchmen everywhere--in the Post-Office, in the Privy Council, in +the Pipewater, and in the Punjab! Does Scotland go on vapouring about an +extinct nationality or the right of the Stuarts? Not a bit of it. She says, +Burn Scotch coal in the navy, though the smoke may blind you and you never +get up steam! She has no national absurdities: she neither asks for a flag +nor a Parliament. She demands only what will pay. And it is by supporting +the Whigs you will make Ireland as prosperous as Scotland. Literally, the +Fenians, gentlemen, will never make my friend yonder a baronet, or put me +on the Bench; and now that we are met here in secret committee, I can say +all this to you and none of it get abroad. + +‘Mind, I never told you the Whigs love us, or said that we love the Whigs; +but we can each of us help the other. When _they_ smash the Protestant +party, they are doing a fine stroke of work for Liberalism in pulling +down a cruel ascendency and righting the Romanists. And when we crush the +Protestants, we are opening the best places in the land to ourselves by +getting rid of our only rivals. Look at the Bench, gentlemen, and the high +offices of the courts. Have not we Papists, as they call us, our share +in both? And this is only the beginning, let me tell you. There is a +university in College Green due to us, and a number of fine palaces that +their bishops once lived in, and grand old cathedrals whose very names show +the rightful ownership; and when we have got all these--as the Whigs will +give them one day--even then we are only beginning. And now turn the other +side, and see what you have to expect from the Nationalists. Some very hard +fighting and a great number of broken heads. I give in that you’ll drive +the English out, take the Pigeon-House Fort, capture the Magazine, and +carry away the Lord-Lieutenant in chains. And what will you have for it, +after all, but another scrimmage amongst yourselves for the spoils. Mr. +Mullen, of the _Pike_, will want something that Mr. Darby McKeown, of the +_Convicted Felon_, has just appropriated; Tom Casidy, that burned the Grand +Master of the Orangemen, finds that he is not to be pensioned for life; and +Phil Costigan, that blew up the Lodge in the Park, discovers that he is not +even to get the ruins as building materials. I tell you, my friends, it’s +not in such convulsions as these that you and I, and other sensible men +like us, want to pass our lives. We look for a comfortable berth and +quarter-day; that’s what we compound for--quarter-day--and I give it to you +as a toast with all the honours.’ + +And certainly the rich volume of cheers that greeted the sentiment vouched +for a hearty and sincere recognition of the toast. + +‘The chaise is ready at the door, councillor,’ cried the landlord, +addressing Mr. Miller, and after a friendly shake-hands all round, Miller +slipped his arm through O’Shea’s and drew him apart. + +‘I’ll be back this way in about ten days or so, and I’ll ask you to present +me to your aunt. She has got above a hundred votes on her property, and I +think I can count upon you to stand by me.’ + +‘I can, perhaps, promise you a welcome at the Barn,’ muttered the young +fellow in some confusion; ‘but when you have seen my aunt, you’ll +understand why I give you no pledges on the score of political support.’ + +‘Oh, is that the way?’ asked Miller, with a knowing laugh. + +‘Yes, that’s the way, and no mistake about it,’ replied O’Shea, and they +parted. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +HOW THE ‘GOATS’ REVOLTED + + +In less than a week after the events last related, the members of the +‘Goat Club’ were summoned to an extraordinary and general meeting, by an +invitation from the vice-president, Mr. McGloin, the chief grocer and +hardware dealer of Kilbeggan. The terms of this circular seemed to indicate +importance, for it said--‘To take into consideration a matter of vital +interest to the society.’ + +Though only the denizen of a very humble country town, McGloin possessed +certain gifts and qualities which might have graced a higher station. He +was the most self-contained and secret of men; he detected mysterious +meanings in every--the smallest--event of life; and as he divulged none of +his discoveries, and only pointed vaguely and dimly to the consequences, he +got credit for the correctness of his unuttered predictions as completely +as though he had registered his prophecies as copyright at Stationers’ +Hall. It is needless to say that on every question, religious, social, or +political, he was the paramount authority of the town. It was but rarely +indeed that a rebellious spirit dared to set up an opinion in opposition to +his; but if such a hazardous event were to occur, he would suppress it with +a dignity of manner which derived no small aid from the resources of a +mind rich in historical parallel; and it was really curious for those who +believe that history is always repeating itself, to remark how frequently +John McGloin represented the mind and character of Lycurgus, and how often +poor old, dreary, and bog-surrounded Moate recalled the image of Sparta and +its ‘sunny slopes.’ + +Now, there is one feature of Ireland which I am not quite sure is very +generally known or appreciated on the other side of St. George’s Channel, +and this is the fierce spirit of indignation called up in a county +habitually quiet, when the newspapers bring it to public notice as the +scene of some lawless violence. For once there is union amongst Irishmen. +Every class, from the estated proprietor to the humblest peasant, is loud +in asserting that the story is an infamous falsehood. Magistrates, priests, +agents, middlemen, tax-gatherers, and tax-payers rush into print to abuse +the ‘blackguard’--he is always the blackguard--who invented the lie; +and men upwards of ninety are quoted to show that so long as they could +remember, there never was a man injured, nor a rick burned, nor a heifer +hamstrung in the six baronies round! Old newspapers are adduced to show +how often the going judge of assize has complimented the grand-jury on the +catalogue of crime; in a word, the whole population is ready to make oath +that the county is little short of a terrestrial paradise, and that it is +a district teeming with gentle landlords, pious priests, and industrious +peasants, without a plague-spot on the face of the county, except it be +the police-barrack, and the company of lazy vagabonds with crossbelts and +carbines that lounge before it. When, therefore, the press of Dublin at +first, and afterwards of the empire at large, related the night attack for +arms at Kilgobbin Castle, the first impulse of the county at large was +to rise up in the face of the nation and deny the slander! Magistrates +consulted together whether the high-sheriff should not convene a meeting of +the county. Priests took counsel with the bishop, whether notice should not +be taken of the calumny from the altar. The small shopkeepers of the small +towns, assuming that their trade would be impaired by these rumours of +disturbance--just as Parisians used to declaim against barricades in the +streets--are violent in denouncing the malignant falsehoods upon a quiet +and harmless community; so that, in fact, every rank and condition vied +with its neighbour in declaring that the whole story was a base tissue +of lies, and which could only impose upon those who knew nothing of +the county, nor of the peaceful, happy, and brother-like creatures who +inhabited it. + +It was not to be supposed that, at such a crisis, Mr. John McGloin would be +inactive or indifferent. As a man of considerable influence at elections, +he had his weight with a county member, Mr. Price; and to him he wrote, +demanding that he should ask in the House what correspondence had passed +between Mr. Kearney and the Castle authorities with reference to this +supposed outrage, and whether the law-officers of the Crown, or the adviser +of the Viceroy, or the chiefs of the local police, or--to quote the exact +words--‘any sane or respectable man in the county’ believed on word of the +story. Lastly, that he would also ask whether any and what correspondence +had passed between Mr. Kearney and the Chief Secretary with respect to a +small house on the Kilgobbin property, which Mr. Kearney had suggested as +a convenient police-station, and for which he asked a rent of twenty-five +pounds per annum; and if such correspondence existed, whether it had any or +what relation to the rumoured attack on Kilgobbin Castle? + +If it should seem strange that a leading member of the ‘Goat Club’ should +assail its president, the explanation is soon made: Mr. McGloin had long +desired to be the chief himself. He and many others had seen, with some +irritation and displeasure, the growing indifference of Mr. Kearney for the +‘Goats.’ For many months he had never called them together, and several +members had resigned, and many more threatened resignation. It was time, +then, that some energetic steps should be taken. The opportunity for this +was highly favourable. Anything unpatriotic, anything even unpopular in +Kearney’s conduct, would, in the then temper of the club, be sufficient to +rouse them to actual rebellion; and it was to test this sentiment, and, if +necessary, to stimulate it, Mr. McGloin convened a meeting, which a +bylaw of the society enabled him to do at any period when, for the three +preceding months, the president had not assembled the club. + +Though the members generally were not a little proud of their president, +and deemed it considerable glory to them to have a viscount for their +chief, and though it gave great dignity to their debates that the rising +speaker should begin ‘My Lord and Buck Goat,’ yet they were not without +dissatisfaction at seeing how cavalierly he treated them, what slight value +he appeared to attach to their companionship, and how perfectly indifferent +he seemed to their opinions, their wishes, or their wants. + +There were various theories in circulation to explain this change of temper +in their chief. Some ascribed it to young Kearney, who was a ‘stuck-up’ +young fellow, and wanted his father to give himself greater airs and +pretensions. Others opinioned it was the daughter, who, though she played +Lady Bountiful among the poor cottiers, and affected interest in the +people, was in reality the proudest of them all. And last of all, there +were some who, in open defiance of chronology, attributed the change to a +post-dated event, and said that the swells from the Castle were the ruin +of Mathew Kearney, and that he was never the same man since the day he saw +them. + +Whether any of these were the true solution of the difficulty or not, +Kearney’s popularity was on the decline at the moment when this unfortunate +narrative of the attack on his castle aroused the whole county and excited +their feelings against him. Mr. McGloin took every step of his proceeding +with due measure and caution: and having secured a certain number of +promises of attendance at the meeting, he next notified to his lordship, +how, in virtue of a certain section of a certain law, he had exercised his +right of calling the members together; and that he now begged respectfully +to submit to the chief, that some of the matters which would be submitted +to the collective wisdom would have reference to the ‘Buck Goat’ himself, +and that it would be an act of great courtesy on his part if he should +condescend to be present and afford some explanation. + +That the bare possibility of being called to account by the ‘Goats’ would +drive Kearney into a ferocious passion, if not a fit of the gout, McGloin +knew well; and that the very last thing on his mind would be to come +amongst them, he was equally sure of: so that in giving his invitation +there was no risk whatever. Mathew Kearney’s temper was no secret; and +whenever the necessity should arise that a burst of indiscreet anger should +be sufficient to injure a cause, or damage a situation, ‘the lord’ could be +calculated on with a perfect security. McGloin understood this thoroughly; +nor was it matter of surprise to him that a verbal reply of ‘There is +no answer’ was returned to his note; while the old servant, instead of +stopping the ass-cart as usual for the weekly supply of groceries at +McGloin’s, repaired to a small shop over the way, where colonial products +were rudely jostled out of their proper places by coils of rope, sacks of +rape-seed, glue, glass, and leather, amid which the proprietor felt far +more at home than amidst mixed pickles and mocha. + +Mr. McGloin, however, had counted the cost of his policy: he knew well that +for the ambition to succeed his lordship as Chief of the Club, he should +have to pay by the loss of the Kilgobbin custom; and whether it was that +the greatness in prospect was too tempting to resist, or that the sacrifice +was smaller than it might have seemed, he was prepared to risk the venture. + +The meeting was in so far a success that it was fully attended. Such a +flock of ‘Goats’ had not been seen by them since the memory of man, nor was +the unanimity less remarkable than the number; and every paragraph of +Mr. McGloin’s speech was hailed with vociferous cheers and applause, the +sentiment of the assembly being evidently highly National, and the feeling +that the shame which the Lord of Kilgobbin had brought down upon their +county was a disgrace that attached personally to each man there present; +and that if now their once happy and peaceful district was to be proclaimed +under some tyranny of English law, or, worse still, made a mark for the +insult and sarcasm of the _Times_ newspaper, they owed the disaster and the +shame to no other than Mathew Kearney himself. + +‘I will now conclude with a resolution,’ said McGloin, who, having filled +the measure of allegation, proceeded to the application. ‘I shall move that +it is the sentiment of this meeting that Lord Kilgobbin be called on to +disavow, in the newspapers, the whole narrative which has been circulated +of the attack on his house; that he declare openly that the supposed +incident was a mistake caused by the timorous fears of his household, +during his own absence from home: terrors aggravated by the unwarrantable +anxiety of an English visitor, whose ignorance of Ireland had worked upon +an excited imagination; and that a copy of the resolution be presented to +his lordship, either in letter or by a deputation, as the meeting shall +decide.’ + +While the discussion was proceeding as to the mode in which this bold +resolution should be most becomingly brought under Lord Kilgobbin’s notice, +a messenger on horseback arrived with a letter for McGloin. The bearer was +in the Kilgobbin livery, and a massive seal, with the noble lord’s arms, +attested the despatch to be from himself. + +‘Shall I put the resolution to the vote, or read this letter first, +gentlemen?’ said the chairman. + +‘Read! read!’ was the cry, and he broke the seal. It ran thus:-- + +‘Mr. McGloin,--Will you please to inform the members of the “Goat Club” at +Moate that I retire from the presidency, and cease to be a member of that +society? I was vain enough to believe at one time that the humanising +element of even one gentleman in the vulgar circle of a little obscure +town, might have elevated the tone of manners and the spirit of social +intercourse. I have lived to discover my great mistake, and that the +leadership of a man like yourself is far more likely to suit the instincts +and chime in with the sentiments of such a body.--Your obedient and +faithful servant, + +Kilgobbin.’ + +The cry which followed the reading of this document can only be described +as a howl. It was like the enraged roar of wild animals, rather than the +union of human voices; and it was not till after a considerable interval +that McGloin could obtain a hearing. He spoke with great vigour and +fluency. He denounced the letter as an outrage which should be proclaimed +from one end of Europe to the other; that it was not their town, or their +club, or themselves had been insulted, but Ireland! that this mock-lord +(cheers)--this sham viscount--(greater cheers)--this Brummagem peer, whose +nobility their native courtesy and natural urbanity had so long deigned to +accept as real, should now be taught that his pretensions only existed on +sufferance, and had no claim beyond the polite condescension of men whom +it was no stretch of imagination to call the equals of Mathew Kearney. +The cries that received this were almost deafening, and lasted for some +minutes. + +‘Send the ould humbug his picture there,’ cried a voice from the crowd, and +the sentiment was backed by a roar of voices; and it was at once decreed +the portrait should accompany the letter which the indignant ‘Goats’ now +commissioned their chairman to compose. + +That same evening saw the gold-framed picture on its way to Kilgobbin +Castle, with an ample-looking document, whose contents we have no curiosity +to transcribe--nor, indeed, is the whole incident one which we should have +cared to obtrude upon our readers, save as a feeble illustration of the way +in which the smaller rills of public opinion swell the great streams of +life, and how the little events of existence serve now as impulses, now +obstacles, to the larger interests that sway fortune. So long as Mathew +Kearney drank his punch at the ‘Blue Goat’ he was a patriot and a +Nationalist; but when he quarrelled with his flock, he renounced his +Irishry, and came out a Whig. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +AN UNLOOKED-FOR PLEASURE + + +When Dick Kearney waited on Cecil Walpole at his quarters in the Castle, he +was somewhat surprised to find that gentleman more reserved in manner, and +in general more distant, than when he had seen him as his father’s guest. + +Though he extended two fingers of his hand on entering, and begged him to +be seated, Walpole did not take a chair himself, but stood with his back to +the fire--the showy skirts of a very gorgeous dressing-gown displayed over +his arms--where he looked like some enormous bird exulting in the full +effulgence of his bright plumage. + +‘You got my note, Mr. Kearney?’ began he, almost before the other had +sat down, with the air of a man whose time was too precious for mere +politeness. + +‘It is the reason of my present visit,’ said Dick dryly. + +‘Just so. His Excellency instructed me to ascertain in what shape most +acceptable to your family he might show the sense entertained by the +Government of that gallant defence of Kilgobbin; and believing that the +best way to meet a man’s wishes is first of all to learn what the wishes +are, I wrote you the few lines of yesterday.’ + +‘I suspect there must be a mistake somewhere,’ began Kearney, with +difficulty. ‘At least, I intimated to Atlee the shape in which the +Viceroy’s favour would be most agreeable to us, and I came here prepared to +find you equally informed on the matter.’ + +‘Ah, indeed! I know nothing--positively nothing. Atlee telegraphed me, “See +Kearney, and hear what he has to say. I write by post.--ATLEE.” There’s the +whole of it.’ + +‘And the letter--’ + +‘The letter is there. It came by the late mail, and I have not opened it.’ + +‘Would it not be better to glance over it now?’ said Dick mildly. + +‘Not if you can give me the substance by word of mouth. Time, they tell +us, is money, and as I have got very little of either, I am obliged to be +parsimonious. What is it you want? I mean the sort of thing we could help +you to obtain. I see,’ said he, smiling, ‘you had rather I should read +Atlee’s letter. Well, here goes.’ He broke the envelope, and began:-- + +‘“MY DEAR MR. WALPOLE,--I hoped by this time to have had a report to make +you of what I had done, heard, seen, and imagined since my arrival, and yet +here I am now towards the close of my second week, and I have nothing to +tell; and beyond a sort of confused sense of being immensely delighted with +my mode of life, I am totally unconscious of the flight of time. + +‘“His Excellency received me once for ten minutes, and later on, after some +days, for half an hour; for he is confined to bed with gout, and forbidden +by his doctor all mental labour. He was kind and courteous to a degree, +hoped I should endeavour to make myself at home--giving orders at the same +time that my dinner should be served at my own hour, and the stables placed +at my disposal for riding or driving. For occupation, he suggested I should +see what the newspapers were saying, and make a note or two if anything +struck me as remarkable. + +‘“Lady Maude is charming--and I use the epithet in all the significance of +its sorcery. She conveys to me each morning his Excellency’s instructions +for my day’s work; and it is only by a mighty effort I can tear myself from +the magic thrill of her voice, and the captivation of her manner, to follow +what I have to reply to, investigate, and remark on. + +‘“I meet her each day at luncheon, and she says she will join me ‘some day +at dinner.’ When that glorious occasion arrives, I shall call it the +event of my life, for her mere presence stimulates me to such effort in +conversation that I feel in the very lassitude afterwards what a strain my +faculties have undergone.”’ + +‘What an insufferable coxcomb, and an idiot to boot!’ cried Walpole. +‘I could not do him a more spiteful turn than to tell my cousin of her +conquest. There is another page, I see, of the same sort. But here you +are--this is all about you: I’ll read it. “In _re_ Kearney. The Irish are +always logical; and as Miss Kearney once shot some of her countrymen, when +on a mission they deemed National, her brother opines that he ought to +represent the principles thus involved in Parliament.”’ + +‘Is this the way in which he states my claims!’ broke in Dick, with +ill-suppressed passion. + +‘Bear in mind, Mr. Kearney, this jest, and a very poor one it is, was meant +for me alone. The communication is essentially private, and it is only +through my indiscretion you know anything of it whatever.’ + +‘I am not aware that any confidence should entitle him to write such an +impertinence.’ + +‘In that case, I shall read no more,’ said Walpole, as he slowly refolded +the letter.’ The fault is all on my side, Mr. Kearney,’ he continued;’ but +I own I thought you knew your friend so thoroughly that extravagance on his +part could have neither astonished nor provoked you.’ + +‘You are perfectly right, Mr. Walpole; I apologise for my impatience. It +was, perhaps, in hearing his words read aloud by another that I forgot +myself, and if you will kindly continue the reading, I will promise to +behave more suitably in future.’ + +Walpole reopened the letter, but, whether indisposed to trust the pledge +thus given, or to prolong the interview, ran his eyes over one side and +then turned to the last page. ‘I see,’ said he, ‘he augurs ill as to your +chances of success; he opines that you have not well calculated the great +cost of the venture, and that in all probability it has been suggested by +some friend of questionable discretion. “At all events,”’ and here he read +aloud--‘“at all events, his Excellency says, ‘We should like to mark the +Kilgobbin affair by some show of approbation; and though supporting young +K. in a contest for his county is a “higher figure” than we meant to pay, +see him, and hear what he has to say of his prospects--what he can do to +obtain a seat, and what he will do if he gets one. We need not caution +him against’”--‘hum, hum, hum,’ muttered he, slurring over the words, and +endeavouring to pass on to something else. + +‘May I ask against what I am supposed to be so secure?’ + +‘Oh, nothing, nothing. A very small impertinence, but which Mr. Atlee found +irresistible.’ + +‘Pray let me hear it. It shall not irritate me.’ + +‘He says, “There will be no more a fear of bribery in your case than of a +debauch at Father Mathew’s.”’ + +‘He is right there,’ said Kearney. ‘The only difference is that our +forbearance will be founded on something stronger than a pledge.’ + +Walpole looked at the speaker, and was evidently struck by the calm command +he had displayed of his passion. + +‘If we could forget Joe Atlee for a few minutes, Mr. Walpole, we might +possibly gain something. I, at least, would be glad to know how far I might +count on the Government aid in my project.’ + +‘Ah, you want to--in fact, you would like that we should give you something +like a regular--eh?--that is to say, that you could declare to certain +people--naturally enough, I admit; but here is how we are, Kearney. +Of course what I say now is literally between ourselves, and strictly +confidential.’ + +‘I shall so understand it,’ said the other gravely. + +‘Well, now, here it is. The Irish vote, as the Yankees would call it, is of +undoubted value to us, but it is confoundedly dear! With Cardinal Cullen on +one side and Fenianism on the other, we have no peace. Time was when you +all pulled the one way, and a sop to the Pope pleased you all. Now that +will suffice no longer. The “Sovereign Pontiff dodge” is the surest of all +ways to offend the Nationals; so that, in reality, what we want in the +House is a number of Liberal Irishmen who will trust the Government to do +as much for the Catholic Church as English bigotry will permit, and as much +for the Irish peasant as will not endanger the rights of property over the +Channel.’ + +‘There’s a wide field there, certainly,’ said Dick, smiling. + +‘Is there not?’ cried the other exultingly. ‘Not only does it bowl over the +Established Church and Protestant ascendency, but it inverts the position +of landlord and tenant. To unsettle everything in Ireland, so that anybody +might hope to be anything, or to own Heaven knows what--to legalise +gambling for existence to a people who delight in high play, and yet not +involve us in a civil war--was a grand policy, Kearney, a very grand +policy. Not that I expect a young, ardent spirit like yourself, fresh from +college ambitions and high-flown hopes, will take this view.’ + +Dick only smiled and shook his head. + +‘Just so,’ resumed Walpole. ‘I could not expect you to like this programme, +and I know already all that you allege against it; but, as B. says, +Kearney, the man who rules Ireland must know how to take command of a +ship in a state of mutiny, and yet never suppress the revolt. There’s the +problem--as much discipline as you can, as much indiscipline as you +can bear. The brutal old Tories used to master the crew and hang the +ringleaders; and for that matter, they might have hanged the whole ship’s +company. We know better, Kearney; and we have so confused and addled them +by our policy, that, if a fellow were to strike his captain, he would never +be quite sure whether he was to be strung up at the gangway or made a +petty-officer. Do you see it now?’ + +‘I can scarcely say that I do see it--I mean, that I see it as _you_ do.’ + +‘I scarcely could hope that you should, or, at least, that you should do +so at once; but now, as to this seat for King’s County, I believe we have +already found our man. I’ll not be sure, nor will I ask you to regard the +matter as fixed on, but I suspect we are in relations--you know what I +mean--with an old supporter, who has been beaten half-a-dozen times in our +interest, but is coming up once more. I’ll ascertain about this positively, +and let you know. And then’--here he drew breath freely and talked more at +ease--‘if we should find our hands free, and that we see our way clearly +to support you, what assurance could you give us that you would go through +with the contest, and fight the battle out?’ + +‘I believe, if I engage in the struggle, I shall continue to the end,’ said +Dick, half doggedly. + +‘Your personal pluck and determination I do not question for a moment. Now, +let us see’--here he seemed to ruminate for some seconds, and looked like +one debating a matter with himself. ‘Yes,’ cried he at last, ‘I believe +that will be the best way. I am sure it will. When do you go back, Mr. +Kearney--to Kilgobbin, I mean?’ + +‘My intention was to go down the day after to-morrow.’ + +‘That will be Friday. Let us see, what is Friday? Friday is the 15th, is it +not?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Friday’--muttered the other--‘Friday? There’s the Education Board, and the +Harbour Commissioners, and something else at--to be sure, a visit to the +Popish schools with Dean O’Mahony. You couldn’t make it Saturday, could +you?’ + +‘Not conveniently. I had already arranged a plan for Saturday. But why +should I delay here--to what end?’ + +‘Only that, if you could say Saturday, I would like to go down with you.’ + +From the mode in which he said these words, it was clear that he looked for +an almost rapturous acceptance of his gracious proposal; but Dick did not +regard the project in that light, nor was he overjoyed in the least at the +proposal. + +‘I mean,’ said Walpole, hastening to relieve the awkwardness of silence--‘I +mean that I could talk over this affair with your father in a practical +business fashion, that you could scarcely enter into. Still, if Saturday +could not be managed, I’ll try if I could not run down with you on Friday. +Only for a day, remember, I must return by the evening train. We shall +arrive by what hour?’ + +‘By breakfast-time,’ said Dick, but still not over-graciously. + +‘Nothing could be better; that will give us a long day, and I should like +a full discussion with your father. You’ll manage to send me on to--what’s +the name?’ + +‘Moate.’ + +‘Moate. Yes; that’s the place. The up-train leaves at midnight, I remember. +Now that’s all settled. You’ll take me up, then, here on Friday morning, +Kearney, on your way to the station, and meanwhile I’ll set to work, and +put off these deputations and circulars till Saturday, when, I remember, I +have a dinner with the provost. Is there anything more to be thought of?’ + +‘I believe not,’ muttered Dick, still sullenly. + +‘Bye-bye, then, till Friday morning,’ said he, as he turned towards his +desk, and began arranging a mass of papers before him. + +‘Here’s a jolly mess with a vengeance,’ muttered Kearney, as he descended +the stair. ‘The Viceroy’s private secretary to be domesticated with a +“head-centre” and an escaped convict. There’s not even the doubtful comfort +of being able to make my family assist me through the difficulty.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES + + +Among the articles of that wardrobe of Cecil Walpole’s of which Atlee +had possessed himself so unceremoniously, there was a very gorgeous blue +dress-coat, with the royal button and a lining of sky-blue silk, which +formed the appropriate costume of the gentlemen of the viceregal household. +This, with a waistcoat to match, Atlee had carried off with him in +the indiscriminating haste of a last moment, and although thoroughly +understanding that he could not avail himself of a costume so distinctively +the mark of a condition, yet, by one of the contrarieties of his strange +nature, in which the desire for an assumption of any kind was a passion, he +had tried on that coat fully a dozen times, and while admiring how well it +became him, and how perfectly it seemed to suit his face and figure, he had +dramatised to himself the part of an aide-de-camp in waiting, rehearsing +the little speeches in which he presented this or that imaginary person to +his Excellency, and coining the small money of epigram in which he related +the news of the day. + +‘How I should cut out those dreary subalterns with their mess-room +drolleries, how I should shame those tiresome cornets, whose only glitter +is on their sabretaches!’ muttered he, as he surveyed himself in his +courtly attire. ‘It is all nonsense to say that the dress a man wears can +only impress the surrounders. It is on himself, on his own nature +and temper, his mind, his faculties, his very ambition, there is a +transformation effected; and I, Joe Atlee, feel myself, as I move about in +this costume, a very different man from that humble creature in grey tweed, +whose very coat reminds him he is a “cad,” and who has but to look in the +glass to read his condition.’ + +On the morning he learned that Lady Maude would join him that day at +dinner, Atlee conceived the idea of appearing in this costume. It was not +only that she knew nothing of the Irish Court and its habits, but she made +an almost ostentatious show of her indifference to all about it, and in the +few questions she asked, the tone of interrogation might have suited Africa +as much as Ireland. It was true, she was evidently puzzled to know what +place or condition Atlee occupied; his name was not familiar to her, and +yet he seemed to know everything and everybody, enjoyed a large share of +his Excellency’s confidence, and appeared conversant with every detail +placed before him. + +That she would not directly ask him what place he occupied in the household +he well knew, and he felt at the same time what a standing and position +that costume would give him, what self-confidence and ease it would also +confer, and how, for once in his life, free from the necessity of asserting +a station, he could devote all his energies to the exercise of agreeability +and those resources of small-talk in which he knew he was a master. + +Besides all this, it was to be his last day at the castle--he was to start +the next morning for Constantinople, with all instructions regarding the +spy Speridionides, and he desired to make a favourable impression on Lady +Maude before he left. Though intensely, even absurdly vain, Atlee was one +of those men who are so eager for success in life that they are ever on the +watch lest any weakness of disposition or temper should serve to compromise +their chances, and in this way he was led to distrust what he would in his +puppyism have liked to have thought a favourable effect produced by him on +her ladyship. She was intensely cold in manner, and yet he had made her +more than once listen to him with interest. She rarely smiled, and he had +made her actually laugh. Her apathy appeared complete, and yet he had so +piqued her curiosity that she could not forbear a question. + +Acting as her uncle’s secretary, and in constant communication with him, it +was her affectation to imagine herself a political character, and she did +not scruple to avow the hearty contempt she felt for the usual occupation +of women’s lives. Atlee’s knowledge, therefore, actually amazed her: his +hardihood, which never forsook him, enabled him to give her the most +positive assurances on anything he spoke; and as he had already fathomed +the chief prejudices of his Excellency, and knew exactly where and to +what his political wishes tended, she heard nothing from her uncle but +expressions of admiration for the just views, the clear and definite ideas, +and the consummate skill with which that ‘young fellow’ distinguished +himself. + +‘We shall have him in the House one of these days,’ he would say; ‘and I am +much mistaken if he will not make a remarkable figure there.’ + +When Lady Maude sailed proudly into the library before dinner, Atlee +was actually stunned by amazement at her beauty. Though not in actual +evening-dress, her costume was that sort of demi-toilet compromise which +occasionally is most becoming; and the tasteful lappet of Brussels lace, +which, interwoven with her hair, fell down on either side so as to frame +her face, softened its expression to a degree of loveliness he was not +prepared for. + +It was her pleasure--her caprice, perhaps--to be on this occasion unusually +amiable and agreeable. Except by a sort of quiet dignity, there was no +coldness, and she spoke of her uncle’s health and hopes just as she might +have discussed them with an old friend of the house. + +When the butler flung wide the folding-doors into the dining-room and +announced dinner, she was about to move on, when she suddenly stopped, and +said, with a faint smile, ‘Will you give me your arm?’ Very simple words, +and commonplace too, but enough to throw Atlee’s whole nature into a +convulsion of delight. And as he walked at her side it was in the very +ecstasy of pride and exultation. + +Dinner passed off with the decorous solemnity of that meal, at which +the most emphatic utterances were the butler’s ‘Marcobrunner,’ or +‘Johannisberg.’ The guests, indeed, spoke little, and the strangeness of +their situation rather disposed to thought than conversation. + +‘You are going to Constantinople to-morrow, Mr. Atlee, my uncle tells me,’ +said she, after a longer silence than usual. + +‘Yes; his Excellency has charged me with a message, of which I hope to +acquit myself well, though I own to my misgivings about it now.’ + +‘You are too diffident, perhaps, of your powers,’ said she; and there was a +faint curl of the lip that made the words sound equivocally. + +‘I do not know if great modesty be amongst my failings,’ said he +laughingly. ‘My friends would say not.’ + +‘You mean, perhaps, that you are not without ambitions?’ + +‘That is true. I confess to very bold ones.’ And as he spoke he stole a +glance towards her; but her pale face never changed. + +‘I wish, before you had gone, that you had settled that stupid muddle about +the attack on--I forget the place.’ + +‘Kilgobbin?’ + +‘Yes, Kil-gobbin--horrid name!--for the Premier still persists in thinking +there was something in it, and worrying my uncle for explanations; and as +somebody is to ask something when Parliament meets, it would be as well to +have a letter to read to the House.’ + +‘In what sense, pray?’ asked Atlee mildly. + +‘Disavowing all: stating the story had no foundation: that there was no +attack--no resistance--no member of the viceregal household present at any +time.’ + +‘That would be going too far; for then we should next have to deny +Walpole’s broken arm and his long confinement to house.’ + +‘You may serve coffee in a quarter of an hour, Marcom,’ said she, +dismissing the butler; and then, as he left the room--‘And you tell me +seriously there was a broken arm in this case?’ + +‘I can hide nothing from you, though I have taken an oath to silence,’ +said he, with an energy that seemed to defy repression. ‘I will tell you +everything, though it’s little short of a perjury, only premising this +much, that I know nothing from Walpole himself.’ + +With this much of preface, he went on to describe Walpole’s visit to +Kilgobbin as one of those adventurous exploits which young Englishmen fancy +they have a sort of right to perform in the less civilised country. ‘He +imagined, I have no doubt,’ said he, ‘that he was studying the condition of +Ireland, and investigating the land question, when he carried on a fierce +flirtation with a pretty Irish girl.’ + +‘And there was a flirtation?’ + +‘Yes, but nothing more. Nothing really serious at any time. So far he +behaved frankly and well, for even at the outset of the affair he owned +to--a what shall I call it?--an entanglement was, I believe, his own +word--an entanglement in England--’ + +‘Did he not state more of this entanglement, with whom it was, or how, or +where?’ + +‘I should think not. At all events, they who told me knew nothing of these +details. They only knew, as he said, that he was in a certain sense tied +up, and that till Fate unbound him he was a prisoner.’ + +‘Poor fellow, it _was_ hard.’ + +‘So _he_ said, and so _they_ believed him. Not that I myself believe he was +ever seriously in love with the Irish girl.’ + +‘And why not?’ + +‘I may be wrong in my reading of him; but my impression is that he regards +marriage as one of those solemn events which should contribute to a man’s +worldly fortune. Now an Irish connection could scarcely be the road to +this.’ + +‘What an ungallant admission,’ said she, with a smile. ‘I hope Mr. Walpole +is not of your mind.’ After a pause she said, ‘And how was it that in your +intimacy he told you nothing of this?’ + +He shook his head in dissent. + +‘Not even of the “entanglement”?’ + +‘Not even of that. He would speak freely enough of his “egregious blunder,” + as he called it, in quitting his career and coming to Ireland; that it was +a gross mistake for any man to take up Irish politics as a line in life; +that they were puzzles in the present and lead to nothing in the future, +and, in fact, that he wished himself back again in Italy every day he +lived.’ + +‘Was there any “entanglement” there also?’ + +‘I cannot say. On these he made me no confidences.’ + +‘Coffee, my lady!’ said the butler, entering at this moment. Nor was Atlee +grieved at the interruption. + +‘I am enough of a Turk,’ said she laughingly, ‘to like that muddy, strong +coffee they give you in the East, and where the very smallness of the cups +suggests its strength. You, I know, are impatient for your cigarette, Mr. +Atlee, and I am about to liberate you.’ While Atlee was muttering his +assurances of how much he prized her presence, she broke in, ‘Besides, +I promised my uncle a visit before tea-time, and as I shall not see you +again, I will wish you now a pleasant journey and a safe return.’ + +‘Wish me success in my expedition,’ said he eagerly. + +‘Yes, I will wish that also. One word more. I am very short-sighted, as you +may see, but you wear a ring of great beauty. May I look at it?’ + +‘It is pretty, certainly. It was a present Walpole made me. I am not sure +that there is not a story attached to it, though I don’t know it.’ + +‘Perhaps it may be linked with the “entanglement,’” said she, laughing +softly. + +‘For aught I know, so it may. Do you admire it?’ + +‘Immensely,’ said she, as she held it to the light. + +‘You can add immensely to its value if you will,’ said he diffidently. + +‘In what way?’ + +[Illustration: ‘You wear a ring of great beauty--may I look at it?’] + +‘By keeping it, Lady Maude,’ said he; and for once his cheek coloured with +the shame of his own boldness. + +‘May I purchase it with one of my own? Will you have this, or this?’ said +she hurriedly. + +‘Anything that once was yours,’ said he, in a mere whisper. + +‘Good-bye, Mr. Atlee.’ + +And he was alone! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +AT TEA-TIME + + +The family at Kilgobbin Castle were seated at tea when Dick Kearney’s +telegram arrived. It bore the address, ‘Lord Kilgobbin,’ and ran thus: +‘Walpole wishes to speak with you, and will come down with me on Friday; +his stay cannot be beyond one day.--RICHARD KEARNEY.’ + +‘What can he want with me?’ cried Kearney, as he tossed over the despatch +to his daughter. ‘If he wants to talk over the election, I could tell him +per post that I think it a folly and an absurdity. Indeed, if he is not +coming to propose for either my niece or my daughter, he might spare +himself the journey.’ + +‘Who is to say that such is not his intention, papa?’ said Kate merrily. +‘Old Catty had a dream about a piebald horse and a haystack on fire, and +something about a creel of duck eggs, and I trust that every educated +person knows what _they_ mean.’ + +‘I do not,’ cried Nina boldly. + +‘Marriage, my dear. One is marriage by special license, with a bishop or a +dean to tie the knot; another is a runaway match. I forget what the eggs +signify.’ + +‘An unbroken engagement,’ interposed Donogan gravely, ‘so long as none of +them are smashed.’ + +‘On the whole, then, it is very promising tidings,’ said Kate. + +‘It may be easy to be more promising than the election,’ said the old man. + +‘I’m not flattered, uncle, to hear that I am easier to win than a seat in +Parliament.’ + +‘That does not imply you are not worth a great deal more,’ said Kearney, +with an air of gallantry. ‘I know if I was a young fellow which I’d strive +most for. Eh, Mr. Daniel? I see you agree with me.’ + +Donogan’s face, slightly flushed before, became now crimson as he sipped +his tea in confusion, unable to utter a word. + +‘And so,’ resumed Kearney, ‘he’ll only give us a day to make up our minds! +It’s lucky, girls, that you have the telegram there to tell you what’s +coming.’ + +‘It would have been more piquant, papa, if he had made his message say, “I +propose for Nina. Reply by wire.”’ + +‘Or, “May I marry your daughter?” chimed in Nina quickly. + +‘There it is, now,’ broke in Kearney, laughing, ‘you’re fighting for him +already! Take my word for it, Mr. Daniel, there’s no so sure way to get a +girl for a wife, as to make her believe there’s another only waiting to be +asked. It’s the threat of the opposition coach on the road keeps down the +fares.’ + +‘Papa is all wrong,’ said Kate. ‘There is no such conceivable pleasure as +saying No to a man that another woman is ready to accept. It is about the +most refined sort of self-flattery imaginable.’ + +‘Not to say that men are utterly ignorant of that freemasonry among women +which gives us all an interest in the man who marries one of us,’ said +Nina. ‘It is only your confirmed old bachelor that we all agree in +detesting.’ + +‘’Faith, I give you up altogether. You’re a puzzle clean beyond me,’ said +Kearney, with a sigh. + +‘I think it is Balzac tells us,’ said Donogan, ‘that women and politics are +the only two exciting pursuits in life, for you never can tell where either +of them will lead you.’ + +‘And who is Balzac?’ asked Kearney. + +‘Oh, uncle, don’t let me hear you ask who is the greatest novelist that +ever lived.’ + +‘’Faith, my dear, except _Tristram Shandy_ and _Tom Jones_, and maybe +_Robinson Crusoe_--if that be a novel--my experience goes a short way. When +I am not reading what’s useful--as in the _Farmer’s Chronicle_ or Purcell’s +“Rotation of Crops”--I like the “Accidents” in the newspapers, where they +give you the name of the gentleman that was smashed in the train, and tell +you how his wife was within ten days of her third confinement; how it was +only last week he got a step as a clerk in Somerset House. Haven’t you more +materials for a sensation novel there than any of your three-volume fellows +will give you?’ + +‘The times we are living in give most of us excitement enough,’ said +Donogan. ‘The man who wants to gamble for life itself need not be balked +now.’ + +‘You mean that a man can take a shot at an emperor?’ said Kearney +inquiringly. + +‘No, not that exactly; though there are stakes of that kind some men would +not shrink from. What are called “arms of precision” have had a great +influence on modern politics. When there’s no time for a plebiscite, +there’s always time for a pistol.’ + +‘Bad morality, Mr. Daniel,’ said Kearney gravely. + +‘I suspect we do not fairly measure what Mr. Daniel says,’ broke in Kate. +‘He may mean to indicate a revolution, and not justify it.’ + +‘I mean both!’ said Donogan. ‘I mean that the mere permission to live under +a bad government is too high a price to pay for life at all. I’d rather go +“down into the streets,” as they call it, and have it out, than I’d drudge +on, dogged by policemen, and sent to gaol on suspicion.’ + +‘He is right,’ cried Nina. ‘If I were a man, I’d think as he does.’ + +‘Then I’m very glad you’re not,’ said Kearney; ‘though, for the matter of +rebellion, I believe you would be a more dangerous Fenian as you are. Am I +right, Mr. Daniel?’ + +‘I am disposed to say you are, sir,’ was his mild reply. + +‘Ain’t we important people this evening!’ cried Kearney, as the servant +entered with another telegram. ‘This is for you, Mr. Daniel. I hope we’re +to hear that the Cabinet wants you in Downing Street.’ + +‘I’d rather it did not,’ said he, with a very peculiar smile, which did +not escape Kate’s keen glance across the table, as he said, ‘May I read my +despatch?’ + +‘By all means,’ said Kearney; while, to leave him more undisturbed, he +turned to Nina, with some quizzical remark about her turn for the telegraph +coming next. ‘What news would you wish it should bring you, Nina?’ asked +he. + +‘I scarcely know. I have so many things to wish for, I should be puzzled +which to place first.’ + +‘Should you like to be Queen of Greece?’ asked Kate. + +‘First tell me if there is to be a King, and who is he?’ + +‘Maybe it’s Mr. Daniel there, for I see he has gone off in a great hurry to +say he accepts the crown.’ + +‘What should you ask for, Kate,’ cried Nina, ‘if Fortune were civil enough +to give you a chance?’ + +‘Two days’ rain for my turnips,’ said Kate quickly. ‘I don’t remember +wishing for anything so much in all my life.’ + +‘Your turnips!’ cried Nina contemptuously. + +‘Why not? If you were a queen, would you not have to think of those who +depended on you for support and protection? And how should I forget my poor +heifers and my calves--calves of very tender years some of them--and all +with as great desire to fatten themselves as any of us have to do what will +as probably lead to our destruction?’ + +‘You’re not going to have the rain, anyhow,’ said Kearney; ‘and you’ll not +be sorry, Nina, for you wanted a fine day to finish your sketch of Croghan +Castle.’ + +‘Oh! by the way, has old Bob recovered from his lameness yet, to be fit to +be driven?’ + +‘Ask Kitty there; she can tell you, perhaps.’ + +‘Well, I don’t think I’d harness him yet. The smith has pinched him in the +off fore-foot, and he goes tender still.’ + +‘So do I when I go afoot, for I hate it,’ cried Nina; ‘and I want a day in +the open air, and I want to finish my old Castle of Croghan--and last of +all,’ whispered she in Kate’s ear, ‘I want to show my distinguished friend +Mr. Walpole that the prospect of a visit from him does not induce me to +keep the house. So that, from all the wants put together, I shall take an +early breakfast, and start to-morrow for Cruhan--is not that the name of +the little village in the bog?’ + +‘That’s Miss Betty’s own townland--though I don’t know she’s much the +richer of her tenants,’ said Kearney, laughing. ‘The oldest inhabitants +never remember a rent-day.’ + +‘What a happy set of people!’ + +‘Just the reverse. You never saw misery till you saw them. There is not a +cabin fit for a human being, nor is there one creature in the place with +enough rags to cover him.’ + +‘They were very civil as I drove through. I remember how a little basket +had fallen out, and a girl followed me ten miles of the road to restore +it,’ said Nina. + +‘That they would; and if it were a purse of gold they ‘d have done the +same,’ cried Kate. + +‘Won’t you say that they’d shoot you for half a crown, though?’ said +Kearney, ‘and that the worst “Whiteboys” of Ireland come out of the same +village?’ + +‘I do like a people so unlike all the rest of the world,’ cried Nina; +‘whose motives none can guess at, none forecast. I’ll go there to-morrow.’ + +These words were said as Daniel had just re-entered the room, and he +stopped and asked, ‘Where to?’ + +‘To a Whiteboy village called Cruhan, some ten miles off, close to an old +castle I have been sketching.’ + +‘Do you mean to go there to-morrow?’ asked he, half-carelessly; but not +waiting for her answer, and as if fully preoccupied, he turned and left the +room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +A DRIVE AT SUNRISE + + +The little basket-carriage in which Nina made her excursions, and which +courtesy called a phaeton, would scarcely have been taken as a model at +Long Acre. A massive old wicker-cradle constituted the body, which, from a +slight inequality in the wheels, had got an uncomfortable ‘lurch to port,’ +while the rumble was supplied by a narrow shelf, on which her foot-page +sat _dos à dos_ to herself--a position not rendered more dignified by his +invariable habit of playing pitch-and-toss with himself, as a means of +distraction in travel. + +Except Bob, the sturdy little pony in the shafts, nothing could be less +schooled or disciplined than Larry himself. At sight of a party at marbles +or hopscotch, he was sure to desert his post, trusting to short cuts and +speed to catch up his mistress later on. + +As for Bob, a tuft of clover or fresh grass on the roadside were +temptations to the full as great to him, and no amount of whipping could +induce him to continue his road leaving these dainties untasted. As in Mr. +Gill’s time, he had carried that important personage, he had contracted the +habit of stopping at every cabin by the way, giving to each halt the amount +of time he believed the colloquy should have occupied, and then, without +any admonition, resuming his journey. In fact, as an index to the +refractory tenants on the estate, his mode of progression, with its +interruptions, might have been employed, and the sturdy fashion in which +he would ‘draw up’ at certain doors might be taken as the forerunner of an +ejectment. + +The blessed change by which the county saw the beast now driven by a +beautiful young lady, instead of bestrode by an inimical bailiff, added to +a popularity which Ireland in her poorest and darkest hour always accords +to beauty; and they, indeed, who trace points of resemblance between +two distant peoples, have not failed to remark that the Irish, like the +Italians, invariably refer all female loveliness to that type of surpassing +excellence, the Madonna. + +Nina had too much of the South in her blood not to like the heartfelt, +outspoken admiration which greeted her as she went; and the ‘God bless +you--but you are a lovely crayture!’ delighted, while it amused her in the +way the qualification was expressed. + +It was soon after sunrise on this Friday morning that she drove down the +approach, and made her way across the bog towards Cruhan. Though pretending +to her uncle to be only eager to finish her sketch of Croghan Castle, her +journey was really prompted by very different considerations. By Dick’s +telegram she learned that Walpole was to arrive that day at Kilgobbin, +and as his stay could not be prolonged beyond the evening, she secretly +determined she would absent herself so much as she could from home--only +returning to a late dinner--and thus show her distinguished friend how +cheaply she held the occasion of his visit, and what value she attached to +the pleasure of seeing him at the castle. + +She knew Walpole thoroughly--she understood the working of such a nature to +perfection, and she could calculate to a nicety the mortification, and even +anger, such a man would experience at being thus slighted. ‘These men,’ +thought she, ‘only feel for what is done to them before the world: it is +the insult that is passed upon them in public, the _soufflet_ that is given +in the street, that alone can wound them to the quick.’ A woman may grow +tired of their attentions, become capricious and change, she may be piqued +by jealousy, or, what is worse, by indifference; but, while she makes no +open manifestation of these, they can be borne: the really insupportable +thing is, that a woman should be able to exhibit a man as a creature that +had no possible concern or interest for her--one might come or go, or stay +on, utterly unregarded or uncared for. To have played this game during +the long hours of a long day was a burden she did not fancy to encounter, +whereas to fill the part for the short space of a dinner, and an hour or so +in the drawing-room, she looked forward to rather as an exciting amusement. + +‘He has had a day to throw away,’ said she to herself, ‘and he will give it +to the Greek girl. I almost hear him as he says it. How one learns to know +these men in every nook and crevice of their natures, and how by never +relaxing a hold on the one clue of their vanity, one can trace every +emotion of their lives.’ + +In her old life of Rome these small jealousies, these petty passions of +spite, defiance, and wounded sensibility, filled a considerable space of +her existence. Her position in society, dependent as she was, exposed her +to small mortifications: the cold semi-contemptuous notice of women who saw +she was prettier than themselves, and the half-swaggering carelessness of +the men, who felt that a bit of flirtation with the Titian Girl was as +irresponsible a thing as might be. + +‘But here,’ thought she, ‘I am the niece of a man of recognised station; +I am treated in his family with a more than ordinary deference and +respect--his very daughter would cede the place of honour to me, and +my will is never questioned. It is time to teach this pretentious fine +gentleman that our positions are not what they once were. If I were a man, +I should never cease till I had fastened a quarrel on him; and being a +woman, I could give my love to the man who would avenge me. Avenge me of +what? a mere slight, a mood of impertinent forgetfulness--nothing more--as +if anything could be more to a woman’s heart! A downright wrong can be +forgiven, an absolute injury pardoned--one is raised to self-esteem by such +an act of forgiveness; but there is no elevation in submitting patiently to +a slight. It is simply the confession that the liberty taken with you was +justifiable--was even natural.’ + +These were the sum of her thoughts as she went, ever recurring to the point +how Walpole would feel offended by her absence, and how such a mark of her +indifference would pique his vanity, even to insult. + +Then she pictured to her mind how this fine gentleman would feel the +boredom of that dreary day. True, it would be but a day; but these men were +not tolerant of the people who made time pass heavily with them, and they +revenged their own ennui on all around them. How he would snub the old +man for the son’s pretensions, and sneer at the young man for his +disproportioned ambition; and last of all, how he would mystify poor Kate, +till she never knew whether he cared to fatten calves and turkeys, or was +simply drawing her on to little details, which he was to dramatise one day +in an after-dinner story. + +She thought of the closed pianoforte, and her music on the top--the songs +he loved best; she had actually left Mendelssohn there to be seen--a very +bait to awaken his passion. She thought she actually saw the fretful +impatience with which he threw the music aside and walked to the window to +hide his anger. + +‘This excursion of Mademoiselle Nina was then a sudden thought, you tell +me; only planned last night? And is the country considered safe enough for +a young lady to go off in this fashion. Is it secure--is it decent? I know +he will ask, “Is it decent?” Kate will not feel--she will not see the +impertinence with which he will assure her that she herself may be +privileged to do these things; that her “Irishry” was itself a safeguard, +but Dick will notice the sneer. Oh, if he would but resent it! How little +hope there is of that. These young Irishmen get so overlaid by the English +in early life, they never resist their dominance: they accept everything in +a sort of natural submission. I wonder does the rebel sentiment make them +any bolder?’ And then she bethought her of some of those national songs Mr. +Daniel had been teaching her, and which seemed to have such an overwhelming +influence over his passionate nature. She had even seen the tears in his +eyes, and twice he could not speak to her with emotion. What a triumph it +would have been to have made the high-bred Mr. Walpole feel in this wise. +Possibly at the moment, the vulgar Fenian seemed the finer fellow. Scarcely +had the thought struck her, than there, about fifty yards in advance, and +walking at a tremendous pace, was the very man himself. + +‘Is not that Mr. Daniel, Larry?’ asked she quickly. + +But Larry had already struck off on a short cut across the bog, and was +miles away. + +Yes, it could be none other than Mr. Daniel. The coat thrown back, the +loose-stepping stride, and the occasional flourish of the stick as he went, +all proclaimed the man. The noise of the wheels on the hard road made him +turn his head; and now, seeing who it was, he stood uncovered till she +drove up beside him. + +‘Who would have thought to see you here at this hour?’ said he, saluting +her with deep respect. + +‘No one is more surprised at it than myself,’ said she, laughing; ‘but I +have a partly-done sketch of an old castle, and I thought in this fine +autumn weather I should like to throw in the colour. And besides, there are +now and then with me unsocial moments when I fancy I like to be alone. Do +you know what these are?’ + +‘Do I know?--too well.’ + +‘These motives then, not to think of others, led me to plan this excursion; +and now will you be as candid, and say what is _your_ project?’ + +‘I am bound for a little village called Cruhan: a very poor, unenticing +spot; but I want to see the people there, and hear what they say of these +rumours of new laws about the land.’ + +‘And can _they_ tell you anything that would be likely to interest _you_?’ + +‘Yes, their very mistakes would convey their hopes; and hopes have come to +mean a great deal in Ireland.’ + +‘Our roads are then the same. I am on my way to Croghan Castle.’ + +‘Croghan is but a mile from my village of Cruhan,’ said he. + +‘I am aware of that, and it was in your village of Cruhan, as you call it, +I meant to stable my pony till I had finished my sketch; but my gentle +page, Larry, I see, has deserted me; I don’t know if I shall find him +again.’ + +‘Will you let me be your groom? I shall be at the village almost as soon as +yourself, and I’ll look after your pony.’ + +‘Do you think you could manage to seat yourself on that shelf at the back?’ + +‘It is a great temptation you offer me, if I were not ashamed to be a +burden.’ + +‘Not to me, certainly; and as for the pony, I scarcely think he’ll mind +it.’ + +‘At all events, I shall walk the hills.’ + +‘I believe there are none. If I remember aright, it is all through a level +bog.’ + +‘You were at tea last night when a certain telegram came?’ + +‘To be sure I was. I was there, too, when one came for you, and saw you +leave the room immediately after.’ + +‘In evident confusion?’ added he, smiling. + +‘Yes, I should say, in evident confusion. At least, you looked like one who +had got some very unexpected tidings.’ + +‘So it was. There is the message.’ And he drew from his pocket a slip of +paper, with the words,’ Walpole is coming for a day. Take care to be out of +the way till he is gone.’ + +‘Which means that he is no friend of yours.’ + +‘He is neither friend nor enemy. I never saw him; but he is the private +secretary, and, I believe, the nephew of the Viceroy, and would find it +very strange company to be domiciled with a rebel.’ + +‘And you are a rebel?’ + +‘At your service, Mademoiselle Kostalergi.’ + +‘And a Fenian, and head-centre?’ + +‘A Fenian and a head-centre.’ + +‘And probably ought to be in prison?’ + +‘I have been already, and as far as the sentence of English law goes, +should be still there.’ + +‘How delighted I am to know that. I mean, what a thrilling sensation it is +to be driving along with a man so dangerous, that the whole country would +be up and in pursuit of him at a mere word.’ + +‘That is true. I believe I should be worth a few hundred pounds to any one +who would capture me. I suspect it is the only way I could turn to valuable +account.’ + +‘What if I were to drive you into Moate and give you up?’ + +‘You might. I’ll not run away.’ + +‘I should go straight to the Podestà, or whatever he is, and say, “Here is +the notorious Daniel Donogan, the rebel you are all afraid of.’” + +‘How came you by my name?’ asked he curtly. + +‘By accident. I overheard Dick telling it to his sister. It dropped from +him unawares, and I was on the terrace and caught the words.’ + +‘I am in your hands completely,’ said he, in the same calm voice; ‘but I +repeat my words: I’ll not run away.’ + +‘That is, because you trust to my honour.’ + +‘It is exactly so--because I trust to your honour.’ + +‘But how if I were to have strong convictions in opposition to all you were +doing--how if I were to believe that all you intended was a gross wrong and +a fearful cruelty?’ + +‘Still you would not betray me. You would say, “This man is an +enthusiast--he imagines scores of impossible things--but, at least, he is +not a self-seeker--a fool possibly, but not a knave. It would be hard to +hang him.”’ + +‘So it would. I have just thought _that_.’ + +‘And then you might reason thus: “How will it serve the other cause to send +one poor wretch to the scaffold, where there are so many just as deserving +of it?”’ + +‘And are there many?’ + +‘I should say close on two millions at home here, and some hundred thousand +in America.’ + +‘And if you be as strong as you say, what craven creatures you must be not +to assert your own convictions.’ + +‘So we are--I’ll not deny it--craven creatures; but remember this, +mademoiselle, we are not all like-minded. Some of us would be satisfied +with small concessions, some ask for more, some demand all; and as the +Government higgles with some, and hangs the others, they mystify us all, +and end by confounding us.’ + +‘That is to say, you are terrified.’ + +‘Well, if you like that word better, I’ll not quarrel about it.’ + +‘I wonder how men as irresolute ever turn to rebellion. When our people set +out for Crete, they went in another spirit to meet the enemy.’ + +‘Don’t be too sure of that. The boldest fellows in that exploit were the +liberated felons: they fought with desperation, for they had left the +hangman behind.’ + +‘How dare you defame a great people!’ cried she angrily. + +‘I was with them, mademoiselle. I saw them and fought amongst them; and to +prove it, I will speak modern Greek with you, if you like it.’ + +‘Oh! do,’ said she. ‘Let me hear those noble sounds again, though I shall +be sadly at a loss to answer you. I have been years and years away from +Athens.’ + +‘I know that. I know your story from one who loved to talk of you, all +unworthy as he was of such a theme.’ + +‘And who was this?’ + +‘Atlee--Joe Atlee, whom you saw here some months ago.’ + +‘I remember him,’ said she thoughtfully. + +‘He was here, if I mistake not, with that other friend of yours you have so +strangely escaped from to-day.’ + +‘Mr. Walpole?’ + +‘Yes, Mr. Walpole; to meet whom would not have involved _you_, at least, in +any contrariety.’ + +‘Is this a question, sir? Am I to suppose your curiosity asks an answer +here?’ + +‘I am not so bold; but I own my suspicions have mastered my discretion, +and, seeing you here this morning, I did think you did not care to meet +him.’ + +‘Well, sir, you were right. I am not sure that _my_ reasons for avoiding +him were exactly as strong as _yours_, but they sufficed for _me_.’ + +There was something so like reproof in the way these words were uttered +that Donogan had not courage to speak for some time after. At last he said, +‘In one thing, your Greeks have an immense advantage over us here. In your +popular songs you could employ your own language, and deal with your own +wrongs in the accents that became them. _We_ had to take the tongue of the +conqueror, which was as little suited to our traditions as to our feelings, +and travestied both. Only fancy the Greek vaunting his triumphs or +bewailing his defeats in Turkish!’ + +‘What do you know of Mr. Walpole?’ asked she abruptly. + +‘Very little beyond the fact that he is an agent of the Government, who +believes that he understands the Irish people.’ + +‘Which you are disposed to doubt?’ + +‘I only know that I am an Irishman, and I do not understand them. An organ, +however, is not less an organ that it has many “stops.”’ + +‘I am not sure Cecil Walpole does not read you aright. He thinks that you +have a love of intrigue and plot, but without the conspirator element that +Southern people possess; and that your native courage grows impatient at +the delays of mere knavery, and always betrays you.’ + +‘That distinction was never _his_--that was your own.’ + +‘So it was; but he adopted it when he heard it.’ + +‘That is the way the rising politician is educated,’ cried Donogan. ‘It is +out of these petty thefts he makes all his capital, and the poor people +never suspect how small a creature can be their millionaire.’ + +‘Is not that our village yonder, where I see the smoke?’ + +‘Yes; and there on the stile sits your little groom awaiting you. I shall +get down here.’ + +‘Stay where you are, sir. It is by your blunder, not by your presence, that +you might compromise me.’ And this time her voice caught a tone of sharp +severity that suppressed reply. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +THE EXCURSION + + +The little village of Cruhan-bawn, into which they now drove, was, in every +detail of wretchedness, dirt, ruin, and desolation, intensely Irish. A +small branch of the well-known bog-stream, the ‘Brusna,’ divided one +part of the village from the other, and between these two settlements so +separated there raged a most rancorous hatred and jealousy, and Cruhan-beg, +as the smaller collection of hovels was called, detested Cruhan-bawn with +an intensity of dislike that might have sufficed for a national antipathy, +where race, language, and traditions had contributed their aids to the +animosity. + +There was, however, one real and valid reason for this inveterate jealousy. +The inhabitants of Cruhan-beg--who lived, as they said themselves, ‘beyond +the river’--strenuously refused to pay any rent for their hovels; while +‘the cis-Brusnaites,’ as they may be termed, demeaned themselves to the +condition of tenants in so far as to acknowledge the obligation of rent, +though the oldest inhabitant vowed he had never seen a receipt in his life, +nor had the very least conception of a gale-day. + +If, therefore, actually, there was not much to separate them on the score +of principle, they were widely apart in theory, and the sturdy denizens of +the smaller village looked down upon the others as the ignoble slaves of a +Saxon tyranny. The village in its entirety--for the division was a purely +local and arbitrary one--belonged to Miss Betty O’Shea, forming the extreme +edge of her estate as it merged into the vast bog; and, with the habitual +fate of frontier populations, it contained more people of lawless lives and +reckless habits than were to be found for miles around. There was not a +resource of her ingenuity she had not employed for years back to bring +these refractory subjects into the pale of a respectable tenantry. Every +process of the law had been essayed in turn. They had been hunted down by +the police, unroofed, and turned into the wide bog; their chattels had been +‘canted,’ and themselves--a last resource--cursed from the altar; but with +that strange tenacity that pertains to life where there is little to live +for, these creatures survived all modes of persecution, and came back into +their ruined hovels to defy the law and beard the Church, and went on +living--in some strange, mysterious way of their own--an open challenge to +all political economy, and a sore puzzle to the _Times_ commissioner when +he came to report on the condition of the cottier in Ireland. + +At certain seasons of county excitement--such as an election or an +unusually weighty assizes--it was not deemed perfectly safe to visit the +village, and even the police would not have adventured on the step except +with a responsible force. At other periods, the most marked feature of the +place would be that of utter vacuity and desolation. A single inhabitant +here and there smoking listlessly at his door--a group of women, with their +arms concealed beneath their aprons, crouching under a ruined wall--or a +few ragged children, too miserable and dispirited even for play, would be +all that would be seen. + +At a spot where the stream was fordable for a horse, the page Larry had +already stationed himself, and now walked into the river, which rose over +his knees, to show the road to his mistress. + +‘The bailiffs is on them to-day,’ said he, with a gleeful look in his +eye; for any excitement, no matter at what cost to others, was intensely +pleasurable to him. + +‘What is he saying?’ asked Nina. + +‘They are executing some process of law against these people,’ muttered +Donogan. ‘It’s an old story in Ireland; but I had as soon you had been +spared the sight.’ + +‘Is it quite safe for yourself?’ whispered she. ‘Is there not some danger +in being seen here?’ + +‘Oh, if I could but think that you cared--I mean ever so slightly,’ cried +he, with fervour, ‘I’d call this moment of my danger the proudest of my +life!’ + +Though declarations of this sort--more or less sincere as chance might make +them--were things Nina was well used to, she could not help marking the +impassioned manner of him who now spoke, and bent her eyes steadily on him. + +‘It is true,’ said he, as if answering the interrogation in her gaze. ‘A +poor outcast as I am--a rebel--a felon--anything you like to call me--the +slightest show of your interest in me gives my life a value, and my hope a +purpose I never knew till now.’ + +‘Such interest would be but ill-bestowed if it only served to heighten your +danger. Are you known here?’ + +‘He who has stood in the dock, as I have, is sure to be known by some one. +Not that the people would betray me. There is poverty and misery enough in +that wretched village, and yet there’s not one so hungry or so ragged that +he would hand me over to the law to make himself rich for life.’ + +‘Then what do you mean to do?’ asked she hurriedly. + +‘Walk boldly through the village at the head of your pony, as I am +now--your guide to Croghan Castle.’ + +‘But we were to have stabled the beast here. I intended to have gone on +foot to Croghan.’ + +‘Which you cannot now. Do you know what English law is, lady?’ cried he +fiercely. ‘This pony and this carriage, if they had shelter here, are +confiscated to the landlord for his rent. It’s little use to say _you_ owe +nothing to this owner of the soil; it’s enough that they are found amongst +the chattels of his debtors.’ + +‘I cannot believe this is law.’ + +‘You can prove it--at the loss of your pony; and it is mercy and generous +dealing when compared with half the enactments our rulers have devised for +us. Follow me. I see the police have not yet come down. I will go on in +front and ask the way to Croghan.’ + +There was that sort of peril in the adventure now that stimulated Nina and +excited her; and as they stoutly wended their way through the crowd, she +was far from insensible to the looks of admiration that were bent on her +from every side. + +‘What are they saying?’ asked she; ‘I do not know their language.’ + +‘It is Irish,’ said he; ‘they are talking of your beauty.’ + +‘I should so like to follow their words,’ said she, with the smile of one +to whom such homage had ever its charm. + +‘That wild-looking fellow, that seemed to utter an imprecation, has just +pronounced a fervent blessing; what he has said was, “May every glance of +your eye be a candle to light you to glory.”’ + +A half-insolent laugh at this conceit was all Nina’s acknowledgment of it. +Short greetings and good wishes were now rapidly exchanged between Donogan +and the people, as the little party made their way through the crowd--the +men standing bareheaded, and the women uttering words of admiration, some +even crossing themselves piously, at sight of such loveliness, as, to them, +recalled the ideal of all beauty. + +‘The police are to be here at one o’clock,’ said Donogan, translating a +phrase of one of the bystanders. + +‘And is there anything for them to seize on?’ asked she. + +‘No; but they can level the cabins,’ cried he bitterly. ‘We have no more +right to shelter than to food.’ + +Moody and sad, he walked along at the pony’s head, and did not speak +another word till they had left the village far behind them. + +Larry, as usual, had found something to interest him, and dropped behind in +the village, and they were alone. + +A passing countryman, to whom Donogan addressed a few words in Irish, told +them that a short distance from Croghan they could stable the pony at a +small ‘shebeen.’ + +On reaching this, Nina, who seemed to have accepted Donogan’s companionship +without further question, directed him to unpack the carriage and take +out her easel and her drawing materials. ‘You’ll have to carry +these--fortunately not very far, though,’ said she, smiling, ‘and then +you’ll have to come back here and fetch this basket.’ + +‘It is a very proud slavery--command me how you will,’ muttered he, not +without emotion. + +‘That,’ continued she, pointing to the basket, ‘contains my breakfast, and +luncheon or dinner, and I invite you to be my guest.’ + +‘And I accept with rapture. Oh!’ cried he passionately, ‘what whispered to +my heart this morning that this would be the happiest day of my life!’ + +‘If so, Fate has scarcely been generous to you.’ And her lip curled half +superciliously as she spoke. + +‘I’d not say that. I have lived amidst great hopes, many of them dashed, +it is true, by disappointment; but who that has been cheered by glorious +daydreams has not tasted moments at least of exquisite bliss?’ + +‘I don’t know that I have much sympathy with political ambitions,’ said she +pettishly. + +‘Have you tasted--have you tried them? Do you know what it is to feel the +heart of a nation throb and beat?--to know that all that love can do to +purify and elevate, can be exercised for the countless thousands of one’s +own race and lineage, and to think that long after men have forgotten your +name, some heritage of freedom will survive to say that there once lived +one who loved his country.’ + +‘This is very pretty enthusiasm.’ + +‘Oh, how is it that you, who can stimulate one’s heart to such confessions, +know nothing of the sentiment?’ + +‘I have my ambitions,’ said she coldly, almost sternly. + +‘Let me hear some of them.’ + +‘They are not like yours, though they are perhaps just as impossible.’ She +spoke in a broken, unconnected manner, like one who was talking aloud the +thoughts that came laggingly; then with a sudden earnestness she said, +‘I’ll tell you one of them. It’s to catch the broad bold light that has +just beat on the old castle there, and brought out all its rich tints of +greys and yellows in such a glorious wealth of colour. Place my easel here, +under the trees; spread that rug for yourself to lie on. No--you won’t have +it? Well, fold it neatly, and place it there for my feet: very nicely +done. And now, Signer Ribello, you may unpack that basket, and arrange our +breakfast, and when you have done all these, throw yourself down on the +grass, and either tell me a pretty story, or recite some nice verses for +me, or be otherwise amusing and agreeable.’ + +‘Shall I do what will best please myself? If so, it will be to lie here and +look at you.’ + +‘Be it so,’ said she, with a sigh. ‘I have always thought, in looking +at them, how saints are bored by being worshipped--it adds fearfully to +martyrdom, but happily I am used to it. “Oh, the vanity of that girl!” Yes, +sir, say it out: tell her frankly that if she has no friend to caution her +against this besetting wile, that you will be that friend. Tell her +that whatever she has of attraction is spoiled and marred by this +self-consciousness, and that just as you are a rebel without knowing it, so +should she be charming and never suspect it. Is not that coming nicely,’ +said she, pointing to the drawing; ‘see how that tender light is carried +down from those grey walls to the banks beneath, and dies away in that +little pool, where the faintest breath of air is rustling. Don’t look at +me, sir, look at my drawing.’ + +‘True, there is no tender light there,’ muttered he, gazing at her eyes, +where the enormous size of the pupils had given a character of steadfast +brilliancy, quite independent of shape, or size, or colour. + +‘You know very little about it,’ said she saucily; then, bending over the +drawing, she said, ‘That middle distance wants a bit of colour: you shall +aid me here.’ + +‘How am I to aid you?’ asked he, in sheer simplicity. + +‘I mean that you should be that bit of colour. There, take my scarlet +cloak, and perch yourself yonder on that low rock. A few minutes will do. +Was there ever immortality so cheaply purchased! Your biographer shall tell +that you were the figure in that famous sketch--what will be called in the +cant of art, one of Nina Kostalergi’s earliest and happiest efforts. There, +now, dear Mr. Donogan, do as you are bid.’ + +‘Do you know the Greek ballad, where a youth remembers that the word “dear” + has been coupled with his name--a passing courtesy, if even so much, but +enough to light up a whole chamber in his heart?’ + +‘I know nothing of Greek ballads. How does it go?’ + +‘It is a simple melody, in a low key.’ And he sang, in a deep but tremulous +voice, to a very plaintive air-- + + ‘I took her hand within my own, + I drew her gently nearer, + And whispered almost on her cheek, + “Oh, would that I were dearer.” + Dearer! No, that’s not my prayer: + A stranger, e’en the merest, + Might chance to have some value there; + But I would be the dearest.’ + +[Illustration: ‘True, there is no tender light there,’ muttered he, gazing +at her eyes] + +‘What had he done to merit such a hope?’ said she haughtily. + +‘Loved her--only loved her!’ + +‘What value you men must attach to this gift of your affection, when it can +nourish such thoughts as these! Your very wilfulness is to win us--is not +that your theory? I expect from the man who offers me his heart that he +means to share with me his own power and his own ambition--to make me the +partner of a station that is to give me some pre-eminence I had not known +before, nor could gain unaided.’ + +‘And you would call that marrying for love?’ + +‘Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he who makes the life worth +living for? Did you hear that shout?’ + +‘I heard it,’ said he, standing still to listen. + +‘It came from the village. What can it mean?’ + +‘It’s the old war-cry of the houseless,’ said he mournfully. ‘It’s a note +we are well used to here. I must go down to learn. I’ll be back presently.’ + +‘You are not going into danger?’ said she; and her cheek grew paler as she +spoke. + +‘And if I were, who is to care for it?’ + +‘Have you no mother, sister, sweetheart?’ + +‘No, not one of the three. Good-bye.’ + +‘But if I were to say--stay?’ + +‘I should still go. To have your love, I’d sacrifice even my honour. +Without it--’ he threw up his arms despairingly and rushed away. + +‘These are the men whose tempers compromise us,’ said she thoughtfully. ‘We +come to accept their violence as a reason, and take mere impetuosity for an +argument. I am glad that he did not shake my resolution. There, that was +another shout, but it seemed in joy. There was a ring of gladness in it. +Now for my sketch.’ And she reseated herself before her easel. ‘He shall +see when he comes back how diligently I have worked, and how small a share +anxiety has had in my thoughts. The one thing men are not proof against is +our independence of them.’ And thus talking in broken sentences to herself, +she went on rapidly with her drawing, occasionally stopping to gaze on it, +and humming some old Italian ballad to herself. ‘His Greek air was pretty. +Not that it was Greek; these fragments of melody were left behind them +by the Venetians, who, in all lust of power, made songs about contented +poverty and humble joys. I feel intensely hungry, and if my dangerous guest +does not return soon, I shall have to breakfast alone--another way of +showing him how little his fate has interested me. My foreground here does +want that bit of colour. Why does he not come back?’ As she rose to look +at her drawing, the sound of somebody running attracted her attention, and +turning, she saw it was her foot-page Larry coming at full speed. + +‘What is it, Larry? What has happened?’ asked she. + +‘You are to go--as fast as you can,’ said he; which being for him a longer +speech than usual, seemed to have exhausted him. + +‘Go where? and why?’ + +‘Yes,’ said he, with a stolid look, ‘you are.’ + +‘I am to do what? Speak out, boy! Who sent you here?’ + +‘Yes,’ said he again. + +‘Are they in trouble yonder? Is there fighting at the village?’ + +‘No.’ And he shook his head, as though he said so regretfully. + +‘Will you tell me what you mean, boy?’ + +‘The pony is ready?’ said he, as he stooped down to pack away the things in +the basket. + +‘Is that gentleman coming back here--that gentleman whom you saw with me?’ + +‘He is gone; he got away.’ And here he laughed in a malicious way, that was +more puzzling even than his words. + +‘And am I to go back home at once?’ + +‘Yes,’ replied he resolutely. + +‘Do you know why--for what reason?’ + +‘I do.’ + +‘Come, like a good boy, tell me, and you shall have this.’ And she drew a +piece of silver from her purse, and held it temptingly before him. ‘Why +should I go back, now?’ + +‘Because,’ muttered he, ‘because--’ and it was plain, from the glance in +his eyes, that the bribe had engaged all his faculties. + +‘So, then, you will not tell me?’ said she, replacing the money in her +purse. + +‘Yes,’ said he, in a despondent tone. + +‘You can have it still, Larry, if you will but say who sent you here.’ + +‘_He_ sent me,’ was the answer. + +‘Who was he? Do you mean the gentleman who came here with me?’ A nod +assented to this. ‘And what did he tell you to say to me?’ + +‘Yes,’ said he, with a puzzled look, as though once more the confusion of +his thoughts was mastering him. + +‘So, then, it is that you will not tell me?’ said she angrily. He made no +answer, but went on packing the plates in the basket. ‘Leave those there, +and go and fetch me some water from the spring yonder.’ And she gave him a +jug as she spoke, and now she reseated herself on the grass. He obeyed at +once, and returned speedily with water. + +‘Come now, Larry,’ said she kindly to him. ‘I’m sure you mean to be a good +boy. You shall breakfast with me. Get me a cup, and I’ll give you some +milk; here is bread and cold meat.’ + +‘Yes,’ muttered Larry, whose mouth was already too much engaged for speech. + +‘You will tell me by-and-by what they were doing at the village, and what +that shouting meant--won’t you?’ + +‘Yes,’ said he, with a nod. Then suddenly bending his head to listen, he +motioned with his hand to keep silence, and after a long breath said, +‘They’re coming.’ + +‘Who are coming?’ asked she eagerly; but at the same instant a man emerged +from the copse below the hill, followed by several others, whom she saw by +their dress and equipment to belong to the constabulary. + +Approaching with his hat in his hand, and with that air of servile civility +which marked him, old Gill addressed her. ‘If it’s not displazin’ to ye, +miss, we want to ax you a few questions,’ said he. + +‘You have no right, sir, to make any such request,’ said she, with a +haughty air. + +‘There was a man with you, my lady,’ he went on, ‘as you drove through +Cruhan, and we want to know where he is now.’ + +‘That concerns you, sir, and not me.’ + +‘Maybe it does, my lady,’ said he, with a grin; ‘but I suppose you know who +you were travelling with?’ + +‘You evidently don’t remember, sir, whom you are talking to.’ + +‘The law is the law, miss, and there’s none of us above it,’ said he, half +defiantly; ‘and when there’s some hundred pounds on a man’s head, there’s +few of us such fools as to let him slip through our fingers.’ + +‘I don’t understand you, sir, nor do I care to do so.’ + +‘The sergeant there has a warrant against him,’ said he, in a whisper +he intended to be confidential; ‘and it’s not to do anything that your +ladyship would think rude that I came up myself. There’s how it is now,’ +muttered he, still lower. ‘They want to search the luggage, and examine +the baskets there, and maybe, if you don’t object, they’d look through the +carriage.’ + +‘And if I should object to this insult?’ broke she in. + +‘Faix, I believe,’ said he, laughing, ‘they’d do it all the same. Eight +hundred--I think it’s eight--isn’t to be made any day of the year!’ + +‘My uncle is a justice of the peace, Mr. Gill; and you know if he will +suffer such an outrage to go unpunished.’ + +‘There’s the more reason that a justice shouldn’t harbour a Fenian, miss,’ +said he boldly; ‘as he’ll know when he sees the search-warrant.’ + +‘Get ready the carriage, Larry,’ said she, turning contemptuously away, +‘and follow me towards the village.’ + +‘The sergeant, miss, would like to say a word or two,’ said Gill, in his +accustomed voice of servility. + +‘I will not speak with him,’ said she proudly, and swept past him. + +The constables stood to one side, and saluted in military fashion as she +passed down the hill. There was that in her queenlike gesture and carriage +that so impressed them, the men stood as though on parade. + +Slowly and thoughtfully as she sauntered along, her thoughts turned to +Donogan. Had he escaped? was the idea that never left her. The presence of +these men here seemed to favour that impression; but there might be others +on his track, and if so, how in that wild bleak space was he to conceal +himself? A single man moving miles away on the bog could be seen. There was +no covert, no shelter anywhere! What an interest did his fate now suggest, +and yet a moment back she believed herself indifferent to him. ‘Was he +aware of his danger,’ thought she,’ when he lay there talking carelessly to +me? was that recklessness the bravery of a bold man who despised peril?’ +And if so, what stuff these souls were made of! These were not of the +Kearney stamp, that needed to be stimulated and goaded to any effort in +life; nor like Atlee, the fellow who relied on trick and knavery for +success; still less such as Walpole, self-worshippers and triflers. ‘Yes,’ +said she aloud,’ a woman might feel that with such a man at her side the +battle of life need not affright her. He might venture too far--he might +aspire to much that was beyond his reach, and strive for the impossible; +but that grand bold spirit would sustain him, and carry him through all the +smaller storms of life: and such a man might be a hero, even to her who saw +him daily. These are the dreamers, as we call them,’ said she. ‘How strange +it would be if _they_ should prove the realists, and that it was _we_ +should be the mere shadows! If these be the men who move empires and make +history, how doubly ignoble are we in our contempt of them.’ And then she +bethought her what a different faculty was that great faith that these men +had in themselves from common vanity; and in this way she was led again to +compare Donogan and Walpole. + +She reached the village before her little carriage had overtaken her, and +saw that the people stood about in groups and knots. A depressing silence +prevailed over them, and they rarely spoke above a whisper. The same +respectful greeting, however, which welcomed her before, met her again; and +as they lifted their hats, she saw, or thought she saw, that they looked on +her with a more tender interest. Several policemen moved about through the +crowd, who, though they saluted her respectfully, could not refrain from +scrutinising her appearance and watching her as she went. With that air +of haughty self-possession which well became her--for it was no +affectation--she swept proudly along, resolutely determined not to utter a +word, or even risk a question as to the way. + +Twice she turned to see if her pony were coming, and then resumed her road. +From the excited air and rapid gestures of the police, as they hurried +from place to place, she could guess that up to this Donogan had not been +captured. Still, it seemed hopeless that concealment in such a place could +be accomplished. + +As she gained the little stream that divided the village, she stood for a +moment uncertain, when a countrywoman, as it were divining her difficulty, +said, ‘If you’ll cross over the bridge, my lady, the path will bring you +out on the highroad.’ + +As Nina turned to thank her, the woman looked up from her task of washing +in the river, and made a gesture with her hand towards the bog. Slight as +the action was, it appealed to that Southern intelligence that reads a sign +even faster than a word. Nina saw that the woman meant to say Donogan had +escaped, and once more she said, ‘Thank you--from my heart I thank you!’ + +Just as she emerged upon the highroad, her pony and carriage came up. A +sergeant of police was, however, in waiting beside it, who, saluting her +respectfully, said, ‘There was no disrespect meant to you, miss, by our +search of the carriage--our duty obliged us to do it. We have a warrant to +apprehend the man that was seen with you this morning, and it’s only that +we know who you are, and where you come from, prevents us from asking you +to come before our chief.’ + +He presented his arm to assist her to her place as he spoke; but she +declined the help, and, without even noticing him in any way, arranged +her rugs and wraps around her, took the reins, and motioning Larry to his +place, drove on. + +‘Is my drawing safe?--have all my brushes and pencils been put in?’ asked +she, after a while. But already Larry had taken his leave, and she could +see him as he flitted across the bog to catch her by some short cut. + +That strange contradiction by which a woman can journey alone and in safety +through the midst of a country only short of open insurrection, filled her +mind as she went, and thinking of it in every shape and fashion occupied +her for miles of the way. The desolation, far as the eye could reach, was +complete--there was not a habitation, not a human thing to be seen. The +dark-brown desert faded away in the distance into low-lying clouds, the +only break to the dull uniformity being some stray ‘clamp,’ as it is +called, of turf, left by the owners from some accident of season or bad +weather, and which loomed out now against the sky like a vast fortress. + +This long, long day--for so without any weariness she felt it--was now in +the afternoon, and already long shadows of these turf-mounds stretched +their giant limbs across the waste. Nina, who had eaten nothing since early +morning, felt faint and hungry. She halted her pony, and taking out some +bread and a bottle of milk, proceeded to make a frugal luncheon. The +complete loneliness, the perfect silence, in which even the rattling of +the harness as the pony shook himself made itself felt, gave something +of solemnity to the moment, as the young girl sat there and gazed half +terrified around her. + +As she looked, she thought she saw something pass from one turf-clamp to +the other, and, watching closely, she could distinctly detect a figure +crouching near the ground, and, after some minutes, emerging into the open +space, again to be hidden by some vast turf-mound. There, now--there could +not be a doubt--it was a man, and he was waving his handkerchief as a +signal. It was Donogan himself--she could recognise him well. Clearing the +long drains at a bound, and with a speed that vouched for perfect training, +he came rapidly forward, and, leaping the wide trench, alighted at last on +the road beside her. + +‘I have watched you for an hour, and but for this lucky halt, I should not +have overtaken you after all,’ cried he, as he wiped his brow and stood +panting beside her. + +‘Do you know that they are in pursuit of you?’ cried she hastily. + +‘I know it all. I learned it before I reached the village, and in +time--only in time--to make a circuit and reach the bog. Once there, I defy +the best of them.’ + +‘They have what they call a warrant to search for you.’ + +‘I know that too,’ cried he. ‘No, no!’ said he passionately, as she offered +him a drink, ‘let me have it from the cup you have drank from. It may be +the last favour I shall ever ask you--don’t refuse me this!’ + +She touched the glass slightly with her lips, and handed it to him with a +smile. + +‘What peril would I not brave for this!’ cried he, with a wild ecstasy. + +‘Can you not venture to return with me?’ said she, in some confusion, for +the bold gleam of his gaze now half abashed her. + +‘No. That would be to compromise others as well as myself. I must gain +Dublin how I can. There I shall be safe against all pursuit. I have come +back for nothing but disappointment,’ added he sorrowfully. ‘This country +is not ready to rise--they are too many-minded for a common effort. The men +like Wolfe Tone are not to be found amongst us now, and to win freedom you +must dare the felony.’ + +‘Is it not dangerous to delay so long here?’ asked she, looking around her +with anxiety. + +‘So it is--and I will go. Will you keep this for me?’ said he, placing a +thick and much-worn pocket-book in her hands. ‘There are papers there would +risk far better heads than mine; and if I should be taken, these must not +be discovered. It may be, Nina--oh, forgive me if I say your name! but it +is such joy to me to utter it once--it may be that you should chance to +hear some word whose warning might save me. If so, and if you would deign +to write to me, you’ll find three, if not four, addresses, under any of +which you could safely write to me.’ + +‘I shall not forget. Good fortune be with you. Adieu!’ + +She held out her hand; but he bent over it, and kissed it rapturously; and +when he raised his head, his eyes were streaming, and his cheeks deadly +pale. ‘Adieu!’ said she again. + +He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips; and when, after she had +driven some distance away, she turned to look after him, he was standing on +the same spot in the road, his hat at his foot, where it had fallen when he +stooped to kiss her hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +THE RETURN + + +Kate Kearney was in the act of sending out scouts and messengers to look +out for Nina, whose long absence had begun to alarm her, when she heard +that she had returned and was in her room. + +‘What a fright you have given me, darling!’ said Kate, as she threw her +arms about her, and kissed her affectionately. ‘Do you know how late you +are?’ + +‘No; I only know how tired I am.’ + +‘What a long day of fatigue you must have gone through. Tell me of it all.’ + +‘Tell me rather of yours. You have had the great Mr. Walpole here: is it +not so?’ + +‘Yes; he is still here--he has graciously given us another day, and will +not leave till to-morrow night.’ + +‘By what good fortune have you been so favoured as this?’ + +‘Ostensibly to finish a long conversation or conference with papa, but +really and truthfully, I suspect, to meet Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whose +absence has piqued him.’ + +‘Yes, piqued is the word. It is the extreme of the pain he is capable of +feeling. What has he said of it?’ + +‘Nothing beyond the polite regrets that courtesy could express, and then +adverted to something else.’ + +‘With an abruptness that betrayed preparation?’ + +‘Perhaps so.’ + +‘Not perhaps, but certainly so. Vanity such as his has no variety. It +repeats its moods over and over; but why do we talk of him? I have other +things to tell you of. You know that man who came here with Dick. That Mr. +----’ + +‘I know--I know,’ cried the other hurriedly, ‘what of him?’ + +‘He joined me this morning, on my way through the bog, and drove with me to +Cruhan.’ + +‘Indeed!’ muttered Kate thoughtfully. + +‘A strange, wayward, impulsive sort of creature--unlike any +one--interesting from his strong convictions--’ + +‘Did he convert you to any of his opinions, Nina?’ + +‘You mean, make a rebel of me. No; for the simple reason that I had none to +surrender. I do not know what is wrong here, nor what people would say was +right.’ + +‘You are aware, then, who he is?’ + +‘Of course I am. I was on the terrace that night when your brother told you +he was Donogan--the famous Fenian Donogan. The secret was not intended for +me, but I kept it all the same, and I took an interest in the man from the +time I heard it.’ + +‘You told him, then, that you knew who he was.’ + +‘To be sure I did, and we are fast friends already; but let me go on +with my narrative. Some excitement, some show of disturbance at Cruhan, +persuaded him that what he called--I don’t know why--the Crowbar Brigade +was at work and that the people were about to be turned adrift on the world +by the landlord, and hearing a wild shout from the village, he insisted on +going back to learn what it might mean. He had not left me long, when your +late steward, Gill, came up with several policemen, to search for the +convict Donogan. They had a warrant to apprehend him, and some information +as to where he had been housed and sheltered.’ + +‘Here--with us?’ + +‘Here--with you! Gill knew it all. This, then, was the reason for that +excitement we had seen in the village--the people had heard the police were +coming, but for what they knew not; of course the only thought was for +their own trouble.’ + +‘Has he escaped? Is he safe?’ + +‘Safe so far, that I last saw him on the wide bog, some eight miles away +from any human habitation; but where he is to turn to, or who is to shelter +him, I cannot say.’ + +‘He told you there was a price upon his head?’ + +‘Yes, a few hundred pounds, I forget how much, but he asked me this morning +if I did not feel tempted to give him up and earn the reward.’ + +Kate leaned her head upon her hand, and seemed lost in thought. + +‘They will scarcely dare to come and search for him here,’ said she; and, +after a pause, added, ‘And yet I suspect that the chief constable, Mr. +Curtis, owes, or thinks he owes, us a grudge: he might not be sorry to pass +this slight upon papa.’ And she pondered for some time over the thought. + +‘Do you think he can escape?’ asked Nina eagerly. + +‘Who, Donogan?’ + +‘Of course--Donogan.’ + +‘Yes, I suspect he will: these men have popular feeling with them, even +amongst many who do not share their opinions. Have you lived long enough +amongst us, Nina, to know that we all hate the law? In some shape or other +it represents to the Irish mind a tyranny.’ + +‘You are Greeks without their acuteness,’ said Nina. + +‘I’ll not say that,’ said Kate hastily. ‘It is true I know nothing of your +people, but I think I could aver that for a shrewd calculation of the cost +of a venture, for knowing when caution and when daring will best succeed, +the Irish peasant has scarcely a superior anywhere.’ + +‘I have heard much of his caution this very morning,’ said Nina +superciliously. + +‘You might have heard far more of his recklessness, if Donogan cared to +tell of it,’ said Kate, with irritation. ‘It is not English squadrons and +batteries he is called alone to face, he has to meet English gold, that +tempts poverty, and English corruption, that begets treachery and betrayal. +The one stronghold of the Saxon here is the informer, and mind, I, who tell +you this, am no rebel. I would rather live under English law, if English +law would not ignore Irish feeling, than I’d accept that Heaven knows what +of a government Fenianism could give us.’ + +‘I care nothing for all this, I don’t well know if I can follow it; but I +do know that I’d like this man to escape. He gave me this pocket-book, and +told me to keep it safely. It contains some secrets that would compromise +people that none suspect, and it has, besides, some three or four addresses +to which I could write with safety if I saw cause to warn him of any coming +danger.’ + +‘And you mean to do this?’ + +‘Of course I do; I feel an interest in this man. I like him. I like his +adventurous spirit. I like that ambitious daring to do or to be something +beyond the herd around him. I like that readiness he shows to stake his +life on an issue. His enthusiasm inflames his whole nature. He vulgarises +such fine gentlemen as Mr. Walpole, and such poor pretenders as Joe Atlee, +and, indeed, your brother, Kate.’ + +‘I will suffer no detraction of Dick Kearney,’ said Kate resolutely. + +‘Give me a cup of tea, then, and I shall be more mannerly, for I am quite +exhausted, and I am afraid my temper is not proof against starvation.’ + +‘But you will come down to the drawing-room, they are all so eager to see +you,’ said Kate caressingly. + +‘No; I’ll have my tea and go to bed, and I’ll dream that Mr. Donogan has +been made King of Ireland, and made an offer to share the throne with me.’ + +‘Your Majesty’s tea shall be served at once,’ said Kate, as she curtsied +deeply and withdrew. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +O’SHEA’S BARN + + +There were many more pretentious houses than O’Shea’s Barn. It would +have been easy enough to discover larger rooms and finer furniture, more +numerous servants and more of display in all the details of life; but for +an air of quiet comfort, for the certainty of meeting with every material +enjoyment that people of moderate fortune aspire to, it stood unrivalled. + +The rooms were airy and cheerful, with flowers in summer, as they were well +heated and well lighted in winter. The most massive-looking but luxurious +old arm-chairs, that modern taste would have repudiated for ugliness, +abounded everywhere; and the four cumbrous but comfortable seats that stood +around the circular dinner-table--and it was a matter of principle with +Miss Betty that the company should never be more numerous--only needed +speech to have told of traditions of conviviality for very nigh two +centuries back. + +As for a dinner at the Barn, the whole countyside confessed that they never +knew how it was that Miss Betty’s salmon was ‘curdier’ and her mountain +mutton more tender, and her woodcocks racier and of higher flavour, than +any one else’s. Her brown sherry you might have equalled--she liked the +colour and the heavy taste--but I defy you to match that marvellous port +which came in with the cheese, and as little, in these days of light +Bordeaux, that stout-hearted Sneyd’s claret, in its ancient decanter, whose +delicately fine neck seemed fashioned to retain the bouquet. + +The most exquisite compliment that a courtier ever uttered could not have +given Miss Betty the same pleasure as to hear one of her guests request a +second slice off ‘the haunch.’ This was, indeed, a flattery that appealed +to her finest sensibilities, and as she herself carved, she knew how to +reward that appreciative man with fat. + +Never was the virtue of hospitality more self-rewarding than in her case; +and the discriminating individual who ate with gusto, and who never +associated the wrong condiment with his food, found favour in her eyes, and +was sure of re-invitation. + +Fortune had rewarded her with one man of correct taste and exquisite palate +as a diner-out. This was the parish priest, the Rev. Luke Delany, who had +been educated abroad, and whose natural gifts had been improved by French +and Italian experiences. He was a small little meek man, with closely-cut +black hair and eyes of the darkest, scrupulously neat in dress, and, by his +ruffles and buckled shoes at dinner, affecting something of the abbé in his +appearance. To such as associated the Catholic priest with coarse manners, +vulgar expressions, or violent sentiments, Father Luke, with his low voice, +his well-chosen words, and his universal moderation, was a standing rebuke; +and many an English tourist who met him came away with the impression of +the gross calumny that associated this man’s order with underbred habits +and disloyal ambitions. He spoke little, but he was an admirable listener, +and there was a sweet encouragement in the bland nod of his head, and a +racy appreciation in the bright twinkle of his humorous eye, that the +prosiest talker found irresistible. + +There were times, indeed--stirring intervals of political excitement--when +Miss Betty would have liked more hardihood and daring in her ghostly +counsellor; but Heaven help the man who would have ventured on the open +avowal of such opinion or uttered a word in disparagement of Father Luke. + +It was in that snug dinner-room I have glanced at that a party of four sat +over their wine. They had dined admirably, a bright wood fire blazed on the +hearth, and the scene was the emblem of comfort and quiet conviviality. +Opposite Miss O’Shea sat Father Delany, and on either side of her her +nephew Gorman and Mr. Ralph Miller, in whose honour the present dinner was +given. + +The Catholic bishop of the diocese had vouchsafed a guarded and cautious +approval of Mr. Miller’s views, and secretly instructed Father Delany to +learn as much more as he conveniently could of the learned gentleman’s +intentions before committing himself to a pledge of hearty support. + +‘I will give him a good dinner,’ said Miss O’Shea, ‘and some of the ‘45 +claret, and if you cannot get his sentiments out of him after that, I wash +my hands of him.’ + +Father Delany accepted his share of the task, and assuredly Miss Betty did +not fail on her part. + +The conversation had turned principally on the coming election, and Mr. +Miller gave a flourishing account of his success as a canvasser, and even +went the length of doubting if any opposition would be offered to him. + +‘Ain’t you and young Kearney going on the same ticket?’ asked Gorman, who +was too new to Ireland to understand the nice distinctions of party. + +‘Pardon me,’ said Miller, ‘we differ essentially. _We_ want a government in +Ireland--the Nationalists want none. _We_ desire order by means of timely +concessions and judicious boons to the people. They want disorder--the +display of gross injustice--content to wait for a scramble, and see what +can come of it.’ + +‘Mr. Miller’s friends, besides,’ interposed Father Luke, ‘would defend +the Church and protect the Holy See’--and this was said with a +half-interrogation. + +Miller coughed twice, and said, ‘Unquestionably. We have shown our hand +already--look what we have done with the Established Church.’ + +‘You need not be proud of it,’ cried Miss Betty. ‘If you wanted to get rid +of the crows, why didn’t you pull down the rookery?’ + +‘At least they don’t caw so loud as they used,’ said the priest, smiling; +and Miller exchanged delighted glances with him for his opinion. + +‘I want to be rid of them, root and branch,’ said Miss Betty. + +‘If you will vouchsafe us, ma’am, a little patience. Rome was not built in +a day. The next victory of our Church must be won by the downfall of the +English establishment. Ain’t I right, Father Luke?’ + +‘I am not quite clear about that,’ said the priest cautiously. ‘Equality is +not the safe road to supremacy.’ + +‘What was that row over towards Croghan Castle this morning?’ asked Gorman, +who was getting wearied with a discussion he could not follow. ‘I saw the +constabulary going in force there this afternoon.’ + +‘They were in pursuit of the celebrated Dan Donogan,’ said Father Luke. +‘They say he was seen at Moate.’ + +‘They say more than that,’ said Miss Betty. ‘They say that he is stopping +at Kilgobbin Castle!’ + +‘I suppose to conduct young Kearney’s election,’ said Miller, laughing. + +‘And why should they hunt him down?’ asked Gorman. ‘What has he done?’ + +‘He’s a Fenian--a head-centre--a man who wants to revolutionise Ireland,’ +replied Miller. + +‘And destroy the Church,’ chimed in the priest. + +‘Humph!’ muttered Gorman, who seemed to imply, Is this all you can lay to +his charge? ‘Has he escaped? asked he suddenly. + +‘Up to this he has,’ said Miller. ‘I was talking to the constabulary chief +this afternoon, and he told me that the fellow is sure to be apprehended. +He has taken to the open bog, and there are eighteen in full cry after him. +There is a search-warrant, too, arrived, and they mean to look him up at +Kilgobbin Castle.’ + +‘To search Kilgobbin Castle, do you mean?’ asked Gorman. + +‘Just so. It will be, as I perceive you think it, a great offence to Mr. +Kearney, and it is not impossible that his temper may provoke him to resist +it.’ + +‘The mere rumour may materially assist his son’s election,’ said the priest +slyly. + +‘Only with the party who have no votes, Father Luke,’ rejoined Miller. +‘That precarious popularity of the mob is about the most dangerous enemy a +man can have in Ireland.’ + +‘You are right, sir,’ said the priest blandly. ‘The real favour of this +people is only bestowed on him who has gained the confidence of the +clergy.’ + +‘If that be true,’ cried Gorman, ‘upon my oath I think you are worse off +here than in Austria. There, at least, we are beginning to think without +the permission of the Church.’ + +‘Let us have none of your atheism here, young man,’ broke in his aunt +angrily. ‘Such sentiments have never been heard in this room before.’ + +‘If I apprehend Lieutenant Gorman aright,’ interposed Father Luke, ‘he only +refers to the late movement of the Austrian Empire with reference to the +Concordat, on which, amongst religious men, there are two opinions.’ + +‘No, no, you mistake me altogether,’ rejoined Gorman. ‘What I mean was, +that a man can read, and talk, and think in Austria without the leave of +the priest; that he can marry, and if he like, he can die without his +assistance.’ + +‘Gorman, you are a beast,’ said the old lady, ‘and if you lived here, you +would be a Fenian.’ + +‘You’re wrong too, aunt,’ replied he. ‘I’d crush those fellows to-morrow if +I was in power here.’ + +‘Mayhap the game is not so easy as you deem it,’ interposed Miller. + +‘Certainly it is not so easy when played as you do it here. You deal with +your law-breakers only by the rule of legality: that is to say, you respect +all the regulations of the game towards the men who play false. You have +your cumbrous details, and your lawyers, and judges, and juries, and you +cannot even proclaim a county in a state of siege without a bill in your +blessed Parliament, and a basketful of balderdash about the liberty of the +subject. Is it any wonder rebellion is a regular trade with you, and that +men who don’t like work, or business habits, take to it as a livelihood?’ + +‘But have you never heard Curran’s saying, young gentleman? “You cannot +bring an indictment against a nation,’” said Miller. + +‘I’d trouble myself little with indictments,’ replied Gorman. ‘I’d break +down the confederacy by spies; I’d seize the fellows I knew to be guilty, +and hang them.’ + +‘Without evidence, without trial?’ + +‘Very little of a trial, when I had once satisfied myself of the guilt.’ + +‘Are you so certain that no innocent men might be brought to the scaffold?’ +asked the priest mildly. + +‘No, I am not. I take it, as the world goes, very few of us go through life +without some injustice or another. I’d do my best not to hang the fellows +who didn’t deserve it, but I own I’d be much more concerned about the +millions who wanted to live peaceably than the few hundred rapscallions +that were bent on troubling them.’ + +‘I must say, sir,’ said the priest, ‘I am much more gratified to know that +you are a Lieutenant of Lancers in Austria than a British Minister in +Downing Street.’ + +‘I have little doubt myself,’ said the other, laughing, ‘that I am more in +my place; but of this I am sure, that if we were as mealy-mouthed with our +Croats and Slovacks as you are with your Fenians, Austria would soon go to +pieces.’ + +‘There is, however, a higher price on that man Donogan’s head than Austria +ever offered for a traitor,’ said Miller. + +‘I know how you esteem money here,’ said Gorman, laughing. ‘When all else +fails you, you fall back upon it.’ + +‘Why did I know nothing of these sentiments, young man, before I asked you +under my roof?’ said Miss Betty, in anger. + +‘You need never to have known them now, aunt, if these gentlemen had not +provoked them, nor indeed are they solely mine. I am only telling you what +you would hear from any intelligent foreigner, even though he chanced to be +a liberal in his own country.’ + +‘Ah, yes,’ sighed the priest: ‘what the young gentleman says is too true. +The Continent is alarmingly infected with such opinions as these.’ + +‘Have you talked on politics with young Kearney?’ asked Miller. + +‘He has had no opportunity,’ interposed Miss O’Shea. ‘My nephew will be +three weeks here on Thursday next, and neither Mathew nor his son have +called on him.’ + +‘Scarcely neighbourlike that, I must say,’ cried Miller. + +‘I suspect the fault lies on my side,’ said Gorman boldly. ‘When I was +little more than a boy, I was never out of that house. The old man treated +me like a son. All the more, perhaps, as his own son was seldom at home, +and the little girl Kitty certainly regarded me as a brother; and though we +had our fights and squabbles, we cried very bitterly at parting, and each +of us vowed we should never like any one so much again. And now, after all, +here am I three weeks, within two hours’ ride of them, and my aunt insists +that my dignity requires I should be first called on. Confound such +dignity! say I, if it lose me the best and the pleasantest friends I ever +had in my life.’ + +‘I scarcely thought of _your_ dignity, Gorman O’Shea,’ said the old lady, +bridling, ‘though I did bestow some consideration on my own.’ + +‘I’m very sorry for it, aunt, and I tell you fairly--and there’s no +unpoliteness in the confession--that when I asked for my leave, Kilgobbin +Castle had its place in my thoughts as well as O’Shea’s Barn.’ + +‘Why not say it out, young gentleman, and tell me that the real charm of +coming here was to be within twelve miles of the Kearneys.’ + +‘The merits of this house are very independent of contiguity,’ said the +priest; and as he eyed the claret in his glass, it was plain that the +sentiment was an honest one. + +‘Fifty-six wine, I should say,’ said Miller, as he laid down his glass. + +‘Forty-five, if Mr. Barton be a man of his word,’ said the old lady +reprovingly. + +‘Ah,’ sighed the priest plaintively, ‘how rarely one meets these old +full-bodied clarets nowadays. The free admission of French wines has +corrupted taste and impaired palate. Our cheap Gladstones have come upon us +like universal suffrage.’ + +‘The masses, however, benefit,’ remarked Miller. + +‘Only in the first moment of acquisition, and in the novelty of the gain,’ +continued Father Luke; ‘and then they suffer irreparably in the loss +of that old guidance, which once directed appreciation when there was +something to appreciate.’ + +‘We want the priest again, in fact,’ broke in Gorman. + +‘You must admit they understand wine to perfection, though I would humbly +hope, young gentleman,’ said the Father modestly, ‘to engage your good +opinion of them on higher grounds.’ + +‘Give yourself no trouble in the matter, Father Luke,’ broke in Miss Betty. +‘Gorman’s Austrian lessons have placed him beyond _your_ teaching.’ + +‘My dear aunt, you are giving the Imperial Government a credit it never +deserved. They taught me as a cadet to groom my horse and pipeclay my +uniform, to be respectful to my corporal, and to keep my thumb on the seam +of my trousers when the captain’s eye was on me; but as to what passed +inside my mind, if I had a mind at all, or what I thought of Pope, Kaiser, +or Cardinal, they no more cared to know it than the name of my sweetheart.’ + +‘What a blessing to that benighted country would be one liberal statesman!’ +exclaimed Miller: ‘one man of the mind and capacity of our present +Premier!’ + +‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Gorman. ‘We have confusion enough, without the +reflection of being governed by what you call here “healing measures.”’ + +‘I should like to discuss that point with you,’ said Miller. + +‘Not now, I beg,’ interposed Miss O’Shea. ‘Gorman, will you decant another +bottle?’ + +‘I believe I ought to protest against more wine,’ said the priest, in his +most insinuating voice; ‘but there are occasions where the yielding to +temptation conveys a moral lesson.’ + +‘I suspect that I cultivate my nature a good deal in that fashion,’ said +Gorman, as he opened a fresh bottle. + +‘This is perfectly delicious,’ said Miller, as he sipped his glass; ‘and if +I could venture to presume so far, I would ask leave to propose a toast.’ + +‘You have my permission, sir,’ said Miss Betty, with stateliness. + +‘I drink, then,’ said he reverently, ‘I drink to the long life, the good +health, and the unbroken courage of the Holy Father.’ + +There was something peculiarly sly in the twinkle of the priest’s black eye +as he filled his bumper, and a twitching motion of the corner of his mouth +continued even as he said, ‘To the Pope.’ + +‘The Pope,’ said Gorman as he eyed his wine-- + + ‘“Der Papst lebt herrlich in der Welt.”’ + +‘What are you muttering there?’ asked his aunt fiercely. + +‘The line of an old song, aunt, that tells us how his Holiness has a jolly +time of it.’ + +‘I fear me it must have been written in other days,’ said Father Luke. + +‘There is no intention to desert or abandon him, I assure you,’ said +Miller, addressing him in a low but eager tone. ‘I could never--no Irishman +could--ally himself to an administration which should sacrifice the Holy +See. With the bigotry that prevails in England, the question requires most +delicate handling; and even a pledge cannot be given except in language so +vague and unprecise as to admit of many readings.’ + +‘Why not bring in a Bill to give him a subsidy, a something per annum, or a +round sum down?’ cried Gorman. + +‘Mr. Miller has just shown us that Exeter Hall might become dangerous. +English intolerance is not a thing to be rashly aroused.’ + +‘If I had to deal with him, I’d do as Bright proposed with your landlords +here. I’d buy him out, give him a handsome sum for his interest, and let +him go.’ + +‘And how would you deal with the Church, sir?’ asked the priest. + +‘I have not thought of that; but I suppose one might put it into +commission, as they say, or manage it by a Board, with a First Lord, like +the Admiralty.’ + +‘I will give you some tea, gentlemen, when you appear in the drawing-room,’ +said Miss Betty, rising with dignity, as though her condescension in +sitting so long with the party had been ill rewarded by her nephew’s +sentiments. + +The priest, however, offered his arm, and the others followed as he left +the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +AN EARLY GALLOP + + +Mathew Kearney had risen early, an unusual thing with him of late; but he +had some intention of showing his guest Mr. Walpole over the farm after +breakfast, and was anxious to give some preliminary orders to have +everything ‘ship-shape’ for the inspection. + +To make a very disorderly and much-neglected Irish farm assume an air of +discipline, regularity, and neatness at a moment’s notice, was pretty much +such an exploit as it would have been to muster an Indian tribe, and pass +them before some Prussian martinet as a regiment of guards. + +To make the ill-fenced and misshapen fields seem trim paddocks, wavering +and serpentining furrows appear straight and regular lines of tillage, +weed-grown fields look marvels of cleanliness and care, while the lounging +and ragged population were to be passed off as a thriving and industrious +peasantry, well paid and contented, were difficulties that Mr. Kearney did +not propose to confront. Indeed, to do him justice, he thought there was +a good deal of pedantic and ‘model-farming’ humbug about all that English +passion for neatness he had read of in public journals, and as our +fathers--better gentlemen, as he called them, and more hospitable fellows +than any of us--had got on without steam-mowing and threshing, and +bone-crushing, he thought we might farm our properties without being either +blacksmiths or stokers. + +‘God help us,’ he would say, ‘I suppose we’ll be chewing our food by steam +one of these days, and filling our stomachs by hydraulic pressure. But for +my own part, I like something to work for me that I can swear at when it +goes wrong. There’s little use in cursing a cylinder.’ + +To have heard him amongst his labourers that morning, it was plain to see +that they were not in the category of machinery. On one pretext or another, +however, they had slunk away one by one, so that at last he found himself +storming alone in a stubble-field, with no other companion than one of +Kate’s terriers. The sharp barking of this dog aroused him in the midst of +his imprecations, and looking over the dry-stone wall that inclosed the +field, he saw a horseman coming along at a sharp canter, and taking the +fences as they came like a man in a hunting-field. He rode well, and was +mounted upon a strong wiry hackney--a cross-bred horse, and of little money +value, but one of those active cats of horseflesh that a knowing hand can +appreciate. Now, little as Kearney liked the liberty of a man riding over +his ditches and his turnips when out of hunting season, his old love of +good horsemanship made him watch the rider with interest and even pleasure. +‘May I never!’ muttered he to himself, ‘if he’s not coming at this wall.’ +And as the inclosure in question was built of large jagged stones, without +mortar, and fully four feet in height, the upper course being formed of a +sort of coping in which the stones stood edgewise, the attempt did look +somewhat rash. Not taking the wall where it was slightly breached, and +where some loose stones had fallen, the rider rode boldly at one of the +highest portions, but where the ground was good on either side. + +‘He knows what he’s at!’ muttered Kearney, as the horse came bounding over +and alighted in perfect safety in the field. + +‘Well done! whoever you are,’ cried Kearney, delighted, as the rider +removed his hat and turned round to salute him. + +‘And don’t you know me, sir?’ asked he. + +‘’Faith, I do not,’ replied Kearney; ‘but somehow I think I know the +chestnut. To be sure I do. There’s the old mark on her knee, how ever she +found the man who could throw her down. Isn’t she Miss O’Shea’s Kattoo?’ + +‘That she is, sir, and I’m her nephew.’ + +‘Are you?’ said Kearney dryly. + +The young fellow was so terribly pulled up by the unexpected repulse--more +marked even by the look than the words of the other--that he sat unable +to utter a syllable. ‘I had hoped, sir,’ said he at last, ‘that I had not +outgrown your recollection, as I can promise none of your former kindness +to me has outgrown mine.’ + +‘But it took you three weeks to recall it, all the same,’ said Kearney. + +‘It is true, sir, I am very nearly so long here; but my aunt, whose guest I +am, told me I must be called on first; that--I’m sure I can’t say for whose +benefit it was supposed to be--I should not make the first visit; in fact, +there was some rule about the matter, and that I must not contravene it. +And although I yielded with a very bad grace, I was in a measure under +orders, and dared not resist.’ + +‘She told you, of course, that we were not on our old terms: that there +was a coldness between the families, and we had seen nothing of each other +lately?’ + +‘Not a word of it, sir.’ + +‘Nor of any reason why you should not come here as of old?’ + +‘None, on my honour; beyond this piece of stupid etiquette, I never heard +of anything like a reason.’ + +‘I am all the better pleased with my old neighbour,’ said Kearney, in his +more genial tone. ‘Not, indeed, that I ought ever to have distrusted her, +but for all that--Well, never mind,’ muttered he, as though debating the +question with himself, and unable to decide it, ‘you are here now--eh! You +are here now.’ + +‘You almost make me suspect, sir, that I ought not to be here now.’ + +‘At all events, if you were waiting for me you wouldn’t be here. Is not +that true, young gentleman?’ + +‘Quite true, sir, but not impossible to explain.’ And he now flung himself +to the ground, and with the rein over his arm, came up to Kearney’s side. +‘I suppose, but for an accident, I should have gone on waiting for that +visit you had no intention to make me, and canvassing with myself how long +you were taking to make up your mind to call on me, when I heard only last +night that some noted rebel--I’ll remember his name in a minute or two--was +seen in the neighbourhood, and that the police were on his track with a +warrant, and even intended to search for him here.’ + +‘In my house--in Kilgobbin Castle?’ + +‘Yes, here in your house, where, from a sure information, he had been +harboured for some days. This fellow--a head-centre, or leader, with a +large sum on his head--has, they say, got away; but the hope of finding +some papers, some clue to him here, will certainly lead them to search the +castle, and I thought I’d come over and apprise you of it at all events, +lest the surprise should prove too much for your temper.’ + +‘Do they forget I’m in the commission of the peace?’ said Kearney, in a +voice trembling with passion. + +‘You know far better than me how far party spirit tempers life in this +country, and are better able to say whether some private intention to +insult is couched under this attempt.’ + +‘That’s true,’ cried the old man, ever ready to regard himself as the +object of some secret malevolence. ‘You cannot remember this rebel’s name, +can you?’ + +‘It was Daniel something--that’s all I know.’ + +A long, fine whistle was Kearney’s rejoinder, and after a second or two he +said, ‘I can trust you, Gorman; and I may tell you they may be not so great +fools as I took them for. Not that I was harbouring the fellow, mind you; +but there came a college friend of Dick’s here a few days back--a clever +fellow he was, and knew Ireland well--and we called him Mr. Daniel, and it +was but yesterday he left us and did not return. I have a notion now he was +the head-centre they’re looking for.’ + +‘Do you know if he has left any baggage or papers behind him?’ + +‘I know nothing about this whatever, nor do I know how far Dick was in his +secret.’ + +‘You will be cool and collected, I am sure, sir, when they come here with +the search-warrant. You’ll not give them even the passing triumph of seeing +that you are annoyed or offended?’ + +‘That I will, my lad. I’m prepared now, and I’ll take them as easy as if +it was a morning call. Come in and have your breakfast with us, and say +nothing about what we’ve been talking over.’ + +‘Many thanks, sir, but I think--indeed I feel sure--I ought to go back at +once. I have come here without my aunt’s knowledge, and now that I have +seen you and put you on your guard, I ought to go back as fast as I can.’ + +‘So you shall, when you feed your beast and take something yourself. Poor +old Kattoo isn’t used to this sort of cross-country work, and she’s panting +there badly enough. That mare is twenty-one years of age.’ + +‘She’s fresh on her legs--not a curb nor a spavin, nor even a wind-gall +about her,’ said the young man. + +‘And the reward for it all is to be ridden like a steeplechaser!’ sighed +old Kearney. ‘Isn’t that the world over? Break down early, and you are a +good-for-nothing. Carry on your spirit, and your pluck, and your endurance +to a green old age, and maybe they won’t take it out of you!--always +contrasting you, however, with yourself long ago, and telling the +bystanders what a rare beast you were in your good days. Do you think they +had dared to pass this insult upon _me_ when I was five-and-twenty or +thirty? Do you think there’s a man in the county would have come on this +errand to search Kilgobbin when I was a young man, Mr. O’Shea?’ + +‘I think you can afford to treat it with the contempt you have determined +to show it.’ + +‘That’s all very fine now,’ said Kearney; ‘but there was a time I’d rather +have chucked the chief constable out of the window and sent the sergeant +after him.’ + +‘I don’t know whether that would have been better,’ said Gorman, with a +faint smile. + +‘Neither do I; but I know that I myself would have felt better and easier +in my mind after it. I’d have eaten my breakfast with a good appetite, and +gone about my day’s work, whatever it was, with a free heart and fearless +in my conscience! Ay, ay,’ muttered he to himself, ‘poor old Ireland isn’t +what it used to be!’ + +‘I’m very sorry, sir, but though I’d like immensely to go back with you, +don’t you think I ought to return home?’ + +‘I don’t think anything of the sort. Your aunt and I had a tiff the last +time we met, and that was some months ago. We’re both of us old and +cross-grained enough to keep up the grudge for the rest of our lives. Let +us, then, make the most of the accident that has led you here, and when +you go home, you shall be the bearer of the most submissive message I can +invent to my old friend, and there shall be no terms too humble for me to +ask her pardon.’ + +‘That’s enough, sir. I’ll breakfast here.’ + +‘Of course you’ll say nothing of what brought you over here. But I ought +to warn you not to drop anything carelessly about politics in the county +generally, for we have a young relative and a private secretary of the +Lord-Lieutenant’s visiting us, and it’s as well to be cautious before him.’ + +The old man mentioned this circumstance in the cursory tone of an ordinary +remark, but he could not conceal the pride he felt in the rank and +condition of his guest. As for Gorman, perhaps it was his foreign breeding, +perhaps his ignorance of all home matters generally, but he simply assented +to the force of the caution, and paid no other attention to the incident. + +‘His name is Walpole, and he is related to half the peerage,’ said the old +man, with some irritation of manner. + +A mere nod acknowledged the information, and he went on-- + +‘This was the young fellow who was with Kitty on the night they attacked +the castle, and he got both bones of his forearm smashed with a shot.’ + +‘An ugly wound,’ was the only rejoinder. + +‘So it was, and for a while they thought he’d lose the arm. Kitty says he +behaved beautifully, cool and steady all through.’ + +Another nod, but this time Gorman’s lips were firmly compressed. + +‘There’s no denying it,’ said the old man, with a touch of sadness in his +voice--‘there’s no denying it, the English have courage; though,’ added he +afterwards, ‘it’s in a cold, sluggish way of their own, which we don’t like +here. There he is, now, that young fellow that has just parted from the two +girls. The tall one is my niece--I must present you to her.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +OLD MEMORIES + + +Though both Kate Kearney and young O’Shea had greatly outgrown each other’s +recollection, there were still traits of feature remaining, and certain +tones of voice, by which they were carried back to old times and old +associations. + +Amongst the strange situations in life, there are few stranger, or, in +certain respects, more painful, than the meeting after long absence of +those who, when they had parted years before, were on terms of closest +intimacy, and who now see each other changed by time, with altered habits +and manners, and impressed in a variety of ways with influences and +associations which impart their own stamp on character. + +It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far we ourselves have +changed in the interval, and how much of what we regard as altered in +another may not simply be the new standpoint from which we are looking, and +thus our friend may be graver, or sadder, or more thoughtful, or, as it may +happen, seem less reflective and less considerative than we have thought +him, all because the world has been meantime dealing with ourselves in such +wise that qualities we once cared for have lost much of their value, and +others that we had deemed of slight account have grown into importance with +us. + +Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting scenes which had +impressed us strongly in early life: how the mountain we regarded with a +wondering admiration had become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool +of sluggish water; and some of this same awakening pursues us in our +renewal of old intimacies, and we find ourselves continually warring with +our recollections. + +Besides this, there is another source of uneasiness that presses +unceasingly. It is in imputing every change we discover, or think we +discover in our friend, to some unknown influences that have asserted their +power over him in our absence, and thus when we find that our arguments +have lost their old force, and our persuasions can be stoutly resisted, we +begin to think that some other must have usurped our place, and that there +is treason in the heart we had deemed to be loyally our own. + +How far Kate and Gorman suffered under these irritations, I do not stop to +inquire, but certain it is, that all their renewed intercourse was +little other than snappish reminders of unfavourable change in each, and +assurances more frank than flattering that they had not improved in the +interval. + +‘How well I know every tree and alley of this old garden!’ said he, as +they strolled along one of the walks in advance of the others. ‘Nothing is +changed here but the people.’ + +‘And do you think we are?’ asked she quietly. + +‘I should think I do! Not so much for your father, perhaps. I suppose men +of his time of life change little, if at all; but you are as ceremonious as +if I had been introduced to you this morning.’ + +‘You addressed me so deferentially as Miss Kearney, and with such an +assuring little intimation that you were not either very certain of _that_, +that I should have been very courageous indeed to remind you that I once +was Kate.’ + +‘No, not Kate--Kitty,’ rejoined he quickly. + +‘Oh yes, perhaps, when you were young, but we grew out of that.’ + +‘Did we? And when?’ + +‘When we gave up climbing cherry-trees, and ceased to pull each other’s +hair when we were angry.’ + +‘Oh dear!’ said he drearily, as his head sank heavily. + +‘You seem to sigh over those blissful times, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she, ‘as if +they were terribly to be regretted.’ + +‘So they are. So I feel them.’ + +‘I never knew before that quarrelling left such pleasant associations.’ + +‘My memory is good enough to remember times when we were not +quarrelling--when I used to think you were nearer an angel than a human +creature--ay, when I have had the boldness to tell you so.’ + +‘You don’t mean _that_?’ + +‘I do mean it, and I should like to know why I should not mean it?’ + +‘For a great many reasons--one amongst the number, that it would have been +highly indiscreet to turn a poor child’s head with a stupid flattery.’ + +‘But were you a child? If I’m right, you were not very far from fifteen at +the time I speak of.’ + +‘How shocking that you should remember a young lady’s age!’ + +‘That is not the point at all,’ said he, as though she had been +endeavouring to introduce another issue. + +‘And what is the point, pray?’ asked she haughtily. + +‘Well, it is this--how many have uttered what you call stupid flatteries +since that time, and how have they been taken.’ + +‘Is this a question?’ asked she. ‘I mean a question seeking to be +answered?’ + +‘I hope so.’ + +‘Assuredly, then, Mr. O’Shea, however time has been dealing with _me_, it +has contrived to take marvellous liberties with _you_ since we met. Do you +know, sir, that this is a speech you would not have uttered long ago for +worlds?’ + +‘If I have forgotten myself as well as you,’ said he, with deep humility, +‘I very humbly crave pardon. Not but there were days, ‘added he, ‘when my +mistake, if I made one, would have been forgiven without my asking.’ + +‘There’s a slight touch of presumption, sir, in telling me what a wonderful +person I used to think you long ago.’ + +‘So you did,’ cried he eagerly. ‘In return for the homage I laid at your +feet--as honest an adoration as ever a heart beat with--you condescended to +let me build my ambitions before you, and I must own you made the edifice +very dear to me.’ + +‘To be sure, I do remember it all, and I used to play or sing, “_Mein +Schatz ist ein Reiter_,” and take your word that you were going to be a +Lancer-- + + “In file arrayed, + With helm and blade, + And plume in the gay wind dancing.” + +I’m certain my cousin would be charmed to see you in all your bravery.’ + +‘Your cousin will not speak to me for being an Austrian.’ + +‘Has she told you so?’ + +‘Yes, she said it at breakfast.’ + +‘That denunciation does not sound very dangerously; is it not worth your +while to struggle against a misconception?’ + +‘I have had such luck in my present attempt as should scarcely raise my +courage.’ + +‘You are too ingenious by far for me, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she carelessly. ‘I +neither remember so well as you, nor have I that nice subtlety in detecting +all the lapses each of us has made since long ago. Try, however, if you +cannot get on better with Mademoiselle Kostalergi, where there are no +antecedents to disturb you.’ + +‘I will; that is if she let me.’ + +‘I trust she may, and not the less willingly, perhaps, as she evidently +will not speak to Mr. Walpole.’ + +‘Ah, indeed, and is _he_ here?’ he stopped and hesitated; and the full bold +look she gave him did not lessen his embarrassment. + +‘Well, sir,’ asked she, ‘go on: is this another reminiscence?’ + +‘No, Miss Kearney; I was only thinking of asking you who this Mr. Walpole +was.’ + +‘Mr. Cecil Walpole is a nephew or a something to the Lord-Lieutenant, whose +private secretary he is. He is very clever, very amusing--sings, draws, +rides, and laughs at the Irish to perfection. I hope you mean to like him.’ + +‘Do you?’ + +‘Of course, or I should not have bespoken your sympathy. My cousin used to +like him, but somehow he has fallen out of favour with her.’ + +‘Was he absent some time?’ asked he, with a half-cunning manner. + +‘Yes, I believe there was something of that in it. He was not here for +a considerable time, and when we saw him again, we almost owned we were +disappointed. Papa is calling me from the window, pray excuse me for a +moment.’ She left him as she spoke, and ran rapidly back to the house, +whence she returned almost immediately. ‘It was to ask you to stop and dine +here, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she. ‘There will be ample time to send back to Miss +O’Shea, and if you care to have your dinner-dress, they can send it.’ + +‘This is Mr. Kearney’s invitation?’ asked he. + +‘Of course; papa is the master at Kilgobbin.’ + +‘But will Miss Kearney condescend to say that it is hers also.’ + +‘Certainly, though I’m not aware what solemnity the engagement gains by my +co-operation.’ + +‘I accept at once, and if you allow me, I’ll go back and send a line to my +aunt to say so.’ + +‘Don’t you remember Mr. O’Shea, Dick?’ asked she, as her brother lounged +up, making his first appearance that day. + +‘I’d never have known you,’ said he, surveying him from head to foot, +without, however, any mark of cordiality in the recognition. + +‘All find me a good deal changed!’ said the young fellow, drawing himself +to his full height, and with an air that seemed to say--‘and none the worse +for it.’ + +‘I used to fancy I was more than your match,’ rejoined Dick, smiling; ‘I +suspect it’s a mistake I am little likely to incur again.’ + +‘Don’t, Dick, for he has got a very ugly way of ridding people of their +illusions,’ said Kate, as she turned once more and walked rapidly towards +the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +TWO FAMILIAR EPISTLES + + +There were a number of bolder achievements Gorman O’Shea would have dared +rather than write a note; nor were the cares of the composition the +only difficulties of the undertaking. He knew of but one style of +correspondence--the report to his commanding officer, and in this he was +aided by a formula to be filled up. It was not, then, till after several +efforts, he succeeded in the following familiar epistle:-- + +‘KILGOBBIN CASTLE. + +‘DEAR AUNT,--Don’t blow up or make a rumpus, but if I had not taken the +mare and come over here this morning, the rascally police with their +search-warrant might have been down upon Mr. Kearney without a warning. +They were all stiff and cold enough at first: they are nothing to brag of +in the way of cordiality even yet--Dick especially--but they have asked me +to stay and dine, and, I take it, it is the right thing to do. Send me over +some things to dress with--and believe me your affectionate nephew, + +‘G. O’SHEA. + +‘I send the mare back, and shall walk home to-morrow morning. + +‘There’s a great Castle swell here, a Mr. Walpole, but I have not made his +acquaintance yet, and can tell nothing about him.’ + + * * * * * + +Towards a late hour of the afternoon a messenger arrived with an ass-cart +and several trunks from O’Shea’s Barn, and with the following note:-- + +‘DEAR NEPHEW GORMAN,--O’Shea’s Barn is not an inn, nor are the horses +there at public livery. So much for your information. As you seem fond of +“warnings,” let me give you one, which is, To mind your own affairs in +preference to the interests of other people. The family at Kilgobbin are +perfectly welcome--so far as I am concerned--to the fascinations of your +society at dinner to-day, at breakfast to-morrow, and so on, with such +regularity and order as the meals succeed. To which end, I have now sent +you all the luggage belonging to you here.--I am, very respectfully, your +aunt, ELIZABETH O’SHEA.’ + +The quaint, old-fashioned, rugged writing was marked throughout by a +certain distinctness and accuracy that betoken care and attention--there +was no evidence whatever of haste or passion--and this expression of a +serious determination, duly weighed and resolved on, made itself very +painfully felt by the young man as he read. + +‘I am turned out--in plain words, turned out!’ said he aloud, as he sat +with the letter spread out before him. ‘It must have been no common +quarrel--not a mere coldness between the families--when she resents my +coming here in this fashion.’ That innumerable differences could separate +neighbours in Ireland, even persons with the same interests and the same +religion, he well knew, and he solaced himself to think how he could get +at the source of this disagreement, and what chance there might be of a +reconciliation. + +Of one thing he felt certain. Whether his aunt were right or wrong, whether +tyrant or victim, he knew in his heart all the submission must come from +the others. He had only to remember a few of the occasions in life in which +he had to entreat his aunt’s forgiveness for the injustice she had herself +inflicted, to anticipate what humble pie Mathew Kearney must partake of in +order to conciliate Miss Betty’s favour. + +‘Meanwhile,’ he thought, and not only thought, but said too--‘Meanwhile, I +am on the world.’ + +Up to this, she had allowed him a small yearly income. Father Luke, whose +judgment on all things relating to continental life was unimpeachable, had +told her that anything like the reputation of being well off or connected +with wealthy people would lead a young man into ruin in the Austrian +service; that with a sum of 3000 francs per annum--about £120--he would be +in possession of something like the double of his pay, or rather more, and +that with this he would be enabled to have all the necessaries and many of +the comforts of his station, and still not be a mark for that high play and +reckless style of living that certain young Hungarians of family and large +fortune affected; and so far the priest was correct, for the young Gorman +was wasteful and extravagant from disposition, and his quarter’s allowance +disappeared almost when it came. His money out, he fell back at once to +the penurious habits of the poorest subaltern about him, and lived on his +florin-and-half per diem till his resources came round again. He hoped--of +course he hoped--that this momentary fit of temper would not extend to +stopping his allowance. + +‘She knows as well as any one,’ muttered he, ‘that though the baker’s son +from Prague, or the Amtmann’s nephew from a Bavarian Dorf, may manage to +“come through” with his pay, the young Englishman cannot. I can neither +piece my own overalls, nor forswear stockings, nor can I persuade my +stomach that it has had a full meal by tightening my girth-strap three or +four holes. + +‘I’d go down to the ranks to-morrow rather than live that life of struggle +and contrivance that reduces a man to playing a dreary game with himself, +by which, while he feels like a pauper, he has to fancy he felt like a +gentleman. No, no, I’ll none of this. Scores of better men have served in +the ranks. I’ll just change my regiment. By a lucky chance, I don’t know a +man in the Walmoden Cuirassiers. I’ll join them, and nobody will ever be +the wiser.’ + +There is a class of men who go through life building very small castles, +and are no more discouraged by the frailty of the architecture than is a +child with his toy-house. This was Gorman’s case; and now that he had found +a solution of his difficulties in the Walmoden Cuirassiers, he really +dressed for dinner in very tolerable spirits. ‘It’s droll enough,’ thought +he, ‘to go down to dine amongst all these “swells,” and to think that the +fellow behind my chair is better off than myself.’ The very uncertainty +of his fate supplied excitement to his spirits, for it is amongst the +privileges of the young that mere flurry can be pleasurable. + +When Gorman reached the drawing-room, he found only one person. This was +a young man in a shooting-coat, who, deep in the recess of a comfortable +arm-chair, sat with the _Times_ at his feet, and to all appearance as if +half dozing. + +He looked around, however, as young O’Shea came forward, and said +carelessly, ‘I suppose it’s time to go and dress--if I could.’ + +O’Shea making no reply, the other added, ‘That is, if I have not overslept +dinner altogether.’ + +‘I hope not, sincerely,’ rejoined the other, ‘or I shall be a partner in +the misfortune.’ + +‘Ah, you ‘re the Austrian,’ said Walpole, as he stuck his glass in his eye +and surveyed him. + +‘Yes; and you are the private secretary of the Governor.’ + +‘Only we don’t call him Governor. We say Viceroy here.’ + +‘With all my heart, Viceroy be it.’ + +There was a pause now--each, as it were, standing on his guard to resent +any liberty of the other. At last Walpole said, ‘I don’t think you were in +the house when that stupid stipendiary fellow called here this morning?’ + +‘No; I was strolling across the fields. He came with the police, I +suppose?’ + +‘Yes, he came on the track of some Fenian leader--a droll thought enough +anywhere out of Ireland, to search for a rebel under a magistrate’s roof; +not but there was something still more Irish in the incident.’ + +‘How was that?’ asked O’Shea eagerly. + +‘I chanced to be out walking with the ladies when the escort came, and +as they failed to find the man they were after, they proceeded to make +diligent search for his papers and letters. That taste for practical +joking, that seems an instinct in this country, suggested to Mr. Kearney +to direct the fellows to my room, and what do you think they have done? +Carried off bodily all my baggage, and left me with nothing but the clothes +I’m wearing!’ + +‘What a lark!’ cried O’Shea, laughing. + +‘Yes, I take it that is the national way to look at these things; but that +passion for absurdity and for ludicrous situations has not the same hold on +us English.’ + +‘I know that. You are too well off to be droll.’ + +‘Not exactly that; but when we want to laugh we go to the Adelphi.’ + +‘Heaven help you if you have to pay people to make fun for you!’ + +Before Walpole could make rejoinder, the door opened to admit the ladies, +closely followed by Mr. Kearney and Dick. + +‘Not mine the fault if I disgrace your dinner-table by such a costume as +this,’ cried Walpole. + +‘I’d have given twenty pounds if they’d have carried off yourself as the +rebel!’ said the old man, shaking with laughter. ‘But there’s the soup +on the table. Take my niece, Mr. Walpole; Gorman, give your arm to my +daughter. Dick and I will bring up the rear.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +AN EVENING IN THE DRAWING-ROOM + + +The fatalism of youth, unlike that of age, is all rose-coloured. That which +is coming, and is decreed to come, cannot be very disagreeable. This is +the theory of the young, and differs terribly from the experiences of +after-life. Gorman O’Shea had gone to dinner with about as heavy a +misfortune as could well befall him, so far as his future in life was +concerned. All he looked forward to and hoped for was lost to him: the +aunt who, for so many years, had stood to him in place of all family, had +suddenly thrown him off, and declared that she would see him no more; the +allowance she had hitherto given him withdrawn, it was impossible he could +continue to hold his place in his regiment. Should he determine not to +return, it was desertion--should he go back, it must be to declare that +he was a ruined man, and could only serve in the ranks. These were the +thoughts he revolved while he dressed for dinner, and dressed, let it be +owned, with peculiar care; but when the task had been accomplished, and +he descended to the drawing-room, such was the elasticity of his young +temperament, every thought of coming evil was merged in the sense of +present enjoyment, and the merry laughter which he overheard as he opened +the door, obliterated all notion that life had anything before him except +what was agreeable and pleasant. + +‘We want to know if you play croquet, Mr. O’Shea?’ said Nina as he entered. +‘And we want also to know, are you a captain, or a Rittmeister, or a major? +You can scarcely be a colonel.’ + +‘Your last guess I answer first. I am only a lieutenant, and even that +very lately. As to croquet, if it be not your foreign mode of pronouncing +cricket, I never even saw it.’ + +‘It is not my foreign mode of pronouncing cricket, Herr Lieutenant,’ said +she pertly, ‘but I guessed already you had never heard of it.’ + +‘It is an out-of-door affair,’ said Dick indolently, ‘made for the +diffusion of worked petticoats and Balmoral boots.’ + +‘I should say it is the game of billiards brought down to universal +suffrage and the million,’ lisped out Walpole. + +‘Faith,’ cried old Kearney, ‘I’d say it was just football with a stick.’ + +‘At all events,’ said Kate, ‘we purpose to have a grand match to-morrow. +Mr. Walpole and I are against Nina and Dick, and we are to draw lots for +you, Mr. O’Shea.’ + +‘My position, if I understand it aright, is not a flattering one,’ said he, +laughing. + +‘We’ll take him,’ cried Nina at once. ‘I’ll give him a private lesson in +the morning, and I’ll answer for his performance. These creatures,’ +added she, in a whisper, ‘are so drilled in Austria, you can teach them +anything.’ + +Now, as the words were spoken O’Shea caught them, and drawing close to +her, said, ‘I do hope I’ll justify that flattering opinion.’ But her only +recognition was a look of half-defiant astonishment at his boldness. + +A very noisy discussion now ensued as to whether croquet was worthy to be +called a game or not, and what were its laws and rules--points which Gorman +followed with due attention, but very little profit; all Kate’s good sense +and clearness being cruelly dashed by Nina’s ingenious interruptions and +Walpole’s attempts to be smart and witty, even where opportunity scarcely +offered the chance. + +‘Next to looking on at the game,’ cried old Kearney at last, ‘the most +tiresome thing I know of is to hear it talked over. Come, Nina, and give me +a song.’ + +‘What shall it be, uncle?’ said she, as she opened the piano. + +‘Something Irish, I’d say, if I were to choose for myself. We’ve plenty of +old tunes, Mr. Walpole,’ said Kearney, turning to that gentleman, ‘that +rebellion, as you call it, has never got hold of. There’s _“Cushla Macree”_ +and the _“Cailan deas cruidhte na Mbo.”_’ + +‘Very like hard swearing that,’ said Walpole to Nina; but his simper and +his soft accent were only met by a cold blank look, as though she had not +understood his liberty in addressing her. Indeed, in her distant manner, +and even repelling coldness, there was what might have disconcerted +any composure less consummate than his own. It was, however, evidently +Walpole’s aim to assume that she felt her relation towards him, and not +altogether without some cause; while she, on her part, desired to repel the +insinuation by a show of utter indifference. She would willingly, in this +contingency, have encouraged her cousin, Dick Kearney, and even led him on +to little displays of attention; but Dick held aloof, as though not knowing +the meaning of this favourable turn towards him. He would not be cheated by +coquetry. How many men are of this temper, and who never understand that it +is by surrendering ourselves to numberless little voluntary deceptions of +this sort, we arrive at intimacies the most real and most truthful. + +She next tried Gorman, and here her success was complete. All those womanly +prettinesses, which are so many modes of displaying graceful attraction of +voice, look, gesture, or attitude, were especially dear to him. Not only +they gave beauty its chief charm, but they constituted a sort of game, +whose address was quickness of eye, readiness of perception, prompt reply, +and that refined tact that can follow out one thought in a conversation +just as you follow a melody through a mass of variations. + +Perhaps the young soldier did not yield himself the less readily to these +captivations that Kate Kearney’s manner towards him was studiously cold and +ceremonious. + +‘The other girl is more like the old friend,’ muttered he, as he chatted on +with her about Rome, and Florence, and Venice, imperceptibly gliding into +the language which the names of places suggested. + +‘If any had told me that I ever could have talked thus freely and openly +with an Austrian soldier, I’d not have believed him,’ said she at length, +‘for all my sympathies in Italy were with the National party.’ + +[Illustration: He knelt down on one knee before her] + +‘But we were not the “Barbari” in your recollection, mademoiselle,’ said +he. ‘We were out of Italy before you could have any feeling for either +party.’ + +‘The tradition of all your cruelties has survived you, and I am sure, if +you were wearing your white coat still, I’d hate you.’ + +‘You are giving me another reason to ask for a longer leave of absence,’ +said he, bowing courteously. + +‘And this leave of yours--how long does it last?’ + +‘I am afraid to own to myself. Wednesday fortnight is the end of it; that +is, it gives me four days after that to reach Vienna.’ + +‘And presenting yourself in humble guise before your colonel, to say, “_Ich +melde mich gehorsamst_.”’ + +‘Not exactly that--but something like it.’ + +‘I’ll be the Herr Oberst Lieutenant,’ said she, laughing; ‘so come forward +now and clap your heels together, and let us hear how you utter your few +syllables in true abject fashion. I’ll sit here, and receive you.’ As she +spoke, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and assuming a look of intense +hauteur and defiance, affected to stroke an imaginary moustache with one +hand, while with the other she waved a haughty gesture of welcome. + +‘I have outstayed my leave,’ muttered Gorman, in a tremulous tone. ‘I hope +my colonel, with that bland mercy which characterises him, will forgive my +fault, and let me ask his pardon.’ And with this, he knelt down on one knee +before her, and kissed her hand. + +‘What liberties are these, sir?’ cried she, so angrily, that it was not +easy to say whether the anger was not real. + +‘It is the latest rule introduced into our service,’ said he, with mock +humility. + +‘Is that a comedy they are acting yonder,’ said Walpole, ‘or is it a +proverb?’ + +‘Whatever the drama,’ replied Kate coldly, ‘I don’t think they want a +public.’ + +‘You may go back to your duty, Herr Lieutenant,’ said Nina proudly, and +with a significant glance towards Kate. ‘Indeed, I suspect you have been +rather neglecting it of late.’ And with this she sailed majestically away +towards the end of the room. + +‘I wish I could provoke even that much of jealousy from the other,’ +muttered Gorman to himself, as he bit his lip in passion. And certainly, if +a look and manner of calm unconcern meant anything, there was little that +seemed less likely. + +‘I am glad you are going to the piano, Nina,’ said Kate. ‘Mr. Walpole has +been asking me by what artifice you could be induced to sing something of +Mendelssohn.’ + +‘I am going to sing an Irish ballad for that Austrian patriot, who, like +his national poet, thinks “Ireland a beautiful country to live out of.”’ +Though a haughty toss of her head accompanied these words, there was a +glance in her eye towards Gorman that plainly invited a renewal of their +half-flirting hostilities. + +‘When I left it, _you_ had not been here,’ said he, with an obsequious +tone, and an air of deference only too marked in its courtesy. + +A slight, very faint blush on her cheek showed that she rather resented +than accepted the flattery, but she appeared to be occupied in looking +through the music-books, and made no rejoinder. + +‘We want Mendelssohn, Nina,’ said Kate. + +‘Or at least Spohr,’ added Walpole. + +‘I never accept dictation about what I sing,’ muttered Nina, only loud +enough to be overheard by Gorman. ‘People don’t tell you what theme you are +to talk on; they don’t presume to say, “Be serious or be witty.” They don’t +tell you to come to the aid of their sluggish natures by passion, or to +dispel their dreariness by flights of fancy; and why are they to dare all +this to _us_ who speak through song?’ + +‘Just because you alone can do these things,’ said Gorman, in the same low +voice as she had spoken in. + +‘Can I help you in your search, dearest?’ said Kate, coming over to the +piano. + +‘Might I hope to be of use?’ asked Walpole. + +‘Mr. O’Shea wants me to sing something for _him_,’ said Nina coldly. ‘What +is it to be?’ asked she of Gorman. With the readiness of one who could +respond to any sudden call upon his tact, Gorman at once took up a piece +of music from the mass before him, and said, ‘Here is what I have been +searching for.’ It was a little Neapolitan ballad, of no peculiar beauty, +but one of those simple melodies in which the rapid transition from deep +feeling to a wild, almost reckless, gaiety imparts all the character. + +‘Yes, I’ll sing that,’ said Nina; and almost in the same breath the notes +came floating through the air, slow and sad at first, as though labouring +under some heavy sorrow; the very syllables faltered on her lips like a +grief struggling for utterance--when, just as a thrilling cadence died +slowly away, she burst forth into the wildest and merriest strain, +something so impetuous in gaiety, that the singer seemed to lose all +control of expression, and floated away in sound with every caprice of +enraptured imagination. When in the very whirlwind of this impetuous +gladness, as though a memory of a terrible sorrow had suddenly crossed her, +she ceased; then, in tones of actual agony, her voice rose to a cry of such +utter misery as despair alone could utter. The sounds died slowly away as +though lingeringly. Two bold chords followed, and she was silent. + +None spoke in the room. Was this real passion, or was it the mere +exhibition of an accomplished artist, who could call up expression at +will, as easily as a painter could heighten colour? Kate Kearney evidently +believed the former, as her heaving chest and her tremulous lip betrayed, +while the cold, simpering smile on Walpole’s face, and the ‘brava, +bravissima’ in which he broke the silence, vouched how he had interpreted +that show of emotion. + +‘If that is singing, I wonder what is crying,’ cried old Kearney, while he +wiped his eyes, very angry at his own weakness.’ And now will any one tell +me what it was all about?’ + +‘A young girl, sir,’ replied Gorman, ‘who, by a great effort, has rallied +herself to dispel her sorrow and be merry, suddenly remembers that her +sweetheart may not love her, and the more she dwells on the thought, the +more firmly she believes it. That was the cry, “He never loved me,” that +went to all our hearts.’ + +‘Faith, then, if Nina has to say that,’ said the old man, ‘Heaven help the +others.’ + +‘Indeed, uncle, you are more gallant than all these young gentlemen,’ said +Nina, rising and approaching him. + +‘Why they are not all at your feet this moment is more than I can tell. +They’re always telling me the world is changed, and I begin to see it now.’ + +‘I suspect, sir, it’s pretty much what it used to be,’ lisped out Walpole. +‘We are only less demonstrative than our fathers.’ + +‘Just as I am less extravagant than mine,’ cried Kilgobbin, ‘because I have +not got it to spend.’ + +‘I hope Mademoiselle Nina judges us more mercifully,’ said Walpole. + +‘Is that song a favourite of yours?’ asked she of Gorman, without noticing +Walpole’s remark in any way. + +‘No,’ said he bluntly; ‘it makes me feel like a fool, and, I am afraid, +look like one too, when I hear it.’ + +‘I’m glad there’s even that much blood in you,’ cried old Kearney, who had +caught the words. ‘Oh dear! oh dear! England need never be afraid of the +young generation.’ + +‘That seems to be a very painful thought to you, sir,’ said Walpole. + +‘And so it is,’ replied he. ‘The lower we bend, the more you’ll lay on us. +It was your language, and what you call your civilisation, broke us down +first, and the little spirit that fought against either is fast dying out +of us.’ + +‘Do you want Mr. Walpole to become a Fenian, papa?’ asked Kate. + +‘You see, they took him for one to-day,’ broke in Dick, ‘when they came and +carried off all his luggage.’ + +‘By the way,’ interposed Walpole, ‘we must take care that that stupid +blunder does not get into the local papers, or we shall have it circulated +by the London press.’ + +‘I have already thought of that,’ said Dick, ‘and I shall go into Moate +to-morrow and see about it.’ + +‘Does that mean to say that you desert croquet?’ said Nina imperiously. + +‘You have got Lieutenant O’Shea in my place, and a better player than me +already.’ + +‘I fear I must take my leave to-morrow,’ said Gorman, with a touch of real +sorrow, for in secret he knew not whither he was going. + +‘Would your aunt not spare you to us for a few days?’ said the old man. ‘I +am in no favour with her just now, but she would scarcely refuse what we +would all deem a great favour.’ + +‘My aunt would not think the sacrifice too much for her,’ said Gorman, +trying to laugh at the conceit. + +‘You shall stay,’ murmured Nina, in a tone only audible to him; and by a +slight bow he acknowledged the words as a command. + +‘I believe my best way,’ said Gorman gaily, ‘will be to outstay my leave, +and take my punishment, whatever it be, when I go back again.’ + +‘That is military morality,’ said Walpole, in a half-whisper to Kate, but +to be overheard by Nina. ‘We poor civilians don’t understand how to keep a +debtor and creditor account with conscience.’ + +‘Could you manage to provoke that man to quarrel with you?’ said Nina +secretly to Gorman, while her eyes glanced towards Walpole. + +‘I think I might; but what then? _He_ wouldn’t fight, and the rest of +England would shun me.’ + +‘That is true,’ said she slowly. ‘When any is injured here, he tries to +make money out of it. I don’t suppose you want money?’ + +‘Not earned in that fashion, certainly. But I think they are saying +good-night.’ + +‘They’re always boasting about the man that found out the safety-lamp,’ +said old Kearney, as he moved away; ‘but give me the fellow that invented a +flat candlestick!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +SOME NIGHT-THOUGHTS + + +When Gorman reached his room, into which a rich flood of moonlight was +streaming, he extinguished his candle, and, seating himself at the open +window, lighted his cigar, seriously believing he was going to reflect on +his present condition, and forecast something of the future. Though he +had spoken so cavalierly of outstaying his time, and accepting arrest +afterwards, the jest was by no means so palatable now that he was alone, +and could own to himself that the leave he possessed was the unlimited +liberty to be houseless and a vagabond, to have none to claim, no roof to +shelter him. + +His aunt’s law-agent, the same Mr. McKeown who acted for Lord Kilgobbin, +had once told Gorman that all the King’s County property of the O’Sheas was +entailed upon him, and that his aunt had no power to alienate it. It is +true the old lady disputed this position, and so strongly resented even +allusion to it, that, for the sake of inheriting that twelve thousand +pounds she possessed in Dutch stock, McKeown warned Gorman to avoid +anything that might imply his being aware of this fact. + +Whether a general distrust of all legal people and their assertions was the +reason, or whether mere abstention from the topic had impaired the force of +its truth, or whether--more likely than either--he would not suffer himself +to question the intentions of one to whom he owed so much, certain is it +young O’Shea almost felt as much averse to the belief as the old lady +herself, and resented the thought of its being true, as of something that +would detract from the spirit of the affection she had always borne him, +and that he repaid by a love as faithful. + +‘No, no. Confound it!’ he would say to himself. ‘Aunt Betty loves me, and +money has no share in the affection I bear her. If she knew I must be her +heir, she’d say so frankly and freely. She’d scorn the notion of doling out +to me as benevolence what one day would be my own by right. She is proud +and intolerant enough, but she is seldom unjust--never so willingly and +consciously. If, then, she has not said O’Shea’s Barn must be mine some +time, it is because she knows well it cannot be true. Besides, this very +last step of hers, this haughty dismissal of me from her house, implies the +possession of a power which she would not dare to exercise if she were but +a life-tenant of the property. Last of all, had she speculated ever so +remotely on my being the proprietor of Irish landed property, it was most +unlikely she would so strenuously have encouraged me to pursue my career +as an Austrian soldier, and turn all my thoughts to my prospects under the +Empire.’ + +In fact, she never lost the opportunity of reminding him how unfit he was +to live in Ireland or amongst Irishmen. + +Such reflections as I have briefly hinted at here took him some time to +arrive at, for his thoughts did not come freely, or rapidly make place for +others. The sum of them, however, was that he was thrown upon the world, +and just at the very threshold of life, and when it held out its more +alluring prospects. + +There is something peculiarly galling to the man who is wincing under the +pang of poverty to find that the world regards him as rich and well off, +and totally beyond the accidents of fortune. It is not simply that he feels +how his every action will be misinterpreted and mistaken, and a spirit of +thrift, if not actual shabbiness, ascribed to all that he does, but he also +regards himself as a sort of imposition or sham, who has gained access to a +place he has no right to occupy, and to associate on terms of equality with +men of tastes and habits and ambitions totally above his own. It was in +this spirit he remembered Nina’s chance expression, ‘I don’t suppose _you_ +want money!’ There could be no other meaning in the phrase than some +foregone conclusion about his being a man of fortune. Of course she +acquired this notion from those around her. As a stranger to Ireland, +all she knew, or thought she knew, had been conveyed by others. ‘I don’t +suppose _you_ want money’ was another way of saying, ‘You are your aunt’s +heir. You are the future owner of the O’Shea estates. No vast property, it +is true; but quite enough to maintain the position of a gentleman.’ + +‘Who knows how much of this Lord Kilgobbin or his son Dick believed?’ +thought he. ‘But certainly my old playfellow Kate has no faith in the +matter, or if she have, it has little weight with her in her estimate of +me. + +‘It was in this very room I was lodged something like five years ago. It +was at this very window I used to sit at night, weaving Heaven knows what +dreams of a future. I was very much in love in those days, and a very +honest and loyal love it was. I wanted to be very great, and very gallant, +and distinguished, and above all, very rich; but only for _her_, only that +_she_ might be surrounded with every taste and luxury that became her, +and that she should share them with me. I knew well she was better than +me--better in every way: not only purer, and simpler, and more gentle, but +more patient, more enduring, more tenacious of what was true, and more +decidedly the enemy of what was merely expedient. Then, was she not +proud? not with the pride of birth or station, or of an old name and a +time-honoured house, but proud that whatever she did or said amongst the +tenantry or the neighbours, none ever ventured to question or even qualify +the intention that suggested it. The utter impossibility of ascribing a +double motive to her, or of imagining any object in what she counselled but +the avowed one, gave her a pride that accompanied her through every hour of +life. + +‘Last of all, she believed in _me_--believed I was going to be one day +something very famous and distinguished: a gallant soldier, whose very +presence gave courage to the men who followed him, and with a name repeated +in honour over Europe. The day was too short for these fancies, for they +grew actually as we fed them, and the wildest flight of imagination led us +on to the end of the time when there would be but one hope, one ambition, +and one heart between us. + +‘I am convinced that had any one at that time hinted to her that I was to +inherit the O’Shea estates, he would have dealt a most dangerous blow to +her affection for me. The romance of that unknown future had a great share +in our compact. And then we were so serious about it all--the very gravity +it impressed being an ecstasy to our young hearts in the thought of +self-importance and responsibility. Nor were we without our little +tiffs--those lovers’ quarrels that reveal what a terrible civil war can +rage within the heart that rebels against itself. I know the very spot +where we quarrelled; I could point to the miles of way we walked side by +side without a word; and oh! was it not on that very bed I have passed the +night sobbing till I thought my heart would break, all because I had not +fallen at her feet and begged her forgiveness ere we parted? Not that she +was without her self-accusings too; for I remember one way in which she +expressed sorrow for having done me wrong was to send me a shower of +rose-leaves from her little terraced garden; and as they fell in shoals +across my window, what a balm and bliss they shed over my heart! Would I +not give every hope I have to bring it all back again? to live it over once +more--to lie at her feet in the grass, affecting to read to her, but +really watching her long black lashes as they rested on her cheek, or that +quivering lip as it trembled with emotion. How I used to detest that work +which employed the blue-veined hand I loved to hold within my own, kissing +it at every pause in the reading, or whenever I could pretext a reason to +question her! And now, here I am in the self-same place, amidst the same +scenes and objects. Nothing changed but _herself_! She, however, will +remember nothing of the past, or if she does, it is with repugnance and +regret; her manner to me is a sort of cold defiance, not to dare to revive +our old intimacy, nor to fancy that I can take up our acquaintanceship from +the past. I almost fancied she looked resentfully at the Greek girl for the +freedom to which she admitted me--not but there was in the other’s coquetry +the very stamp of that levity other women are so ready to take offence at; +in fact, it constitutes amongst women exactly the same sort of outrage, the +same breach of honour and loyalty, as cheating at play does amongst men, +and the offenders are as much socially outlawed in one case as in the +other. I wonder, am I what is called falling in love with the Greek--that +is, I wonder, have the charms of her astonishing beauty and the grace of +her manner, and the thousand seductions of her voice, her gestures, and +her walk, above all, so captivated me that I do not want to go back on the +past, and may hope soon to repay Miss Kate Kearney by an indifference the +equal of her own? I don’t think so. Indeed, I feel that even when Nina +was interesting me most, I was stealing secret glances towards Kate, and +cursing that fellow Walpole for the way he was engaging her attention. +Little the Greek suspected, when she asked if “I could not fix a quarrel on +him,” with what a motive it was that my heart jumped at the suggestion! He +is so studiously ceremonious and distant with me; he seems to think I am +not one of those to be admitted to closer intimacy. I know that English +theory of “the unsafe man,” by which people of unquestionable courage avoid +contact with all schooled to other ways and habits than their own. I hate +it. “I am unsafe,” to his thinking. Well, if having no reason to care for +safety be sufficient, he is not far wrong. Dick Kearney, too, is not very +cordial. He scarcely seconded his father’s invitation to me, and what he +did say was merely what courtesy obliged. So that in reality, though the +old lord was hearty and good-natured, I believe I am here now because +Mademoiselle Nina commanded me, rather than from any other reason. If +this be true, it is, to say the least, a sorry compliment to my sense +of delicacy. Her words were, “You shall stay,” and it is upon this I am +staying.’ + +As though the air of the room grew more hard to breathe with this thought +before him, he arose and leaned half-way out of the window. + +As he did so, his ear caught the sound of voices. It was Kate and Nina, who +were talking on the terrace above his head. + +‘I declare, Nina,’ said Kate, ‘you have stripped every leaf off my poor +ivy-geranium; there’s nothing left of it but bare branches.’ + +‘There goes the last handful,’ said the other, as she threw them over the +parapet, some falling on Gorman as he leaned out. ‘It was a bad habit I +learned from yourself, child. I remember when I came here, you used to do +this each night, like a religious rite.’ + +‘I suppose they were the dried or withered leaves that I threw away,’ said +Kate, with a half-irritation in her voice. + +‘No, they were not. They were oftentimes from your prettiest roses, and +as I watched you, I saw it was in no distraction or inadvertence you were +doing this, for you were generally silent and thoughtful some time before, +and there was even an air of sadness about you, as though a painful thought +was bringing its gloomy memories.’ + +‘What an object of interest I have been to you without suspecting it,’ said +Kate coldly. + +‘It is true,’ said the other, in the same tone; ‘they who make few +confidences suggest much ingenuity. If you had a meaning in this act and +told me what it was, it is more than likely I had forgotten all about it +ere now. You preferred secrecy, and you made me curious.’ + +‘There was nothing to reward curiosity,’ said she, in the same measured +tone; then, after a moment, she added, ‘I’m sure I never sought to ascribe +some hidden motive to _you_. When _you_ left my plants leafless, I was +quite content to believe that you were mischievous without knowing it.’ + +‘I read you differently,’ said Nina. ‘When _you_ do mischief you mean +mischief. Now I became so--so--what shall I call it, _intriguée_ about this +little “fetish” of yours, that I remember well the night you first left off +and never resumed it.’ + +‘And when was that?’ asked Kate carelessly. + +‘On a certain Friday, the night Miss O’Shea dined here last; was it not a +Friday?’ + +‘Fridays, we fancy, are unlucky days,’ said Kate, in a voice of easy +indifference. + +‘I wonder which are the lucky ones?’ said Nina, sighing. ‘They are +certainly not put down in the Irish almanac. By the way, is not this a +Friday?’ + +‘Mr. O’Shea will not call it amongst his unlucky days,’ said Kate +laughingly. + +‘I almost think I like your Austrian,’ said the other. + +‘Only don’t call him _my_ Austrian.’ + +‘Well, he was yours till you threw him off. No, don’t be angry: I am only +talking in that careless slang we all use when we mean nothing, just as +people employ counters instead of money at cards; but I like him: he has +that easy flippancy in talk that asks for no effort to follow, and he says +his little nothings nicely, and he is not too eager as to great ones, or +too energetic, which you all are here. I like him.’ + +‘I fancied you liked the eager and enthusiastic people, and that you felt a +warm interest in Donogan’s fate.’ + +‘Yes, I do hope they’ll not catch him. It would be too horrid to think of +any one we had known being hanged! And then, poor fellow, he was very much +in love.’ + +‘Poor fellow!’ sighed out Kate. + +‘Not but it was the only gleam of sunlight in his existence; he could go +away and fancy that, with Heaven knows what chances of fortune, he might +have won me.’ + +‘Poor fellow!’ cried Kate, more sorrowfully than before. + +‘No, far from it, but very “happy fellow” if he could feed his heart with +such a delusion.’ + +‘And you think it fair to let him have this delusion?’ + +‘Of course I do. I’d no more rob him of it than I’d snatch a life-buoy from +a drowning man. Do you fancy, child, that the swimmer will always go about +with the corks that have saved his life?’ + +‘These mock analogies are sorry arguments,’ said Kate. + +‘Tell me, does your Austrian sing? I see he understands music, but I hope +he can sing.’ + +‘I can tell you next to nothing of my Austrian--if he must be called so. It +is five years since we met, and all I know is how little like he seems to +what he once was.’ + +‘I’m sure he is vastly improved: a hundred times better mannered; with more +ease, more quickness, and more readiness in conversation. I like him.’ + +‘I trust he’ll find out his great good-fortune--that is, if it be not a +delusion.’ + +For a few seconds there was a silence--a silence so complete that Gorman +could hear the rustle of a dress as Nina moved from her place, and seated +herself on the battlement of the terrace. He then could catch the low +murmuring sounds of her voice, as she hummed an air to herself, and at +length traced it to be the song she had sung that same evening in the +drawing-room. The notes came gradually more and more distinct, the tones +swelled out into greater fulness, and at last, with one long-sustained +cadence of thrilling passion, she cried, ‘_Non mi amava--non mi amava!_’ +with an expression of heart-breaking sorrow, the last syllables seeming to +linger on the lips as if a hope was deserting them for ever. ‘_Oh, non mi +amava!_’ cried she, and her voice trembled as though the avowal of her +despair was the last effort of her strength. Slowly and faintly the sounds +died away, while Gorman, leaning out to the utmost to catch the dying +notes, strained his hearing to drink them in. All was still, and then +suddenly, with a wild roulade that sounded at first like the passage of +a musical scale, she burst out into a fit of laughter, crying ‘_Non mi +amava,_’ through the sounds, in a half-frantic mockery. ‘_No, no, non mi +amava,_’ laughed she out, as she walked back into the room. The window was +now closed with a heavy bang, and all was silent in the house. + +‘And these are the affections we break our hearts for!’ cried Gorman, as he +threw himself on his bed, and covered his face with both his hands. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +THE HEAD CONSTABLE + + +The Inspector, or, to use the irreverent designation of the neighbourhood, +the Head Peeler, who had carried away Walpole’s luggage and papers, no +sooner discovered the grave mistake he had committed, than he hastened to +restore them, and was waiting personally at Kilgobbin Castle to apologise +for the blunder, long before any of the family had come downstairs. His +indiscretion might cost him his place, and Captain Curtis, who had to +maintain a wife and family, three saddle-horses, and a green uniform with +more gold on it than a field-marshal’s, felt duly anxious and uneasy for +what he had done. + +‘Who is that gone down the road?’ asked he, as he stood at the window, +while a woman was setting the room in order. + +‘Sure it’s Miss Kate taking the dogs out. Isn’t she always the first up of +a morning?’ Though the captain had little personal acquaintance with Miss +Kearney, he knew her well by reputation, and knew therefore that he might +safely approach her to ask a favour. He overtook her at once, and in a few +words made known the difficulty in which he found himself. + +‘Is it not after all a mere passing mistake, which once apologised for is +forgotten altogether?’ asked she. ‘Mr. Walpole is surely not a person to +bear any malice for such an incident?’ + +‘I don’t know that, Miss Kearney,’ said he doubtingly. ‘His papers have +been thoroughly ransacked, and old Mr. Flood, the Tory magistrate, has +taken copies of several letters and documents, all of course under the +impression that they formed part of a treasonable correspondence.’ + +‘Was it not very evident that the papers could not have belonged to a +Fenian leader? Was not any mistake in the matter easily avoided?’ + +[Illustration: Nina came forward at that moment] + +‘Not at once, because there was first of all a sort of account of the +insurrectionary movement here, with a number of queries, such as, “Who is +M----?” “Are F. Y---- and McCausland the same person?” “What connection +exists between the Meath outrages and the late events in Tipperary?” + “How is B---- to explain his conduct sufficiently to be retained in the +Commission of the Peace?” In a word, Miss Kearney, all the troublesome +details by which a Ministry have to keep their own supporters in decent +order, are here hinted at, if not more, and it lies with a batch of red-hot +Tories to make a terrible scandal out of this affair.’ + +‘It is graver than I suspected,’ said she thoughtfully. + +‘And I may lose my place,’ muttered Curtis, ‘unless, indeed, you would +condescend to say a word for me to Mr. Walpole.’ + +‘Willingly, if it were of any use, but I think my cousin, Mademoiselle +Kostalergi, would be likelier of success, and here she comes.’ + +Nina came forward at that moment, with that indolent grace of movement with +which she swept the greensward of the lawn as though it were the carpet of +a saloon. With a brief introduction of Mr. Curtis, her cousin Kate, in a +few words, conveyed the embarrassment of his present position, and his hope +that a kindly intercession might avert his danger. + +‘What droll people you must be not to find out that the letters of a +Viceroy’s secretary could not be the correspondence of a rebel leader,’ +said Nina superciliously. + +‘I have already told Miss Kearney how that fell out,’ said he; ‘and I +assure you there was enough in those papers to mystify better and clearer +heads.’ + +‘But you read the addresses, and saw how the letters began, “My dear Mr. +Walpole,” or “Dear Walpole”?’ + +‘And thought they had been purloined. Have I not found “Dear Clarendon” + often enough in the same packet with cross-bones and a coffin.’ + +‘What a country!’ said Nina, with a sigh. + +‘Very like Greece, I suppose,’ said Kate tartly; then, suddenly, ‘Will you +undertake to make this gentleman’s peace with Mr. Walpole, and show how the +whole was a piece of ill-directed zeal?’ + +‘Indiscreet zeal.’ + +‘Well, indiscreet, if you like it better.’ + +‘And you fancied, then, that all the fine linen and purple you carried away +were the properties of a head-centre?’ + +‘We thought so.’ + +‘And the silver objects of the dressing-table, and the ivory inlaid with +gold, and the trifles studded with turquoise?’ + +‘They might have been Donogan’s. Do you know, mademoiselle, that this same +Donogan was a man of fortune, and in all the society of the first men at +Oxford when--a mere boy at the time--he became a rebel?’ + +‘How nice of him! What a fine fellow!’ + +‘I’d say what a fool!’ continued Curtis. ‘He had no need to risk his neck +to achieve a station, the thing was done for him. He had a good house and a +good estate in Kilkenny; I have caught salmon in the river that washes the +foot of his lawn.’ + +‘And what has become of it; does he still own it?’ + +‘Not an acre--not a rood of it; sold every square yard of it to throw +the money into the Fenian treasury. Rifled artillery, Colt’s revolvers, +Remington’s, and Parrot guns have walked off with the broad acres.’ + +‘Fine fellow--a fine fellow!’ cried Nina enthusiastically. + +‘That fine fellow has done a deal of mischief,’ said Kate thoughtfully. + +‘He has escaped, has he not?’ asked Nina. + +‘We hope not--that is, we know that he is about to sail for St. John’s by +a clipper now in Belfast, and we shall have a fast steam-corvette ready to +catch her in the Channel. He’ll be under Yankee colours, it is true, and +claim an American citizenship; but we must run risks sometimes, and this is +one of those times.’ + +‘But you know where he is now? Why not apprehend him on shore?’ + +‘The very thing we do not know, mademoiselle. I’d rather be sure of it +than have five thousand pounds in my hand. Some say he is here, in the +neighbourhood; some that he is gone south; others declare that he has +reached Liverpool. All we really do know is about the ship that he means to +sail in, and on which the second mate has informed us.’ + +‘And all your boasted activity is at fault,’ said she insolently, ‘when you +have to own you cannot track him.’ + +‘Nor is it so easy, mademoiselle, where a whole population befriend and +feel for him.’ + +‘And if they do, with what face can you persecute what has the entire +sympathy of a nation?’ + +‘Don’t provoke answers which are sure not to satisfy you, and which you +could but half comprehend; but tell Mr. Curtis you will use your influence +to make Mr. Walpole forget this mishap.’ + +‘But I do want to go to the bottom of this question. I will insist on +learning why people rebel here.’ + +‘In that case, I’ll go home to breakfast, and I’ll be quite satisfied if I +see you at luncheon,’ said Kate. + +‘Do, pray, Mr. Curtis, tell me all about it. Why do some people shoot the +others who are just as much Irish as themselves? Why do hungry people kill +the cattle and never eat them? And why don’t the English go away and leave +a country where nobody likes them? If there be a reason for these things, +let me hear it.’ + +‘Bye-bye,’ said Kate, waving her hand, as she turned away. + +‘You are so ungenerous,’ cried Nina, hurrying after her; ‘I am a stranger, +and would naturally like to learn all that I could of the country and the +people; here is a gentleman full of the very knowledge I am seeking. He +knows all about these terrible Fenians. What will they do with Donogan if +they take him?’ + +‘Transport him for life; they’ll not hang him, I think.’ + +‘That’s worse than hanging. I mean--that is--Miss Kearney would rather +they’d hang him.’ + +‘I have not said so,’ replied Kate, ‘and I don’t suspect I think so, +either.’ + +‘Well,’ said Nina, after a pause, ‘let us go back to breakfast. You’ll see +Mr. Walpole--he’s sure to be down by that time; and I’ll tell him what you +wish is, that he must not think any more of the incident; that it was a +piece of official stupidity, done, of course, out of the best motives; and +that if he should cut a ridiculous figure at the end, he has only himself +to blame for the worse than ambiguity of his private papers.’ + +‘I do not know that I ‘d exactly say that,’ said Kate, who felt some +difficulty in not laughing at the horror-struck expression of Mr. Curtis’s +face. + +‘Well, then, I’ll say--this was what I wished to tell you, but my cousin +Kate interposed and suggested that a little adroit flattery of you, and +some small coquetries that might make you believe you were charming, would +be the readiest mode to make you forget anything disagreeable, and she +would charge herself with the task.’ + +‘Do so,’ said Kate calmly; ‘and let us now go back to breakfast.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +SOME IRISHRIES + + +That which the English irreverently call ‘chaff’ enters largely as an +element into Irish life; and when Walpole stigmatised the habit to Joe +Atlee as essentially that of the smaller island, he was not far wrong. I +will not say that it is a high order of wit--very elegant, or very refined; +but it is a strong incentive to good-humour--a vent to good spirits; and +being a weapon which every Irishman can wield in some fashion or other, +establishes that sort of joust which prevailed in the mêlée tournaments, +and where each tilted with whom he pleased. + +Any one who has witnessed the progress of an Irish trial, even when the +crime was of the very gravest, cannot fail to have been struck by the +continual clash of smart remark and smarter rejoinder between the Bench +and the Bar; showing how men feel the necessity of ready-wittedness, and a +promptitude to repel attack, in which even the prisoner in the dock takes +his share, and cuts his joke at the most critical moment of his existence. + +The Irish theatre always exhibits traits of this national taste; but a +dinner-party, with its due infusion of barristers, is the best possible +exemplification of this give and take, which, even if it had no higher +merit, is a powerful ally of good-humour, and the sworn foe to everything +like over-irritability or morbid self-esteem. Indeed, I could not wish a +very conceited man, of a somewhat grave temperament and distant demeanour, +a much heavier punishment than a course of Irish dinner-parties; for even +though he should come out scathless himself, the outrages to his sense +of propriety, and the insults to his ideas of taste, would be a severe +suffering. + +That breakfast-table at Kilgobbin had some heavy hearts around the board. +There was not, with the exception of Walpole, one there who had not, in the +doubts that beset his future, grave cause for anxiety; and yet to look at, +still more to listen to them, you would have said that Walpole alone had +any load of care upon his heart, and that the others were a light-hearted, +happy set of people, with whom the world went always well. No cloud!--not +even a shadow to darken the road before them. Of this levity, for I suppose +I must give it a hard name--the source of much that is best and worst +amongst us--our English rulers take no account, and are often as ready to +charge us with a conviction, which was no more than a caprice, as they are +to nail us down to some determination, which was simply a drollery; and +until some intelligent traveller does for us what I lately perceived a +clever tourist did for the Japanese, in explaining their modes of thought, +impulses, and passions to the English, I despair of our being better known +in Downing Street than we now are. + +Captain Curtis--for it is right to give him his rank--was fearfully nervous +and uneasy, and though he tried to eat his breakfast with an air of +unconcern and carelessness, he broke his egg with a tremulous hand, and +listened with painful eagerness every time Walpole spoke. + +‘I wish somebody would send us the _Standard_; when it is known that the +Lord-Lieutenant’s secretary has turned Fenian,’ said Kilgobbin, ‘won’t +there be a grand Tory out-cry over the unprincipled Whigs?’ + +‘The papers need know nothing whatever of the incident,’ interposed Curtis +anxiously, ‘if old Flood is not busy enough to inform them.’ + +‘Who is old Flood?’ asked Walpole. + +‘A Tory J.P., who has copied out a considerable share of your +correspondence,’ said Kilgobbin. + +‘And four letters in a lady’s hand,’ added Dick, ‘that he imagines to be a +treasonable correspondence by symbol.’ + +‘I hope Mr. Walpole,’ said Kate, ‘will rather accept felony to the law than +falsehood to the lady.’ + +‘You don’t mean to say--’ began Walpole angrily; then correcting his +irritable manner, he added, ‘Am I to suppose my letters have been read?’ + +‘Well, roughly looked through,’ said Curtis. ‘Just a glance here and there +to catch what they meant.’ + +‘Which I must say was quite unnecessary,’ said Walpole haughtily. + +‘It was a sort of journal of yours,’ blundered out Curtis, who had a most +unhappy knack of committing himself, ‘that they opened first, and they saw +an entry with Kilgobbin Castle at the top of it, and the date last July.’ + +‘There was nothing political in that, I’m sure,’ said Walpole. + +‘No, not exactly, but a trifle rebellious, all the same; the words, “We +this evening learned a Fenian song, ‘The time to begin,’ and rather suspect +it is time to leave off; the Greek better-looking than ever, and more +dangerous.”’ + +Curtis’s last words were drowned in the laugh that now shook the table; +indeed, except Walpole and Nina herself, they actually roared with +laughter, which burst out afresh, as Curtis, in his innocence, said, ‘We +could not make out about the Greek, but we hoped we’d find out later on.’ + +‘And I fervently trust you did,’ said Kilgobbin. + +‘I’m afraid not; there was something about somebody called Joe, that the +Greek wouldn’t have him, or disliked him, or snubbed him--indeed, I forget +the words.’ + +‘You are quite right, sir, to distrust your memory,’ said Walpole; ‘it has +betrayed you most egregiously already.’ + +‘On the contrary,’ burst in Kilgobbin, ‘I am delighted with this proof of +the captain’s acuteness; tell us something more, Curtis.’ + +‘There was then, “From the upper castle yard, Maude,” whoever Maude is, +“says, ‘Deny it all, and say you never were there,’ not so easy as she +thinks, with a broken right arm, and a heart not quite so whole as it ought +to be.”’ + +‘There, sir--with the permission of my friends here--I will ask you to +conclude your reminiscences of my private papers, which can have no +possible interest for any one but myself.’ + +‘Quite wrong in that,’ cried Kilgobbin, wiping his eyes, which had run over +with laughter. ‘There’s nothing I’d like so much as to hear more of them.’ + +‘What was that about his heart?’ whispered Curtis to Kate; ‘was he wounded +in the side also?’ + +‘I believe so,’ said she dryly; ‘but I believe he has got quite over it by +this time.’ + +‘Will you say a word or two about me, Miss Kearney?’ whispered he again; +‘I’m not sure I improved my case by talking so freely; but as I saw you all +so outspoken, I thought I’d fall into your ways.’ + +‘Captain Curtis is much concerned for any fault he may have committed in +this unhappy business,’ said Kate, ‘and he trusts that the agitation and +excitement of the Donogan escape will excuse him.’ + +‘That’s your policy now,’ interposed Kilgobbin. ‘Catch the Fenian fellow, +and nobody will remember the other incident.’ + +‘We mean to give out that we know he has got clear away to America,’ said +Curtis, with an air of intense cunning. ‘And to lull his suspicions, we +have notices in print to say that no further rewards are to be given for +his apprehension; so that he’ll get a false confidence, and move about as +before.’ + +‘With such acuteness as yours on his trail, his arrest is certain,’ said +Walpole gravely. + +‘Well, I hope so, too,’ said Curtis, in good faith for the compliment.’ +Didn’t I take up nine men for the search of arms here, though there were +only five? One of them turned evidence,’ added he gravely;’ he was the +fellow that swore Miss Kearney stood between you and the fire after they +wounded you.’ + +‘You are determined to make Mr. Walpole your friend,’ whispered Nina in his +ear; ‘don’t you see, sir, that you are ruining yourself?’ + +‘I have often been puzzled to explain how it was that crime went unpunished +in Ireland,’ said Walpole sententiously. + +‘And you know now?’ asked Curtis. + +‘Yes; in a great measure, you have supplied me with the information.’ + +‘I believe it’s all right now,’ muttered the captain to Kate. ‘If the swell +owns that I have put him up to a thing or two, he’ll not throw me over.’ + +‘Would you give me three minutes of your time?’ whispered Gorman O’Shea to +Lord Kilgobbin, as they arose from table. + +‘Half an hour, my boy, or more if you want it. Come along with me now into +my study, and we’ll be safe there from all interruption.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +SAGE ADVICE + + +‘So then you’re in a hobble with your aunt,’ said Mr. Kearney, as he +believed he had summed up the meaning of a very blundering explanation by +Gorman O’Shea; ‘isn’t that it?’ + +‘Yes, sir; I suppose it comes to that.’ + +‘The old story, I’ve no doubt, if we only knew it--as old as the +Patriarchs: the young ones go into debt, and think it very hard that the +elders dislike the paying it.’ + +‘No, no; I have no debts--at least, none to speak of.’ + +‘It’s a woman, then? Have you gone and married some good-looking girl, with +no fortune and less family? Who is she?’ + +‘Not even that, sir,’ said he, half impatient at seeing how little +attention had been bestowed on his narrative. + +‘’Tis bad enough, no doubt,’ continued the old man, still in pursuit of his +own reflections; ‘not but there’s scores of things worse; for if a man is a +good fellow at heart, he’ll treat the woman all the better for what she has +cost him. That is one of the good sides of selfishness; and when you have +lived as long as me, Gorman, you’ll find out how often there’s something +good to be squeezed out of a bad quality, just as though it were a bit of +our nature that was depraved, but not gone to the devil entirely.’ + +‘There is no woman in the case here, sir,’ said O’Shea bluntly, for these +speculations only irritated him. + +‘Ho, ho! I have it, then,’ cried the old man. ‘You’ve been burning your +fingers with rebellion. It’s the Fenians have got a hold of you.’ + +‘Nothing of the kind, sir. If you’ll just read these two letters. The one +is mine, written on the morning I came here: here is my aunt’s. The first +is not word for word as I sent it, but as well as I can remember. At all +events, it will show how little I had provoked the answer. There, that’s +the document that came along with my trunks, and I have never heard from +her since.’ + +‘“Dear Nephew,”’ read out the old man, after patiently adjusting his +spectacles--‘“O’Shea’s Barn is not an inn,”--And more’s the pity,’ added +he; ‘for it would be a model house of entertainment. You’d say any one +could have a sirloin of beef or a saddle of mutton; but where Miss Betty +gets hers is quite beyond me. “Nor are the horses at public livery,”’ read +he out. ‘I think I may say, if they were, that Kattoo won’t be hired out +again to the young man that took her over the fences. “As you seem fond of +warnings,”’ continued he, aloud--‘Ho, ho! that’s at _you_ for coming over +here to tell me about the search-warrant; and she tells you to mind your +own business; and droll enough it is. We always fancy we’re saying an +impertinence to a man when we tell him to attend to what concerns him most. +It shows, at least, that we think meddling a luxury. And then she adds, +“Kilgobbin is welcome to you,” and I can only say you are welcome to +Kilgobbin--ay, and in her own words--“with such regularity and order as the +meals succeed.”--“All the luggage belonging to you,” etc., and “I am, very +respectfully, your Aunt.” By my conscience, there was no need to sign it! +That was old Miss Betty all the world over!’ and he laughed till his eyes +ran over, though the rueful face of young O’Shea was staring at him all the +time. ‘Don’t look so gloomy, O’Shea,’ cried Kearney: ‘I have not so good a +cook, nor, I’m sorry to say, so good a cellar, as at the Barn; but there +are young faces, and young voices, and young laughter, and a light step +on the stairs; and if I know anything, or rather, if I remember anything, +these will warm a heart at your age better than ‘44 claret or the crustiest +port that ever stained a decanter.’ + +‘I am turned out, sir--sent adrift on the world,’ said the young man +despondently. + +‘And it is not so bad a thing after all, take my word for it, boy. It’s a +great advantage now and then to begin life as a vagabond. It takes a deal +of snobbery out of a fellow to lie under a haystack, and there’s no better +cure for pretension than a dinner of cold potatoes. Not that I say you +need the treatment--far from it--but our distinguished friend Mr. Walpole +wouldn’t be a bit the worse of such an alterative.’ + +‘If I am left without a shilling in the world?’ + +‘Then you must try what you can do on sixpence--the whole thing is how you +begin. I used not to be able to eat my dinner when I did not see the fellow +in a white tie standing before the sideboard, and the two flunkeys in plush +and silk stockings at either side of the table; and when I perceived that +the decanters had taken their departure, and that it was beer I was given +to drink, I felt as if I had dined, and was ready to go out and have a +smoke in the open air; but a little time, even without any patience, but +just time, does it all.’ + +‘Time won’t teach a man to live upon nothing.’ + +‘It would be very hard for him if it did; let him begin by having few +wants, and work hard to supply means for them.’ + +‘Work hard! why, sir, if I laboured from daylight to dark, I’d not earn the +wages of the humblest peasant, and I’d not know how to live on it.’ + +‘Well, I have given you all the philosophy in my budget, and to tell you +the truth, Gorman, except so far as coming down in the world in spite of +myself, I know mighty little about the fine precepts I have been giving +you; but this I know, you have a roof over your head here, and you’re +heartily welcome to it; and who knows but your aunt may come to terms all +the sooner, because she sees you here?’ + +‘You are very generous to me, and I feel it deeply,’ said the young man; +but he was almost choked with the words. + +‘You have told me already, Gorman, that your aunt gave you no other reason +against coming here than that I had not been to call on you; and I believe +you--believe you thoroughly; but tell me now, with the same frankness, was +there nothing passing in your mind--had you no suspicions or misgivings, or +something of the same kind, to keep you away? Be candid with me now, and +speak it out freely.’ + +‘None, on my honour; I was sorely grieved to be told I must not come, and +thought very often of rebelling, so that indeed, when I did rebel, I was in +a measure prepared for the penalty, though scarcely so heavy as this.’ + +‘Don’t take it to heart. It will come right yet--everything comes right +if we give it time--and there’s plenty of time to the fellow who is not +five-and-twenty. It’s only the old dogs, like myself, who are always doing +their match against time, are in a hobble. To feel that every minute of the +clock is something very like three weeks of the almanac, flurries a man, +when he wants to be cool and collected. Put your hat on a peg, and make +your home here. If you want to be of use, Kitty will show you scores of +things to do about the garden, and we never object to see a brace of snipe +at the end of dinner, though there’s nobody cares to shoot them; and the +bog trout--for all their dark colour--are excellent catch, and I know you +can throw a line. All I say is, do something, and something that takes you +into the open air. Don’t get to lying about in easy-chairs and reading +novels; don’t get to singing duets and philandering about with the girls. +May I never, if I’d not rather find a brandy-flask in your pocket than +Tennyson’s poems!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +REPROOF + + +‘Say it out frankly, Kate,’ cried Nina, as with flashing eyes and +heightened colour she paced the drawing-room from end to end, with that +bold sweeping stride which in moments of passion betrayed her. ‘Say it out. +I know perfectly what you are hinting at.’ + +‘I never hint,’ said the other gravely; ‘least of all with those I love.’ + +‘So much the better. I detest an equivoque. If I am to be shot, let me look +the fire in the face.’ + +‘There is no question of shooting at all. I think you are very angry for +nothing.’ + +‘Angry for nothing! Do you call that studied coldness you have +observed towards me all day yesterday nothing? Is your ceremonious +manner--exquisitely polite, I will not deny--is that nothing? Is your +chilling salute when we met--I half believe you curtsied--nothing? That you +shun me, that you take pains not to keep my company, never to be with me +alone is past denial.’ + +‘And I do not deny it,’ said Kate, with a voice of calm and quiet meaning. + +‘At last, then, I have the avowal. You own that you love me no longer.’ + +‘No, I own nothing of the kind: I love you very dearly; but I see that +our ideas of life are so totally unlike, that unless one should bend and +conform to the other, we cannot blend our thoughts in that harmony which +perfect confidence requires. You are so much above me in many things, +so much more cultivated and gifted--I was going to say civilised, and I +believe I might--’ + +‘Ta--ta--ta,’ cried Nina impatiently. ‘These flatteries are very +ill-timed.’ + +‘So they would be, if they were flatteries; but if you had patience to hear +me out, you’d have learned that I meant a higher flattery for myself.’ + +‘Don’t I know it? don’t I guess?’ cried the Greek. ‘Have not your downcast +eyes told it? and that look of sweet humility that says, “At least I am not +a flirt?”’ + +‘Nor am I,’ said Kate coldly. + +‘And I am! Come now, do confess. You want to say it.’ + +‘With all my heart I wish you were not!’ And Kate’s eyes swam as she spoke. + +‘And what if I tell you that I know it--that in the very employment of +the arts of what you call coquetry, I am but exercising those powers of +pleasing by which men are led to frequent the salon instead of the café, +and like the society of the cultivated and refined better than--’ + +‘No, no, no!’ burst in Kate. ‘There is no such mock principle in the case. +You are a flirt because you like the homage it secures you, and because, +as you do not believe in such a thing as an honest affection, you have no +scruple about trifling with a man’s heart.’ + +‘So much for captivating that bold hussar,’ cried Nina. + +‘For the moment I was not thinking of him.’ + +‘Of whom, then?’ + +‘Of that poor Captain Curtis, who has just ridden away.’ + +‘Oh, indeed!’ + +‘Yes. He has a pretty wife and three nice little girls, and they are +the happiest people in the world. They love each other, and love their +home--so, at least, I am told, for I scarcely know them myself.’ + +‘And what have I done with _him_?’ + +‘Sent him away sad and doubtful--very doubtful if the happiness he believed +in was the real article after all, and disposed to ask himself how it was +that his heart was beating in a new fashion, and that some new sense had +been added to his nature, of which he had no inkling before. Sent him away +with the notes of a melody floating through his brain, so that the merry +laugh of his children will be a discord, and such a memory of a soft +glance, that his wife’s bright look will be meaningless.’ + +‘And I have done all this? Poor me!’ + +‘Yes, and done it so often, that it leaves no remorse behind it.’ + +‘And the same, I suppose, with the others?’ + +‘With Mr. Walpole, and Dick, and Mr. O’Shea, and Mr. Atlee too, when he was +here, in their several ways.’ + +‘Oh, in theirs, not in mine, then?’ + +‘I am but a bungler in my explanation. I wished to say that you adapted +your fascinations to the tastes of each.’ + +‘What a siren!’ + +‘Well, yes--what a siren; for they’re all in love in some fashion or other; +but I could have forgiven you these, had you spared the married man.’ + +‘So you actually envy that poor prisoner the gleam of light and the breath +of cold air that comes between his prison bars--that one moment of ecstasy +that reminds him how he once was free and at large, and no manacles to +weigh him down? You will not let him even touch bliss in imagination? Are +_you_ not more cruel than _me_?’ + +‘This is mere nonsense,’ said Kate boldly. ‘You either believe that man was +fooling _you_, or that you have sent him away unhappy? Take which of these +you like.’ + +‘Can’t your rustic nature see that there is a third case, quite different +from both, and that Harry Curtis went off believing--’ + +‘Was he Harry Curtis?’ broke in Kate. + +‘He was dear Harry when I said good-bye,’ said Nina calmly. + +‘Oh, then, I give up everything--I throw up my brief.’ + +‘So you ought, for you have lost your cause long ago.’ + +‘Even that poor Donogan was not spared, and Heaven knows he had troubles +enough on his head to have pleaded some pity for him.’ + +‘And is there no kind word to say of _me_, Kate?’ + +‘O Nina, how ashamed you make me of my violence, when I dare to blame you! +but if I did not love you so dearly, I could better bear you should have a +fault.’ + +‘I have only one, then?’ + +‘I know of no great one but this. I mean, I know of none that endangers +good-nature and right feeling.’ + +‘And are you so sure that this does? Are you so sure that what you are +faulting is not the manner and the way of a world you have not seen? that +all these levities, as you would call them, are not the ordinary wear of +people whose lives are passed where there is more tolerance and less pain?’ + +‘Be serious, Nina, for a moment, and own that it was by intention you were +in the approach when Captain Curtis rode away: that you said something to +him, or looked something--perhaps both--on which he got down from his horse +and walked beside you for full a mile?’ + +‘All true,’ said Nina calmly. ‘I confess to every part of it.’ + +‘I’d far rather that you said you were sorry for it.’ + +‘But I am not; I’m very glad--I’m very proud of it. + +Yes, look as reproachfully as you like, Kate! “very proud” was what I +said.’ + +‘Then I am indeed sorry,’ said Kate, growing pale as she spoke. + +‘I don’t think, after all this sharp lecturing of me, that you deserve +much of my confidence, and if I make you any, Kate, it is not by way +of exculpation; for I do not accept your blame; it is simply out of +caprice--mind that, and that I am not thinking of defending myself.’ + +‘I can easily believe that,’ said Kate dryly. + +And the other continued: ‘When Captain Curtis was talking to your father, +and discussing the chances of capturing Donogan, he twice or thrice +mentioned Harper and Fry--names which somehow seemed familiar to me; and +on thinking the matter over when I went to my room, I opened Donogan’s +pocket-book and there found how these names had become known to me. Harper +and Fry were tanners, in Cork Street, and theirs was one of the addresses +by which, if I had occasion to warn Donogan, I could write to him. On +hearing these names from Curtis, it struck me that there might be treachery +somewhere. Was it that these men themselves had turned traitors to the +cause? or had another betrayed them? Whichever way the matter went, Donogan +was evidently in great danger; for this was one of the places he regarded +as perfectly safe. + +‘What was to be done? I dared not ask advice on any side. To reveal the +suspicions which were tormenting me required that I should produce this +pocket-book, and to whom could I impart this man’s secret? I thought of +your brother Dick, but he was from home, and even if he had not been, I +doubt if I should have told him. I should have come to you, Kate, but that +grand rebukeful tone you had taken up this last twenty-four hours repelled +me; and finally, I took counsel with myself. I set off just before Captain +Curtis started, to what you have called waylay him in the avenue. + +‘Just below the beech-copse he came up; and then that small flirtation of +the drawing-room, which has caused you so much anger and me such a sharp +lesson, stood me in good stead, and enabled me to arrest his progress by +some chance word or two, and at last so far to interest him that he got +down and walked along at my side. I shall not shock you by recalling the +little tender “nothings” that passed between us, nor dwell on the small +mockeries of sentiment which we exchanged--I hope very harmlessly--but +proceed at once to what I felt my object. He was profuse of his gratitude +for what I had done for him with Walpole, and firmly believed that my +intercession alone had saved him; and so I went on to say that the best +reparation he could make for his blunder would be some exercise of +well-directed activity when occasion should offer. “Suppose, for instance,” + said I, “you could capture this man Donogan?” + +‘“The very thing I hope to do,” cried he. “The train is laid already. One +of my constables has a brother in a well-known house in Dublin, the members +of which, men of large wealth and good position, have long been suspected +of holding intercourse with the rebels. Through his brother, himself a +Fenian, this man has heard that a secret committee will meet at this place +on Monday evening next, at which Donogan will be present. Molloy, +another head-centre, will also be there, and Cummings, who escaped from +Carrickfergus.” I took down all the names, Kate, the moment we parted, and +while they were fresh in my memory. “We’ll draw the net on them all,” said +he; “and such a haul has not been made since ‘98. The rewards alone will +amount to some thousands.” It was then I said, “And is there no danger, +Harry? “’ + +‘O Nina!’ + +‘Yes, darling, it was very dreadful, and I felt it so; but somehow one is +carried away by a burst of feeling at certain moments, and the shame only +comes too late. Of course it was wrong of me to call him Harry, and he, +too, with a wife at home, and five little girls--or three, I forget +which--should never have sworn that he loved me, nor said all that mad +nonsense about what he felt in that region where chief constables have +their hearts; but I own to great tenderness and a very touching sensibility +on either side. Indeed, I may add here, that the really sensitive +natures amongst men are never found under forty-five; but for genuine, +uncalculating affection, for the sort of devotion that flings consequences +to the winds, I say, give me fifty-eight or sixty.’ + +‘Nina, do not make me hate you,’ said Kate gravely. + +‘Certainly not, dearest, if a little hypocrisy will avert such a +misfortune. And so to return to my narrative, I learned, as accurately as a +gentleman so much in love could condescend to inform me, of all the steps +taken to secure Donogan at this meeting, or to capture him later on if he +should try to make his escape by sea.’ + +‘You mean, then, to write to Donogan and apprise him of his danger?’ + +‘It is done. I wrote the moment I got back here. I addressed him as Mr. +James Bredin, care of Jonas Mullory, Esq., 41 New Street, which was the +first address in the list he gave me. I told him of the peril he ran, +and what his friends were also threatened by, and I recounted the absurd +seizure of Mr. Walpole’s effects here; and, last of all, what a dangerous +rival he had in this Captain Curtis, who was ready to desert wife, +children, and the constabulary to-morrow for me; and assuring him +confidentially that I was well worth greater sacrifices of better men, I +signed my initials in Greek letters.’ + +‘Marvellous caution and great discretion,’ said Kate solemnly. + +‘And now come over to the drawing-room, where I have promised to sing for +Mr. O’Shea some little ballad that he dreamed over all the night through; +and then there’s something else--what is it? what is it?’ + +‘How should I know, Nina? I was not present at your arrangement.’ + +‘Never mind; I’ll remember it presently. It will come to my recollection +while I’m singing that song.’ + +‘If emotion is not too much for you.’ + +‘Just so, Kate--sensibilities permitting; and, indeed,’ she said,’ I +remember it already. It was luncheon.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +HOW MEN IN OFFICE MAKE LOVE + + +‘Is it true they have captured Donogan?’ said Nina, coming hurriedly into +the library, where Walpole was busily engaged with his correspondence, and +sat before a table covered not only with official documents, but a number +of printed placards and handbills. + +He looked up, surprised at her presence, and by the tone of familiarity in +her question, for which he was in no way prepared, and for a second or two +actually stared at without answering her. + +‘Can’t you tell me? Are they correct in saying he has been caught?’ cried +she impatiently. + +‘Very far from it. There are the police returns up to last night from +Meath, Kildare, and Dublin; and though he was seen at Naas, passed some +hours in Dublin, and actually attended a night meeting at Kells, all trace +of him has been since lost, and he has completely baffled us. By the +Viceroy’s orders, I am now doubling the reward for his apprehension, and +am prepared to offer a free pardon to any who shall give information about +him, who may not actually have committed a felony.’ + +‘Is he so very dangerous, then?’ + +‘Every man who is so daring is dangerous here. The people have a sort of +idolatry for reckless courage. It is not only that he has ventured to +come back to the country where his life is sacrificed to the law, but he +declares openly he is ready to offer himself as a representative for an +Irish county, and to test in his own person whether the English will have +the temerity to touch the man--the choice of the Irish people.’ + +‘He is bold,’ said she resolutely. + +‘And I trust he will pay for his boldness! Our law-officers are prepared +to treat him as a felon, irrespective of all claim to his character as a +Member of Parliament.’ + +‘The danger will not deter him.’ + +‘You think so?’ + +‘I know it,’ was the calm reply. + +‘Indeed,’ said he, bending a steady look at her. ‘What opportunities, might +I ask, have you had to form this same opinion?’ + +‘Are not the public papers full of him? Have we not an almost daily record +of his exploits? Do not your own rewards for his capture impart an almost +fabulous value to his life?’ + +‘His portrait, too, may lend some interest to his story,’ said he, with +a half-sneering smile. ‘They say this is very like him.’ And he handed a +photograph as he spoke. + +‘This was done in New York,’ said she, turning to the back of the card, the +better to hide an emotion she could not entirely repress. + +‘Yes, done by a brother Fenian, long since in our pay.’ + +‘How base all that sounds! how I detest such treachery!’ + +‘How deal with treason without it? Is it like him?’ asked he artlessly. + +‘How should I know?’ said she, in a slightly hurried tone. ‘It is not like +the portrait in the _Illustrated News_.’ + +‘I wonder which is the more like,’ added he thoughtfully, ‘and I fervently +hope we shall soon know. There is not a man he confides in who has not +engaged to betray him.’ + +‘I trust you feel proud of your achievement.’ + +‘No, not proud, but very anxious for its success. The perils of this +country are too great for mere sensibilities. He who would extirpate a +terrible disease must not fear the knife.’ + +‘Not if he even kill the patient?’ asked she. + +‘That might happen, and would be to be deplored,’ said he, in the same +unmoved tone. ‘But might I ask, whence has come all this interest for this +cause, and how have you learned so much sympathy with these people?’ + +‘I read the newspapers,’ said she dryly. + +‘You must read those of only one colour, then,’ said he slyly; ‘or perhaps +it is the tone of comment you hear about you. Are your sentiments such as +you daily listen to from Lord Kilgobbin and his family?’ + +‘I don’t know that they are. I suspect I’m more of a rebel than he is; but +I’ll ask him if you wish it.’ + +‘On no account, I entreat you. It would compromise me seriously to hear +such a discussion even in jest. Remember who I am, mademoiselle, and the +office I hold.’ + +‘Your great frankness, Mr. Walpole, makes me sometimes forget both,’ said +she, with well-acted humility. + +‘I wish it would do something more,’ said he eagerly. ‘I wish it would +inspire a little emulation, and make you deal as openly with _me_ as I long +to do with _you_.’ + +‘It might embarrass you very much, perhaps.’ + +‘As how?’ asked he, with a touch of tenderness in his voice. + +For a second or two she made no answer, and then, faltering at each word, +she said, ‘What if some rebel leader--this man Donogan, for instance--drawn +towards you b some secret magic of trustfulness, moved by I know not what +need of your sympathy--for there is such a craving void now and then felt +in the heart--should tell you some secret thought of his nature--something +that he could utter alone to himself--would you bring yourself to use it +against him? Could you turn round and say, “I have your inmost soul in my +keeping. You are mine now--mine--mine?”’ + +‘Do I understand you aright?’ said he earnestly. ‘Is it just possible, even +possible, that you have that to confide to me which would show that you +regard me as a dear friend?’ + +‘Oh! Mr. Walpole,’ burst she out passionately, ‘do not by the greater power +of _your_ intellect seek the mastery over _mine_. Let the loneliness and +isolation of my life here rather appeal to you to pity than suggest the +thought of influencing and dominating me.’ + +‘Would that I might. What would I not give or do to have that power that +you speak of.’ + +‘Is this true?’ said she. + +‘It is.’ + +‘Will you swear it?’ + +‘Most solemnly.’ + +She paused for a moment, and a slight tremor shook her mouth; but whether +the motion expressed a sentiment of acute pain or a movement of repressed +sarcasm, it was very difficult to determine. + +‘What is it, then, that you would swear?’ asked she calmly and even coldly. + +‘Swear that I have no hope so high, no ambition so great, as to win your +heart.’ + +‘Indeed! And that other heart that you have won--what is to become of it?’ + +‘Its owner has recalled it. In fact, it was never in _my_ keeping but as a +loan.’ + +‘How strange! At least, how strange to me this sounds. I, in my ignorance, +thought that people pledged their very lives in these bargains.’ + +‘So it ought to be, and so it would be, if this world were not a web of +petty interests and mean ambitions; and these, I grieve to say, will find +their way into hearts that should be the home of very different sentiments. +It was of this order was that compact with my cousin--for I will speak +openly to you, knowing it is her to whom you allude. We were to have been +married. It was an old engagement. Our friends--that is, I believe, the +way to call them--liked it. They thought it a good thing for each of us. +Indeed, making the dependants of a good family intermarry is an economy of +patronage--the same plank rescues two from drowning. I believe--that is, I +fear--we accepted all this in the same spirit. We were to love each other +as much as we could, and our relations were to do their best for us.’ + +‘And now it is all over?’ + +‘All--and for ever.’ + +‘How came this about?’ + +‘At first by a jealousy about _you_.’ + +‘A jealousy about _me_! You surely never dared--’ and here her voice +trembled with real passion, while her eyes flashed angrily. + +‘No, no. I am guiltless in the matter. It was that cur Atlee made the +mischief. In a moment of weak trustfulness, I sent him over to Wales to +assist my uncle in his correspondence. He, of course, got to know +Lady Maude Bickerstaffe--by what arts he ingratiated himself into her +confidence, I cannot say. Indeed, I had trusted that the fellow’s vulgarity +would form an impassable barrier between them, and prevent all intimacy; +but, apparently, I was wrong. He seems to have been the companion of her +rides and drives, and under the pretext of doing some commissions for her +in the bazaars of Constantinople, he got to correspond with her. So artful +a fellow would well know what to make of such a privilege.’ + +‘And is he your successor now?’ asked she, with a look of almost +undisguised insolence. + +‘Scarcely that,’ said he, with a supercilious smile. ‘I think, if you had +ever seen my cousin, you would scarcely have asked the question.’ + +‘But I have seen her. I saw her at the Odescalchi Palace at Rome. I +remember the stare she was pleased to bestow on me as she swept past me. +I remember more, her words as she asked, “Is this your Titian Girl I have +heard so much of?”’ + +‘And may hear more of,’ muttered he, almost unconsciously. + +‘Yes--even that too; but not, perhaps, in the sense you mean.’ Then, as if +correcting herself, she went on, ‘It was a bold ambition of Mr. Atlee. I +must say I like the very daring of it.’ + +‘_He_ never dared it--take my word for it.’ + +An insolent laugh was her first reply. ‘How little you men know of each +other, and how less than little you know of us! You sneer at the people who +are moved by sudden impulse, but you forget it is the squall upsets the +boat.’ + +‘I believe I can follow what you mean. You would imply that my cousin’s +breach with _me_ might have impelled her to listen to Atlee?’ + +‘Not so much that as, by establishing himself as her confidant, he got the +key of her heart, and let himself in as he pleased.’ + +‘I suspect he found little to interest him there.’ + +‘The insufferable insolence of that speech! Can you men never be brought to +see that we are not all alike to each of you; that our natures have their +separate watchwords, and that the soul which would vibrate with tenderness +to this, is to that a dead and senseless thing, with no trace or touch of +feeling about it?’ + +‘I only believe this in part.’ + +‘Believe it wholly, then, or own that you know nothing of love--no more +than do those countless thousands who go through life and never taste its +real ecstasy, nor its real sorrow; who accept convenience, or caprice, or +flattered vanity as its counterfeit, and live out the delusion in lives of +discontent. You have done wrong to break with your cousin. It is clear to +me you suited each other.’ + +‘This is sarcasm.’ + +‘If it is, I am sorry for it. I meant it for sincerity. In _your_ career, +ambition is everything. The woman that could aid you on your road would be +the real helpmate. She who would simply cross your path by her sympathies, +or her affections, would be a mere embarrassment. Take the very case before +us. Would not Lady Maude point out to you how, by the capture of this +rebel, you might so aid your friends as to establish a claim for +recompense? Would she not impress you with the necessity of showing how +your activity redounded to the credit of your party? She would neither +interpose with ill-timed appeals to your pity or a misplaced sympathy. +_She_ would help the politician, while another might hamper the man.’ + +‘All that might be true, if the game of political life were played as it +seems to be on the surface, and my cousin was exactly the sort of woman to +use ordinary faculties with ability and acuteness; but there are scores of +things in which her interference would have been hurtful, and her secrecy +dubious. I will give you an instance, and it will serve to show my implicit +confidence in yourself. Now with respect to this man, Donogan, there is +nothing we wish less than to take him. To capture means to try--to try +means to hang him--and how much better, or safer, or stronger are we when +it is done? These fellows, right or wrong, represent opinions that are +never controverted by the scaffold, and every man who dies for his +convictions leaves a thousand disciples who never believed in him before. +It is only because he braves us that we pursue him, and in the face of our +opponents and Parliament we cannot do less. So that while we are offering +large rewards for his apprehension, we would willingly give double the sum +to know he had escaped. Talk of the supremacy of the Law--the more you +assert that here, the more ungovernable is this country by a Party. An +active Attorney-General is another word for three more regiments in +Ireland.’ + +‘I follow you with some difficulty; but I see that you would like this man +to get away, and how is that to be done?’ + +‘Easily enough, when once he knows that it will be safe for him to go +north. He naturally fears the Orangemen of the northern counties. They +will, however, do nothing without the police, and the police have got their +orders throughout Antrim and Derry. Here--on this strip of paper--here are +the secret instructions:--“To George Dargan, Chief Constable, Letterkenny +District. Private and confidential.--It is, for many reasons, expedient +that the convict Donogan, on a proper understanding that he will not return +to Ireland, should be suffered to escape. If you are, therefore, in a +position to extort a pledge from him to this extent--and it should be +explicit and beyond all cavil--you will, taking due care not to compromise +your authority in your office, aid him to leave the country, even to the +extent of moneyed assistance.” To this are appended directions how he is to +proceed to carry out these instructions: what he may, and what he may not +do, with whom he may seek for co-operation, and where he is to maintain a +guarded and careful secrecy. Now, in telling you all this, Mademoiselle +Kostalergi, I have given you the strongest assurance in my power of the +unlimited trust I have in you. I see how the questions that agitate this +country interest you. I read the eagerness with which you watch them, but +I want you to see more. I want you to see that the men who purpose to +themselves the great task of extricating Ireland from her difficulties must +be politicians in the highest sense of the word, and that you should see +in us statesmen of an order that can weigh human passions and human +emotions--and see that hope and fear, and terror and gratitude, sway the +hearts of men who, to less observant eyes, seem to have no place in their +natures but for rebellion. That this mode of governing Ireland is the one +charm to the Celtic heart, all the Tory rule of the last fifty years, +with its hangings and banishments and other terrible blunders, will soon +convince you. The Priest alone has felt the pulse of this people, and +we are the only Ministers of England who have taken the Priest into our +confidence. I own to you I claim some credit for myself in this discovery. +It was in long reflecting over the ills of Ireland that I came to see +that where the malady has so much in its nature that is sensational and +emotional, so must the remedy be sensational too. The Tories were ever bent +on extirpating--_we_ devote ourselves to “healing measures.” Do you follow +me?’ + +‘I do,’ said she thoughtfully. + +‘Do I interest you?’ asked he, more tenderly. + +‘Intensely,’ was the reply. + +‘Oh, if I could but think _that_. If I could bring myself to believe that +the day would come, not only to secure your interest, but your aid and your +assistance in this great task! I have long sought the opportunity to tell +you that we, who hold the destinies of a people in our keeping, are not +inferior to our great trust, that we are not mere creatures of a state +department, small deities of the Olympus of office, but actual statesmen +and rulers. Fortune has given me the wished-for moment, let it complete +my happiness, let it tell me that you see in this noble work one worthy +of your genius and your generosity, and that you would accept me as a +fellow-labourer in the cause.’ + +The fervour which he threw into the utterance of these words contrasted +strongly and strangely with the words themselves; so unlike the declaration +of a lover’s passion. + +‘I do--not--know,’ said she falteringly. + +‘What is that you do not know?’ asked he, with tender eagerness. + +‘I do not know if I understand you aright, and I do not know what answer I +should give you.’ + +‘Will not your heart tell you?’ + +She shook her head. + +‘You will not crush me with the thought that there is no pleading for me +there.’ + +‘If you had desired in honesty my regard, you should not have prejudiced +me: you began here by enlisting my sympathies in your Task; you told me of +your ambitions. I like these ambitions.’ + +‘Why not share them?’ cried he passionately. + +‘You seem to forget what you ask. A woman does not give her heart as a +man joins a party or an administration. It is no question of an advantage +based upon a compromise. There is no sentiment of gratitude, or recompense, +or reward in the gift. She simply gives that which is no longer hers to +retain! She trusts to what her mind will not stop to question--she goes +where she cannot help but follow.’ + +‘How immeasurably greater your every word makes the prize of your love.’ + +‘It is in no vanity that I say I know it,’ said she calmly. ‘Let us speak +no more on this now.’ + +‘But you will not refuse to listen to me, Nina?’ + +‘I will read you if you write to me,’ and with a wave of good-bye she +slowly left the room. + +‘She is my master, even at my own game,’ said Walpole, as he sat down, and +rested his head between his hands. ‘Still she is mistaken: I can write just +as vaguely as I can speak, and if I could not, it would have cost me my +freedom this many a day. With such a woman one might venture high, but +Heaven help him when he ceased to climb the mountain!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +A CUP OP TEA + + +It was so rare an event of late for Nina to seek her cousin in her own +room, that Kate was somewhat surprised to see Nina enter with all her old +ease of manner, and flinging away her hat carelessly, say, ‘Let me have a +cup of tea, dearest, for I want to have a clear head and a calm mind for at +least the next half-hour.’ + +‘It is almost time to dress for dinner, especially for you, Nina, who make +a careful toilet.’ + +‘Perhaps I shall make less to-day, perhaps not go down to dinner at all. Do +you know, child, I have every reason for agitation, and maiden +bashfulness besides? Do you know I have had a proposal--a proposal in all +form--from--but you shall guess whom. + +‘Mr. O’Shea, of course.’ + +‘No, not Mr. O’Shea, though I am almost prepared for such a step on his +part--nor from your brother Dick, who has been falling in and out of love +with me for the last three months or more. My present conquest is the +supremely arrogant, but now condescending, Mr. Walpole, who, for reasons of +state and exigencies of party, has been led to believe that a pretty wife, +with a certain amount of natural astuteness, might advance his interests, +and tend to his promotion in public life; and with his old instincts as a +gambler, he is actually ready to risk his fortunes on a single card, and I, +the portionless Greek girl, with about the same advantages of family as of +fortune--I am to be that queen of trumps on which he stands to win. And +now, darling, the cup of tea, the cup of tea, if you want to hear more.’ + +While Kate was busy arranging the cups of a little tea-service that did +duty in her dressing-room, Nina walked impatiently to and fro, talking with +rapidity all the time. + +‘The man is a greater fool than I thought him, and mistakes his native +weakness of mind for originality. If you had heard the imbecile nonsense +he talked to me for political shrewdness, and when he had shown me what a +very poor creature he was, he made me the offer of himself! This was so far +honest and above-board. It was saying in so many words, “You see, I am a +bankrupt.” Now, I don’t like bankrupts, either of mind or money. Could he +not have seen that he who seeks my favour must sue in another fashion?’ + +‘And so you refused him?’ said Kate, as she poured out her tea. + +‘Far from it--I rather listened to his suit. I was so far curious to hear +what he could plead in his behalf, that I bade him write it. Yes, dearest; +it was a maxim of that very acute man my papa, that when a person makes you +any dubious proposition in words, you oblige him to commit it to writing. +Not necessarily to be used against him afterwards, but for this reason--and +I can almost quote my papa’s phrase on the occasion--in the homage of his +self-love, a man will rarely write himself such a knave as he will dare +to own when he is talking, and in that act of weakness is the gain of the +other party to the compact.’ + +‘I don’t think I understand you.’ + +‘I’m sure you do not; and you have put no sugar in my tea, which is worse. +Do you mean to say that your clock is right, and that it is already nigh +seven? Oh dear! and I, who have not told you one-half of my news, I must +go and dress. I have a certain green silk with white roses which I mean to +wear, and with my hair in that crimson Neapolitan net, it is a toilet _à +la_ minute.’ + +‘You know how it becomes you,’ said Kate, half slyly. + +‘Of course I do, or in this critical moment of my life I should not risk +it. It will have its own suggestive meaning too. It will recall _ce cher_ +Cecil to days at Baia, or wandering along the coast at Portici. I have +known a fragment of lace, a flower, a few bars of a song, do more to link +the broken chain of memory than scores of more laboured recollections; and +then these little paths that lead you back are so simple, so free from all +premeditation. Don’t you think so, dear?’ + +‘I do not know, and if it were not rude, I’d say I do not care?’ + +‘If my cup of tea were not so good, I should be offended, and leave the +room after such a speech. But you do not know, you could not guess, the +interesting things that I could tell you,’ cried she, with an almost +breathless rapidity. ‘Just imagine that deep statesman, that profound +plotter, telling me that they actually did not wish to capture +Donogan--that they would rather that he should escape!’ + +‘He told you this?’ + +‘He did more: he showed me the secret instructions to his police +creatures--I forget how they are called--showing what they might do to +connive at his escape, and how they should--if they could--induce him to +give some written pledge to leave Ireland for ever.’ + +‘Oh, this is impossible!’ cried Kate. + +‘I could prove it to you, if I had not just sent off the veritable bit of +writing by post. Yes, stare and look horrified if you like; it is all true. +I stole the piece of paper with the secret directions, and sent it straight +to Donogan, under cover to Archibald Casey, Esq., 9 Lower Gardner Street, +Dublin.’ + +‘How could you have done such a thing?’ + +‘Say, how could I have done otherwise. Donogan now knows whether it will +become him to sign this pact with the enemy. If he deem his life worth +having at the price, it is well that _I_ should know it.’ + +‘It is then of yourself you were thinking all the while.’ + +‘Of myself and of him. I do not say I love this man; but I do say his +conduct now shall decide if he be worth loving. There’s the bell for +dinner. You shall hear all I have to say this evening. What an interest it +gives to life, even this much of plot and peril! Short of being with the +rebel himself, Kate, and sharing his dangers, I know of nothing could have +given me such delight.’ + +She turned back as she left the door, and said, ‘Make Mr. Walpole take you +down to dinner to-day; I shall take Mr. O’Shea’s arm, or your brother’s.’ + +The address of Archibald Casey, which Nina had used on this occasion, was +that of a well-known solicitor in Dublin, whose Conservative opinions +placed him above all suspicion or distrust. One of his clients, however--a +certain Mr. Maher--had been permitted to have letters occasionally +addressed to him to Casey’s care; and Maher, being an old college friend of +Donogan’s, afforded him this mode of receiving letters in times of unusual +urgency or danger. Maher shared very slightly in Donogan’s opinions. He +thought the men of the National party not only dangerous in themselves, +but that they afforded a reason for many of the repressive laws which +Englishmen passed with reference to Ireland. A friendship of early life, +when both these young men were college students, had overcome such +scruples, and Donogan had been permitted to have many letters marked +simply with a D., which were sent under cover to Maher. This facility had, +however, been granted so far back as ‘47, and had not been renewed in the +interval, during which time the Archibald Casey of that period had died, +and been succeeded by a son with the same name as his father. + +When Nina, on looking over Donogan’s note-book, came upon this address, she +saw also some almost illegible words, which implied that it was only to be +employed as the last resort, or had been so used--a phrase she could not +exactly determine what it meant. The present occasion--so emergent in every +way--appeared to warrant both haste and security; and so, under cover to S. +Maher, she wrote to Donogan in these words:-- + +‘I send you the words, in the original handwriting, of the instructions +with regard to you. You will do what your honour and your conscience +dictate. Do not write to me; the public papers will inform me what your +decision has been, and I shall be satisfied, however it incline. I rely +upon you to burn the inclosure.’ + +A suit-at-law, in which Casey acted as Maher’s attorney at this period, +required that the letters addressed to his house for Maher should be opened +and read; and though the letter D. on the outside might have suggested a +caution, Casey either overlooked or misunderstood it, and broke the seal. +Not knowing what to think of this document, which was without signature, +and had no clue to the writer except the postmark of Kilgobbin, Casey +hastened to lay the letter as it stood before the barrister who conducted +Maher’s cause, and to ask his advice. The Right Hon. Paul Hartigan was an +ex-Attorney-General of the Tory party--a zealous, active, but somewhat +rash member of his party; still in the House, a member for Mallow, and far +more eager for the return of his friends to power than the great man who +dictated the tactics of the Opposition, and who with more of responsibility +could calculate the chances of success. + +Paul Hartigan’s estimate of the Whigs was such that it would have in nowise +astonished him to discover that Mr. Gladstone was in close correspondence +with O’Donovan Rossa, or that Chichester Fortescue had been sworn in as a +head-centre. That the whole Cabinet were secretly Papists, and held weekly +confession at the feet of Dr. Manning, he was prepared to prove. He did +not vouch for Mr. Lowe; but he could produce the form of scapular worn by +Mr. Gladstone, and had a facsimile of the scourge by which Mr. Cardwell +diurnally chastened his natural instincts. + +If, then, he expressed but small astonishment at this ‘traffic of the +Government with rebellion,’ for so he called it--he lost no time in +endeavouring to trace the writer of the letter, and ascertaining, so far as +he might, the authenticity of the inclosure. + +‘It’s all true, Casey,’ said he, a few days after his receipt of the +papers. ‘The instructions are written by Cecil Walpole, the private +secretary of Lord Danesbury. I have obtained several specimens of his +writing. There is no attempt at disguise or concealment in this. I have +learned, too, that the police-constable Dargan is one of their most trusted +agents; and the only thing now to find out is, who is the writer of the +letter, for up to this all we know is, the hand is a woman’s.’ + +Now it chanced that when Mr. Hartigan--who had taken great pains and +bestowed much time to learn the story of the night attack on Kilgobbin, and +wished to make the presence of Mr. Walpole on the scene the ground of a +question in Parliament--had consulted the leader of the Opposition on the +subject, he had met not only a distinct refusal of aid, but something very +like a reproof for his ill-advised zeal. The Honourable Paul, not for the +first time disposed to distrust the political loyalty that differed with +his own ideas, now declared openly that he would not confide this great +disclosure to the lukewarm advocacy of Mr. Disraeli; he would himself lay +it before the House, and stand or fall by the result. + +If the men who ‘stand or fall’ by any measure were counted, it is to be +feared that they usually would be found not only in the category of the +latter, but that they very rarely rise again, so very few are the matters +which can be determined without some compromise, and so rare are the +political questions which comprehend a distinct principle. + +What warmed the Hartigan ardour, and, indeed, chafed it to a white heat on +this occasion, was to see by the public papers that Daniel Donogan had been +fixed on by the men of King’s County as the popular candidate, and a public +meeting held at Kilbeggan to declare that the man who should oppose him +at the hustings should be pronounced the enemy of Ireland. To show that +while this man was advertised in the _Hue and Cry_, with an immense reward +for his apprehension, he was in secret protected by the Government, who +actually condescended to treat with him; what an occasion would this +afford for an attack that would revive the memories of Grattan’s scorn and +Curran’s sarcasm, and declare to the senate of England that the men who led +them were unworthy guardians of the national honour! + + + + +CHAPTER L + +CROSS-PURPOSES + + +Whether Walpole found some peculiar difficulty in committing his intentions +to writing, or whether the press of business which usually occupied his +mornings served as an excuse, or whether he was satisfied with the progress +of his suit by his personal assiduities, is not easy to say; but his +attentions to Mademoiselle Kostalergi had now assumed the form which +prudent mothers are wont to call ‘serious,’ and had already passed into +that stage where small jealousies begin, and little episodes of anger and +discontent are admitted as symptoms of the complaint. + +In fact, he had got to think himself privileged to remonstrate against +this, and to dictate that--a state, be it observed, which, whatever its +effect upon the ‘lady of his love,’ makes a man particularly odious to +the people around him, and he is singularly fortunate if it make him not +ridiculous also. + +The docile or submissive was not the remarkable element in Nina’s nature. +She usually resisted advice, and resented anything like dictation from any +quarter. Indeed, they who knew her best saw that, however open to casual +influences, a direct show of guidance was sure to call up all her spirit +of opposition. It was, then, a matter of actual astonishment to all to +perceive not only how quietly and patiently she accepted Walpole’s comments +and suggestions, but how implicitly she seemed to obey them. + +All the little harmless freedoms of manner with Dick Kearney and O’Shea +were now completely given up. No more was there between them that +interchange of light persiflage which, presupposing some subject of common +interest, is in itself a ground of intimacy. + +She ceased to sing the songs that were their favourites. Her walks in the +garden after breakfast, where her ready wit and genial pleasantry used to +bring her a perfect troop of followers, were abandoned. The little projects +of daily pleasure, hitherto her especial province, were changed for a calm +subdued demeanour which, though devoid of all depression, wore the impress +of a certain thoughtfulness and seriousness. + +No man was less observant than old Kearney, and yet even he saw the change +at last, and asked Kate what it might mean. ‘She is not ill, I hope,’ said +he, ‘or is our humdrum life too wearisome to her?’ + +‘I do not suspect either,’ said Kate slowly. ‘I rather believe that as Mr. +Walpole has paid her certain attentions, she has made the changes in her +manner in deference to some wishes of his.’ + +‘He wants her to be more English, perhaps,’ said he sarcastically. + +‘Perhaps so.’ + +‘Well, she is not born one of us, but she is like us all the same, and +I’ll be sorely grieved if she’ll give up her light-heartedness and her +pleasantry to win that Cockney.’ + +‘I think she has won the Cockney already, sir.’ + +A long low whistle was his reply. At last he said, ‘I suppose it’s a very +grand conquest, and what the world calls “an elegant match”; but may +I never see Easter, if I wouldn’t rather she’d marry a fine dashing +young fellow over six feet high, like O’Shea there, than one of your +gold-chain-and-locket young gentlemen who smile where they ought to +laugh, and pick their way through life as a man crosses a stream on +stepping-stones.’ + +‘Maybe she does not like Mr. O’Shea, sir.’ + +‘And do you think she likes the other man? or is it anything else than one +of those mercenary attachments that you young ladies understand better, far +better, than the most worldly-minded father or mother of us all?’ + +‘Mr. Walpole has not, I believe, any fortune, sir. There is nothing very +dazzling in his position or his prospects.’ + +‘No. Not amongst his own set, nor with his own people--he is small enough +there, I grant you; but when he come down to ours, Kitty, we think him a +grandee of Spain; and if he was married into the family, we’d get off all +his noble relations by heart, and soon start talking of our aunt, Lady +Such-a-one, and Lord Somebody else, that was our first-cousin, till our +neighbours would nearly die out of pure spite. Sitting down in one’s +poverty, and thinking over one’s grand relations, is for all the world like +Paddy eating his potatoes, and pointing at the red-herring--even the look +of what he dare not taste flavours his meal.’ + +‘At least, sir, you have found an excuse for our conduct.’ + +‘Because we are all snobs, Kitty; because there is not a bit of honesty or +manliness in our nature; and because our women, that need not be bargaining +or borrowing--neither pawnbrokers nor usurers--are just as vulgar-minded +as ourselves; and now that we have given twenty millions to get rid of +slavery, like to show how they can keep it up in the old country, just out +of defiance.’ + +‘If you disapprove of Mr. Walpole, sir, I believe it is full time you +should say so.’ + +‘I neither approve nor disapprove of him. I don’t well know whether I +have any right to do either--I mean so far as to influence her choice. He +belongs to a sort of men I know as little about as I do of the Choctaw +Indians. They have lives and notions and ways all unlike ours. The world is +so civil to them that it prepares everything to their taste. If they want +to shoot, the birds are cooped up in a cover, and only let fly when they’re +ready. When they fish, the salmon are kept prepared to be caught; and if +they make love, the young lady is just as ready to rise to the fly, and +as willing to be bagged as either. Thank God, my darling, with all our +barbarism, we have not come to that in Ireland.’ + +‘Here comes Mr. Walpole now, sir; and if I read his face aright, he has +something of importance to say to you.’ Kate had barely time to leave the +room as Walpole came forward with an open telegram and a mass of papers in +his hand. + +‘May I have a few moments of conversation with you?’ said he; and in the +tone of his words, and a certain gravity in his manner, Kearney thought he +could perceive what the communication portended. + +‘I am at your orders,’ said Kearney, and he placed a chair for the other. + +‘An incident has befallen my life here, Mr. Kearney, which, I grieve to +say, may not only colour the whole of my future career, but not impossibly +prove the barrier to my pursuit of public life.’ + +Kearney stared at him as he finished speaking, and the two men sat fixedly +gazing on each other. + +‘It is, I hasten to own, the one unpleasant, the one, the only one, +disastrous event of a visit full of the happiest memories of my life. Of +your generous and graceful hospitality, I cannot say half what I desire--’ + +‘Say nothing about my hospitality,’ said Kearney, whose irritation as to +what the other called a disaster left him no place for any other sentiment; +‘but just tell me why you count this a misfortune.’ + +‘I call a misfortune, sir, what may not only depose me from my office and +my station, but withdraw entirely from me the favour and protection of my +uncle, Lord Danesbury.’ + +‘Then why the devil do you do it?’ cried Kearney angrily. + +‘Why do I do what, sir? I am not aware of any action of mine you should +question with such energy.’ + +‘I mean, if it only tends to ruin your prospects and disgust your family, +why do you persist, sir? I was going to say more, and ask with what face +you presume to come and tell these things to _me_?’ + +‘I am really unable to understand you, sir.’ + +‘Mayhap, we are both of us in the same predicament,’ cried Kearney, as he +wiped his brow in proof of his confusion. + +‘Had you accorded me a very little patience, I might, perhaps, have +explained myself.’ + +Not trusting himself with a word, Kearney nodded, and the other went +on: ‘The post this morning brought me, among other things, these two +newspapers, with penmarks in the margin to direct my attention. This is the +_Lily of Londonderry_, a wild Orange print; this the _Banner of Ulster_, a +journal of the same complexion. Here is what the _Lily_ says: “Our county +member, Sir Jonas Gettering, is now in a position to call the attention +of Parliament to a document which will distinctly show how Her Majesty’s +Ministers are not only in close correspondence with the leaders of +Fenianism, but that Irish rebellion receives its support and comfort from +the present Cabinet. Grave as this charge is, and momentous as would be +the consequences of such an allegation if unfounded, we repeat that such a +document is in existence, and that we who write these lines have held it in +our hands and have perused it.” + +‘The _Banner_ copies the paragraph, and adds, “We give all the publicity +in our power to a statement which, from our personal knowledge, we can +declare to be true. If the disclosures which a debate on this subject +must inevitably lead to will not convince Englishmen that Ireland is now +governed by a party whose falsehood and subtlety not even Machiavelli +himself could justify, we are free to declare we are ready to join the +Nationalists to-morrow, and to cry out for a Parliament in College Green, +in preference to a Holy Inquisition at Westminster.”’ + +‘That fellow has blood in him,’ cried Kearney, with enthusiasm, ‘and I go a +long way with him.’ + +‘That may be, sir, and I am sorry to hear it,’ said Walpole coldly; ‘but +what I am concerned to tell you is, that the document or memorandum here +alluded to was among my papers, and abstracted from them since I have been +here.’ + +‘So that there _was_ actually such a paper?’ broke in Kearney. + +‘There was a paper which the malevolence of a party journalist could +convert to the support of such a charge. What concerns me more immediately +is, that it has been stolen from my despatch-box.’ + +‘Are you certain of that?’ + +‘I believe I can prove it. The only day in which I was busied with these +papers, I carried them down to the library, and with my own hands I brought +them back to my room and placed them under lock and key at once. The box +bears no trace of having been broken, so that the only solution is a key. +Perhaps my own key may have been used to open it, for the document is +gone.’ + +‘This is a bad business,’ said Kearney sorrowfully. + +‘It is ruin to _me_,’ cried Walpole, with passion. ‘Here is a despatch from +Lord Danesbury, commanding me immediately to go over to him in Wales, and I +can guess easily what has occasioned the order.’ + +‘I’ll send for a force of Dublin detectives. I’ll write to the chief of +the police. I’ll not rest till I have every one in the house examined on +oath,’ cried Kearney. ‘What was it like? Was it a despatch--was it in an +envelope?’ + +‘It was a mere memorandum--a piece of post-paper, and headed, “Draught +of instruction touching D.D. Forward to chief constable of police at +Letterkenny. October 9th.”’ + +‘But you had no direct correspondence with Donogan?’ + +‘I believe, sir, I need not assure you I had not. The malevolence of party +has alone the merit of such an imputation. For reasons of state, we desired +to observe a certain course towards the man, and Orange malignity is +pleased to misrepresent and calumniate us.’ + +‘And can’t you say so in Parliament?’ + +‘So we will, sir, and the nation will believe us. Meanwhile, see the +mischief that the miserable slander will reflect upon our administration +here, and remember that the people who could alone contradict the story are +those very Fenians who will benefit by its being believed.’ + +‘Do your suspicions point to any one in particular? Do you believe that +Curtis--?’ + +‘I had it in my hand the day after he left.’ + +‘Was any one aware of its existence here but yourself?’ + +‘None--wait, I am wrong. Your niece saw it. She was in the library one +day. I was engaged in writing, and as we grew to talk over the country, I +chanced to show her the despatch.’ + +‘Let us ask her if she remembers whether any servant was about at the time, +or happened to enter the room.’ + +‘I can myself answer that question. I know there was not.’ + +‘Let us call her down and see what she remembers,’ said Kearney. + +‘I’d rather not, sir. A mere question in such a case would be offensive, +and I would not risk the chance. What I would most wish is, to place my +despatch-box, with the key, in your keeping, for the purposes of the +inquiry, for I must start in half an hour. I have sent for post-horses to +Moate, and ordered a special train to town. I shall, I hope, catch the +eight o’clock boat for Holyhead, and be with his lordship before this time +to-morrow. If I do not see the ladies, for I believe they are out walking, +will you make my excuses and my adieux? my confusion and discomfiture will, +I feel sure, plead for me. It would not be, perhaps, too much to ask for +any information that a police inquiry might elicit; and if either of the +young ladies would vouchsafe me a line to say what, if anything, has been +discovered, I should feel deeply gratified.’ + +‘I’ll look to that. You shall be informed.’ + +‘There was another question that I much desired to speak of,’ and here +he hesitated and faltered; ‘but perhaps, on every score, it is as well I +should defer it till my return to Ireland.’ + +‘You know best, whatever it is,’ said the old man dryly. + +‘Yes, I think so. I am sure of it. ‘A hurried shake-hands followed, and he +was gone. + +It is but right to add that a glance at the moment through the window had +shown him the wearer of a muslin dress turning into the copse outside the +garden, and Walpole dashed down the stairs and hurried in the direction he +saw Nina take, with all the speed he could. + +‘Get my luggage on the carriage, and have everything ready,’ said he, as +the horses were drawn up at the door. ‘I shall return in a moment.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LI + +AWAKENINGS + + +When Walpole hurried into the beech alley which he had seen Nina take, and +followed her in all haste, he did not stop to question himself why he did +so. Indeed, if prudence were to be consulted, there was every reason in the +world why he should rather have left his leave-takings to the care of Mr. +Kearney than assume the charge of them himself; but if young gentlemen who +fall in love were only to be logical or ‘consequent,’ the tender passion +would soon lose some of the contingencies which give it much of its charm, +and people who follow such occupations as mine would discover that they had +lost one of the principal employments of their lifetime. + +As he went along, however, he bethought him that as it was to say good-bye +he now followed her, it behoved him to blend his leave-taking with that +pledge of a speedy return, which, like the effects of light in landscape, +bring out the various tints in the richest colouring, and mark more +distinctly all that is in shadow. ‘I shall at least see,’ muttered he to +himself, ‘how far my presence here serves to brighten her daily life, and +what amount of gloom my absence will suggest.’ Cecil Walpole was one of a +class--and I hasten to say it is a class--who, if not very lavish of their +own affections, or accustomed to draw largely on their own emotions, are +very fond of being loved themselves, and not only are they convinced that +as there can be nothing more natural or reasonable than to love them, it +is still a highly commendable feature in the person who carries that love +to the extent of a small idolatry, and makes it the business of a life. +To worship the men of this order constitutes in their eyes a species +of intellectual superiority for which they are grateful, and this same +gratitude represents to themselves all of love their natures are capable of +feeling. + +He knew thoroughly that Nina was not alone the most beautiful woman he had +ever seen, that the fascinations of her manner, and her grace of movement +and gesture, exercised a sway that was almost magic; that in quickness +to apprehend and readiness to reply, she scarcely had an equal; and that +whether she smiled, or looked pensive, or listened, or spoke, there was +an absorbing charm about her that made one forget all else around her, +and unable to see any but her; and yet, with all this consciousness, he +recognised no trait about her so thoroughly attractive as that she admired +_him_. + +Let me not be misunderstood. This same sentiment can be at times something +very different from a mere egotism--not that I mean to say it was such in +the present case. Cecil Walpole fully represented the order he belonged to, +and was a most well-looking, well-dressed, and well-bred young gentleman, +only suggesting the reflection that, to live amongst such a class pure and +undiluted, would be little better than a life passed in the midst of French +communism. + +I have said that, after his fashion, he was ‘in love’ with her, and so, +after his fashion, he wanted to say that he was going away, and to tell her +not to be utterly disconsolate till he came back again. ‘I can imagine,’ +thought he, ‘how I made her life here, how, in developing the features that +attract _me_, I made her a very different creature to herself.’ + +It was not at all unpleasant to him to think that the people who should +surround her were so unlike himself. ‘The barbarians,’ as he courteously +called them to himself, ‘will be very hard to endure. Nor am I very sorry +for it, only she must catch nothing of their traits in accommodating +herself to their habits. On that I must strongly insist. Whether it be by +singing their silly ballads--that four-note melody they call “Irish music,” + or through mere imitation, she has already caught a slight accent of the +country. She must get rid of this. She will have to divest herself of all +her “Kilgobbinries” ere I present her to my friends in town.’ Apart from +these disparagements, she could, as he expressed it, ‘hold her own,’ and +people take a very narrow view of the social dealings of the world, who +fail to see how much occasion a woman has for the exercise of tact and +temper and discretion and ready-wittedness and generosity in all the +well-bred intercourse of life. Just as Walpole had arrived at that stage of +reflection to recognise that she was exactly the woman to suit him and push +his fortunes with the world, he reached a part of the wood where a little +space had been cleared, and a few rustic seats scattered about to make a +halting-place. The sound of voices caught his ear, and he stopped, and now, +looking stealthily through the brushwood, he saw Gorman O’Shea as he lay in +a lounging attitude on a bench and smoked his cigar, while Nina Kostalergi +was busily engaged in pinning up the skirt of her dress in a festoon +fashion, which, to Cecil’s ideas at least, displayed more of a marvellously +pretty instep and ankle than he thought strictly warranted. Puzzling as +this seemed, the first words she spoke gave the explanation. + +[Illustration: Nina Kostalergi was busily engaged in pinning up the skirt +of her dress] + +‘Don’t flatter yourself, most valiant soldier, that you are going to teach +me the “Czardasz.” I learned it years ago from Tassilo Esterhazy; but I +asked you to come here to set me right about that half-minuet step that +begins it. I believe I have got into the habit of doing the man’s part, for +I used to be Pauline Esterhazy’s partner after Tassilo went away.’ + +‘You had a precious dancing-master in Tassilo,’ growled out O’Shea. ‘The +greatest scamp in the Austrian army.’ + +‘I know nothing of the moralities of the Austrian army, but the count was a +perfect gentleman, and a special friend of mine.’ + +‘I am sorry for it,’ was the gruff rejoinder. + +‘You have nothing to grieve for, sir. You have no vested interest to be +imperilled by anything that I do.’ + +‘Let us not quarrel, at all events,’ said he, as he arose with some +alacrity and flung away his cigar; and Walpole turned away, as little +pleased with what he had heard as dissatisfied with himself for having +listened. ‘And we call these things accidents,’ muttered he; ‘but I believe +Fortune means more generously by us when she crosses our path in this wise. +I almost wish I had gone a step farther, and stood before them. At least +it would have finished this episode, and without a word. As it is, a mere +phrase will do it--the simple question as to what progress she makes in +dancing will show I know all. But do I know all?’ Thus speculating and +ruminating, he went his way till he reached the carriage, and drove off at +speed, for the first time in his life, really and deeply in love! + +He made his journey safely, and arrived at Holyhead by daybreak. He had +meant to go over deliberately all that he should say to the Viceroy, when +questioned, as he expected to be, on the condition of Ireland. It was an +old story, and with very few variations to enliven it. + +How was it that, with all his Irish intelligence well arranged in his +mind--the agrarian crime, the ineffective police, the timid juries, +the insolence of the popular press, and the arrogant demands of the +priesthood--how was it that, ready to state all these obstacles to right +government, and prepared to show that it was only by ‘out-jockeying’ the +parties, he could hope to win in Ireland still, that Greek girl, and what +he called her perfidy, would occupy a most disproportionate share of his +thoughts, and a larger place in his heart also? The simple truth is, that +though up to this Walpole found immense pleasure in his flirtation with +Nina Kostalergi, yet his feeling for her now was nearer love than anything +he had experienced before. The bare suspicion that a woman could jilt him, +or the possible thought that a rival could be found to supplant him, gave, +by the very pain it occasioned, such an interest to the episode, that he +could scarcely think of anything else. That the most effectual way to deal +with the Greek was to renew his old relations with his cousin Lady Maude +was clear enough. ‘At least I shall seem to be the traitor,’ thought he, +‘and she shall not glory in the thought of having deceived _me_.’ While he +was still revolving these thoughts, he arrived at the castle, and learned +as he crossed the door that his lordship was impatient to see him. + +Lord Danesbury had never been a fluent speaker in public, while in private +life a natural indolence of disposition, improved, so to say, by an Eastern +life, had made him so sparing of his words, that at times when he was +ill or indisposed he could never be said to converse at all, and his +talk consisted of very short sentences strung loosely together, and not +unfrequently so ill-connected as to show that an unexpressed thought very +often intervened between the uttered fragments. Except to men who, like +Walpole, knew him intimately, he was all but unintelligible. The private +secretary, however, understood how to fill up the blanks in any discourse, +and so follow out indications which, to less practised eyes, left no +footmarks behind them. + +His Excellency, slowly recovering from a sharp attack of gout, was propped +by pillows, and smoking a long Turkish pipe, as Cecil entered the room and +saluted him. ‘Come at last,’ was his lordship’s greeting. ‘Ought to have +been here weeks ago. Read that.’ And he pushed towards him a _Times_, +with a mark on the margin: ‘To ask the Secretary for Ireland whether the +statement made by certain newspapers in the North of a correspondence +between the Castle authorities and the Fenian leader was true, and whether +such correspondence could be laid on the table of the House?’ + +‘Read it out,’ cried the Viceroy, as Walpole conned over the paragraph +somewhat slowly to himself. + +‘I think, my lord, when you have heard a few words of explanation from me, +you will see that this charge has not the gravity these newspaper-people +would like to attach to it.’ + +‘Can’t be explained--nothing could justify--infernal blunder--and must go.’ + +‘Pray, my lord, vouchsafe me even five minutes.’ + +‘See it all--balderdash--explain nothing--Cardinal more offended than the +rest--and here, read.’ And he pushed a letter towards him, dated Downing +Street, and marked private. ‘The idiot you left behind you has been +betrayed into writing to the rebels and making conditions with them. To +disown him now is not enough.’ + +‘Really, my lord, I don’t see why I should submit to the indignity of +reading more of this.’ + +His Excellency crushed the letter in his hand, and puffed very vigorously +at his pipe, which was nearly extinguished. ‘Must go,’ said he at last, as +a fresh volume of smoke rolled forth. + +‘That I can believe--that I can understand, my lord. When you tell me you +cease to endorse my pledges, I feel I am a bankrupt in your esteem.’ + +‘Others smashed in the same insolvency--inconceivable blunder--where was +Cartwright?--what was Holmes about? No one in Dublin to keep you out of +this cursed folly?’ + +‘Until your lordship’s patience will permit me to say a few words, I cannot +hope to justify my conduct.’ + +‘No justifying--no explaining--no! regular smash and complete disgrace. +Must go.’ + +‘I am quite ready to go. Your Excellency has no need to recall me to the +necessity.’ + +‘Knew it all--and against my will, too--said so from the first--thing I +never liked--nor see my way in. Must go--must go.’ + +‘I presume, my lord, I may leave you now. I want a bath and a cup of +coffee.’ + +‘Answer that!’ was the gruff reply, as he tossed across the table a few +lines signed, ‘Bertie Spencer, Private Secretary.’ + +‘“I am directed to request that Mr. Walpole will enable the Right +Honourable Mr. Annihough to give the flattest denial to the inclosed.”’ + +‘That must be done at once,’ said the Viceroy, as the other ceased to read +the note. + +‘It is impossible, my lord; I cannot deny my own handwriting.’ + +‘Annihough will find some road out of it,’ muttered the other. ‘_You_ were +a fool, and mistook your instructions, or the _constable_ was a fool and +required a misdirection, or the _Fenian_ was a fool, which he would have +been if he gave the pledge you asked for. Must go, all the same.’ + +‘But I am quite ready to go, my lord,’ rejoined Walpole angrily. ‘There is +no need to insist so often on that point.’ + +‘Who talks--who thinks of _you_, sir?’ cried the other, with an irritated +manner. ‘I speak of myself. It is _I_ must resign--no great sacrifice, +perhaps, after all; stupid office, false position, impracticable people. +Make them all Papists to-morrow, and ask to be Hindus. They’ve got the +land, and not content if they can’t shoot the landlords!’ + +‘If you think, my lord, that by any personal explanation of mine, I could +enable the Minister to make his answer in the House more plausible--’ + +‘Leave the plausibility to himself, sir,’ and then he added, half aloud, +‘he’ll be unintelligible enough without _you_. There, go, and get some +breakfast--come back afterwards, and I’ll dictate my letter of resignation. +Maude has had a letter from Atlee. Shrewd fellow, Atlee--done the thing +well.’ + +As Walpole was near the door, his Excellency said, ‘You can have Guatemala, +if they have not given it away. It will get you out of Europe, which is the +first thing, and with the yellow fever it may do more.’ + +‘I am profoundly grateful, my lord,’ said he, bowing low. + +‘Maude, of course, would not go, so it ends _that_.’ + +‘I am deeply touched by the interest your lordship vouchsafes to my +concerns.’ + +‘Try and live five years, and you’ll have a retiring allowance. The last +fellow did, but was eaten by a crocodile out bathing.’ And with this he +resumed his _Times_, and turned away, while Walpole hastened off to his +room, in a frame of mind very far from comfortable or reassuring. + + + + +CHAPTER LII + +A CHANCE AGREEMENT + + +As Dick Kearney and young O’Shea had never attained any close intimacy--a +strange sort of half-jealousy, inexplicable as to its cause, served to keep +them apart--it was by mere accident that the two young men met one morning +after breakfast in the garden, and on Kearney’s offer of a cigar, the few +words that followed led to a conversation. + +‘I cannot pretend to give you a choice Havana, like one of Walpole’s,’ said +Dick, ‘but you’ll perhaps find it smokeable.’ + +‘I’m not difficult,’ said the other; ‘and as to Mr. Walpole’s tobacco, I +don’t think I ever tasted it.’ + +‘And I,’ rejoined the other, ‘as seldom as I could; I mean, only when +politeness obliged me.’ + +‘I thought you liked him?’ said Gorman shortly. + +‘I? Far from it. I thought him a consummate puppy, and I saw that he looked +down on us as inveterate savages.’ + +‘He was a favourite with your ladies, I think?’ + +‘Certainly not with my sister, and I doubt very much with my cousin. Do +_you_ like him?’ + +‘No, not at all; but then he belongs to a class of men I neither understand +nor sympathise with. Whatever _I_ know of life is associated with downright +hard work. As a soldier I had my five hours’ daily drill and the care of my +equipments, as a lieutenant I had to see that my men kept to their duty, +and whenever I chanced to have a little leisure, I could not give it up to +ennui or consent to feel bored and wearied.’ + +‘And do you mean to say you had to groom your horse and clean your arms +when you served in the ranks?’ + +‘Not always. As a cadet I had a soldier-servant, what we call a “Bursche”; +but there were periods when I was out of funds, and barely able to grope my +way to the next quarter-day, and at these times I had but one meal a day, +and obliged to draw my waist-belt pretty tight to make me feel I had eaten +enough. A Bursche costs very little, but I could not spare even that +little.’ + +‘Confoundedly hard that.’ + +‘All my own fault. By a little care and foresight, even without thrift, +I had enough to live as well as I ought; but a reckless dash of the old +spendthrift blood I came of would master me now and then, and I’d launch +out into some extravagance that would leave me penniless for months after.’ + +‘I believe I can understand that. One does get horribly bored by the +monotony of a well-to-do existence: just as I feel my life here--almost +insupportable.’ + +‘But you are going into Parliament; you are going to be a great public +man.’ + +‘That bubble has burst already; don’t you know what happened at Birr? They +tore down all Miller’s notices and mine, they smashed our booths, beat our +voters out of the town, and placed Donogan--the rebel Donogan--at the head +of the poll, and the head-centre is now M.P. for King’s County.’ + +‘And he has a right to sit in the House?’ + +‘There’s the question. The matter is discussed every day in the newspapers, +and there are as many for as against him. Some aver that the popular will +is a sovereign edict that rises above all eventualities; others assert that +the sentence which pronounces a man a felon declares him to be dead in +law.’ + +‘And which side do you incline to?’ + +‘I believe in the latter: he’ll not be permitted to take his seat.’ + +‘You’ll have another chance, then?’ + +‘No; I’ll venture no more. Indeed, but for this same man Donogan, I had +never thought of it. He filled my head with ideas of a great part to +be played and a proud place to be occupied, and that even without high +abilities, a man of a strong will, a fixed resolve, and an honest +conscience, might at this time do great things for Ireland.’ + +‘And then betrayed you?’ + +‘No such thing; he no more dreamed of Parliament himself than you do now. +He knew he was liable to the law,--he was hiding from the police--and well +aware that there was a price upon his head.’ + +‘But if he was true to you, why did he not refuse this honour? why did he +not decline to be elected?’ + +‘They never gave him the choice. Don’t you see, it is one of the strange +signs of the strange times we are living in that the people fix upon +certain men as their natural leaders and compel them to march in the van, +and that it is the force at the back of these leaders that, far more than +their talents, makes them formidable in public life.’ + +‘I only follow it in part. I scarcely see what they aim at, and I do not +know if they see it more clearly themselves. And now, what will you turn +to?’ + +‘I wish you could tell me.’ + +‘About as blank a future as my own,’ muttered Gorman. + +‘Come, come, _you_ have a career: you are a lieutenant of lancers; in +time you will be a captain, and eventually a colonel, and who knows but +a general at last, with Heaven knows how many crosses and medals on your +breast.’ + +‘Nothing less likely--the day is gone by when Englishmen were advanced to +places of high honour and trust in the Austrian army. There are no more +field-marshals like Nugent than major-generals like O’Connell. I might be +made a Rittmeister, and if I lived long enough, and was not superannuated, +a major; but there my ambition must cease.’ + +‘And you are content with that prospect?’ + +‘Of course I am not. I go back to it with something little short of +despair.’ + +‘Why go back, then?’ + +‘Tell me what else to do--tell me what other road in life to take--show me +even one alternative.’ + +The silence that now succeeded lasted several minutes, each immersed in his +own thoughts, and each doubtless convinced how little presumption he had to +advise or counsel the other. + +‘Do you know, O’Shea,’ cried Kearney, ‘I used to fancy that this Austrian +life of yours was a mere caprice--that you took “a cast,” as we call it in +the hunting-field, amongst those fellows to see what they were like and +what sort of an existence was theirs--but that being your aunt’s heir, and +with a snug estate that must one day come to you, it was a mere “lark,” and +not to be continued beyond a year or two?’ + +‘Not a bit of it. I never presumed to think I should be my aunt’s heir--and +now less than ever. Do you know, that even the small pension she has +allowed me hitherto is now about to be withdrawn, and I shall be left to +live on my pay?’ + +‘How much does that mean?’ + +‘A few pounds more or less than you pay for your saddle-horse at livery at +Dycers’.’ + +‘You don’t mean that?’ + +‘I do mean it, and even that beggarly pittance is stopped when I am on my +leave; so that at this moment my whole worldly wealth is here,’ and he +took from his pocket a handful of loose coin, in which a few gold pieces +glittered amidst a mass of discoloured and smooth-looking silver. + +‘On my oath, I believe you are the richer man of the two,’ cried Kearney, +‘for except a few half-crowns on my dressing-table, and some coppers, I +don’t believe I am master of a coin with the Queen’s image.’ + +‘I say, Kearney, what a horrible take-in we should prove to mothers with +daughters to marry!’ + +‘Not a bit of it. You may impose upon any one else--your tailor, your +bootmaker, even the horsy gent that jobs your cabriolet, but you’ll never +cheat the mamma who has the daughter on sale.’ + +Gorman could not help laughing at the more than ordinary irritability with +which these words were spoken, and charged him at last with having uttered +a personal experience. + +‘True, after all!’ said Dick, half indolently. ‘I used to spoon a pretty +girl up in Dublin, ride with her when I could, and dance with her at all +the balls, and a certain chum of mine--a Joe Atlee--of whom you may have +heard--under-took, simply by a series of artful rumours as to my future +prospects--now extolling me as a man of fortune and a fine estate, +to-morrow exhibiting me as a mere pretender with a mock title and mock +income--to determine how I should be treated in this family; and he would +say to me, “Dick, you are going to be asked to dinner on Saturday next”; +or, “I say, old fellow, they’re going to leave you out of that picnic at +Powerscourt. You’ll find the Clancys rather cold at your next meeting.”’ + +‘And he would be right in his guess?’ + +‘To the letter! Ay, and I shame to say that the young girl answered the +signal as promptly as the mother.’ + +‘I hope it cured you of your passion?’ + +‘I don’t know that it did. When you begin to like a girl, and find that +she has regularly installed herself in a corner of your heart, there is +scarcely a thing she can do you’ll not discover a good reason for; and +even when your ingenuity fails, go and pay a visit; there is some artful +witchery in that creation you have built up about her--for I heartily +believe most of us are merely clothing a sort of lay figure of loveliness +with attributes of our fancy--and the end of it is, we are about as wise +about our idols as the South Sea savages in their homage to the gods of +their own carving.’ + +‘I don’t think that!’ said Gorman sternly. ‘I could no more invent the +fascination that charms me than I could model a Venus or an Ariadne.’ + +‘I see where your mistake lies. You do all this, and never know you do it. +Mind, I am only giving you Joe Atlee’s theory all this time; for though I +believe in, I never invented it.’ + +‘And who is Atlee?’ + +‘A chum of mine--a clever dog enough--who, as he says himself, takes a very +low opinion of mankind, and in consequence finds this a capital world to +live in.’ + +‘I should hate the fellow.’ + +‘Not if you met him. He can be very companionable, though I never saw any +one take less trouble to please. He is popular almost everywhere.’ + +‘I know I should hate him.’ + +‘My cousin Nina thought the same, and declared, from the mere sight of his +photograph, that he was false and treacherous, and Heaven knows what else +besides; and now she’ll not suffer a word in his disparagement. She began +exactly as you say you would, by a strong prejudice against him. I remember +the day he came down here--her manner towards him was more than distant; +and I told my sister Kate how it offended me; and Kate only smiled and +said, “Have a little patience, Dick.”’ + +‘And you took the advice? You did have a little patience?’ + +‘Yes; and the end is they are firm friends. I’m not sure they don’t +correspond.’ + +‘Is there love in the case, then?’ + +‘That is what I cannot make out. So far as I know either of them, there +is no trustfulness in their dispositions; each of them must see into the +nature of the other. I have heard Joe Atlee say, “With that woman for a +wife, a man might safely bet on his success in life.” And she herself one +day owned, “If a girl was obliged to marry a man without sixpence, she +might take Atlee.”’ + +‘So, I have it, they will be man and wife yet!’ + +‘Who knows! Have another weed?’ + +Gorman declined the offered cigar, and again a pause in the conversation +followed. At last he suddenly said, ‘She told me she thought she would +marry Walpole.’ + +‘She told _you_ that? How did it come about to make _you_ such a +confidence?’ + +‘Just this way. I was getting a little--not spooney--but attentive, and +rather liked hanging after her; and in one of our walks in the wood--and +there was no flirting at the time between us--she suddenly said, “I don’t +think you are half a bad fellow, lieutenant.” “Thanks for the compliment,” + said I coldly. She never heeded my remark, but went on, “I mean, in fact, +that if you had something to live for, and somebody to care about, there +is just the sort of stuff in you to make you equal to both.” Not exactly +knowing what I said, and half, only half in earnest, I answered, “Why can I +not have one to care for?” And I looked tenderly into her eyes as I spoke. +She did not wince under my glance. Her face was calm, and her colour did +not change; and she was full a minute before she said, with a faint sigh, +“I suppose I shall marry Cecil Walpole.” “Do you mean,” said I, “against +your will?” “Who told you I had a will, sir?” said she haughtily; “or that +if I had, I should now be walking here in this wood alone with you? No, +no,” added she hurriedly, “you cannot understand me. There is nothing to be +offended at. Go and gather me some of those wild flowers, and we’ll talk of +something else.”’ + +‘How like her!--how like her!’ said Dick, and then looked sad and pondered. +‘I was very near falling in love with her myself!’ said he, after a +considerable pause. + +‘She has a way of curing a man if he should get into such an indiscretion,’ +muttered Gorman, and there was bitterness in his voice as he spoke. + +‘Listen! listen to that!’ and from an open window of the house there came +the prolonged cadence of a full sweet voice, as Nina was singing an Irish +ballad air. ‘That’s for my father! “Kathleen Mavourneen” is one of his +favourites, and she can make him cry over it.’ + +‘I’m not very soft-hearted,’ muttered Gorman, ‘but she gave me a sense of +fulness in the throat, like choking, the other day, that I vowed to myself +I’d never listen to that song again.’ + +‘It is not her voice--it is not the music--there is some witchery in the +woman herself that does it,’ cried Dick, almost fiercely. ‘Take a walk with +her in the wood, saunter down one of these alleys in the garden, and I’ll +be shot if your heart will not begin to beat in another fashion, and your +brain to weave all sorts of bright fancies, in which she will form the +chief figure; and though you’ll be half inclined to declare your love, and +swear that you cannot live without her, some terror will tell you not to +break the spell of your delight, but to go on walking there at her side, +and hearing her words just as though that ecstasy could last for ever.’ + +‘I suspect you are in love with her,’ said O’Shea dryly. + +‘Not now. Not now; and I’ll take care not to have a relapse,’ said he +gravely. + +‘How do you mean to manage that?’ + +‘The only one way it is possible--not to see her, nor to hear her--not to +live in the same land with her. I have made up my mind to go to Australia. +I don’t well know what to do when I get there; but whatever it be, and +whatever it cost me to bear, I shall meet it without shrinking, for there +will be no old associates to look on and remark upon my shabby clothes and +broken boots.’ + +‘What will the passage cost you?’ asked Gorman eagerly. + +‘I have ascertained that for about fifty pounds I can land myself in +Melbourne, and if I have a ten-pound note after, it is as much as I mean to +provide.’ + +‘If I can raise the money, I’ll go with you,’ said O’Shea. + +‘Will you? is this serious? is it a promise?’ + +‘I pledge my word on it. I’ll go over to the Barn to-day and see my aunt. I +thought up to this I could not bring myself to go there, but I will now. It +is for the last time in my life, and I must say good-bye, whether she helps +me or not.’ + +‘You’ll scarcely like to ask her for money,’ said Dick. + +‘Scarcely--at all events, I’ll see her, and I’ll tell her that I’m going +away, with no other thought in my mind than of all the love and affection +she had for me, worse luck mine that I have not got them still.’ + +‘Shall I walk over with--? would you rather be alone?’ + +‘I believe so! I think I should like to be alone.’ + +‘Let us meet, then, on this spot to-morrow, and decide what is to be done?’ + +‘Agreed!’ cried O’Shea, and with a warm shake-hands to ratify the pledge, +they parted: Dick towards the lower part of the garden, while O’Shea turned +towards the house. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII + +A SCRAPE + + +We have all of us felt how depressing is the sensation felt in a family +circle in the first meeting after the departure of their guests. The +friends who have been staying some time in your house not only bring to the +common stock their share of pleasant converse and companionship, but, in +the quality of strangers, they exact a certain amount of effort for their +amusement, which is better for him who gives than for the recipient, +and they impose that small reserve which excludes the purely personal +inconveniences and contrarieties, which unhappily, in strictly family +intercourse, have no small space allotted them for discussion. + +It is but right to say that they who benefit most by, and most gratefully +acknowledge, this boon of the visitors, are the young. The elders, +sometimes more disposed to indolence than effort, sometimes irritable at +the check essentially put upon many little egotisms of daily use, and +oftener than either, perhaps, glad to get back to the old groove of home +discussion, unrestrained by the presence of strangers; the elders are +now and then given to express a most ungracious gratitude for being once +again to themselves, and free to be as confidential and outspoken and +disagreeable as their hearts desire. + +The dinner at Kilgobbin Castle, on the day I speak of, consisted solely of +the Kearney family, and except in the person of the old man himself, no +trace of pleasantry could be detected. Kate had her own share of anxieties. +A number of notices had been served by refractory tenants for demands they +were about to prefer for improvements, under the new land act. The passion +for litigation, so dear to the Irish peasant’s heart--that sense of having +something to be quibbled for, so exciting to the imaginative nature of the +Celt, had taken possession of all the tenants on the estate, and even the +well-to-do and the satisfied were now bestirring themselves to think if +they had not some grievance to be turned into profit, and some possible +hardship to be discounted into an abatement. + +Dick Kearney, entirely preoccupied by the thought of his intended journey, +already began to feel that the things of home touched him no longer. A few +months more and he should be far away from Ireland and her interests, and +why should he harass himself about the contests of party or the balance of +factions, which never again could have any bearing on his future life. His +whole thought was what arrangement he could make with his father by which, +for a little present assistance, he might surrender all his right on the +entail and give up Kilgobbin for ever. + +As for Nina, her complexities were too many and too much interwoven for our +investigation; and there were thoughts of all the various persons she had +met in Ireland, mingled with scenes of the past, and, more strangely still, +the people placed in situations and connections which by no likelihood +should they ever have occupied. The thought that the little comedy of +everyday life, which she relished immensely, was now to cease for lack of +actors, made her serious--almost sad--and she seldom spoke during the meal. + +At Lord Kilgobbin’s request, that they would not leave him to take his +wine alone, they drew their chairs round the dining-room fire; but, except +the bright glow of the ruddy turf, and the pleasant look of the old man +himself, there was little that smacked of the agreeable fireside. + +‘What has come over you girls this evening?’ said the old man. ‘Are you in +love, or has the man that ought to be in love with either of you discovered +it was only a mistake he was making?’ + +‘Ask Nina, sir,’ said Kate gravely. + +‘Perhaps you are right, uncle,’ said Nina dreamily. + +‘In which of my guesses--the first or the last?’ + +‘Don’t puzzle me, sir, for I have no head for a subtle distinction. I only +meant to say it is not so easy to be in love without mistakes. You mistake +realities and traits for something not a bit like them, and you mistake +yourself by imagining that you mind them.’ + +‘I don’t think I understand you,’ said the old man. + +‘Very likely not, sir. I do not know if I had a meaning that I could +explain.’ + +‘Nina wants to tell you, my lord, that the right man has not come forward +yet, and she does not know whether she’ll keep the place open in her heart +for him any longer,’ said Dick, with a half-malicious glance. + +‘That terrible Cousin Dick! nothing escapes him,’ said Nina, with a faint +smile. + +‘Is there any more in the newspapers about that scandal of the Government?’ +cried the old man, turning to Kate. + +‘Is there not going to be some inquiry as to whether his Excellency wrote +to the Fenians?’ + +‘There are a few words here, papa,’ cried Kate, opening the paper. ‘“In +reply to the question of Sir Barnes Malone as to the late communications +alleged to have passed between the head of the Irish Government and the +head-centre of the Fenians, the Right Honourable the First Lord of the +Treasury said, ‘That the question would be more properly addressed to +the noble lord the Secretary for Ireland, who was not then in the House. +Meanwhile, sir,’ continued he, ‘I will take on myself the responsibility of +saying that in this, as in a variety of other cases, the zeal of party has +greatly outstripped the discretion that should govern political warfare. +The exceptional state of a nation, in which the administration of justice +mainly depends on those aids which a rigid morality might disparage--the +social state of a people whose integrity calls for the application of means +the most certain to disseminate distrust and disunion, are facts which +constitute reasons for political action that, however assailable in the +mere abstract, the mind of statesmanlike form will at once accept as solid +and effective, and to reject which would only show that, in over-looking +the consequences of sentiment, a man can ignore the most vital interests of +his country.’”’ + +‘Does he say that they wrote to Donogan?’ cried Kilgobbin, whose patience +had been sorely pushed by the Premier’s exordium. + +‘Let me read on, papa.’ + +‘Skip all that, and get down to a simple question and answer, Kitty; don’t +read the long sentences.’ + +‘This is how he winds up, papa. “I trust I have now, sir, satisfied the +House that there are abundant reasons why this correspondence should not be +produced on the table, while I have further justified my noble friend for a +course of action in which the humanity of the man takes no lustre from the +glory of the statesman”--then there are some words in Latin--“and the right +hon. gentleman resumed his seat amidst loud cheers, in which some of the +Opposition were heard to join.”’ + +‘I want to be told, after all, did they write the letter to say Donogan was +to be let escape?’ + +‘Would it have been a great crime, uncle?’ said Nina artlessly. + +‘I’m not going into that. I’m only asking what the people over us say is +the best way to govern us. I’d like to know, once for all, what was wrong +and what was right in Ireland.’ + +‘Has not the Premier just told you, sir,’ replied Nina, ‘that it is always +the reverse of what obtains everywhere else?’ + +‘I have had enough of it, anyhow,’ cried Dick, who, though not intending +it before, now was carried away by a momentary gust of passion to make the +avowal. + +‘Have you been in the Cabinet all this time, then, without our knowing it?’ +asked Nina archly. + +‘It is not of the Cabinet I was speaking, mademoiselle. It was of the +country.’ And he answered haughtily. + +‘And where would you go, Dick, and find better?’ said Kate. + +‘Anywhere. I should find better in America, in Canada, in the Far West, in +New Zealand--but I mean to try in Australia.’ + +‘And what will you do when you get there?’ asked Kilgobbin, with a grim +humour in his look. + +‘Do tell me, Cousin Dick, for who knows that it might not suit me also?’ + +Young Kearney filled his glass, and drained it without speaking. At last +he said, ‘It will be for you, sir, to say if I make the trial. It is clear +enough, I have no course open to me here. For a few hundred pounds, or, +indeed, for anything you like to give me, you get rid of me for ever. It +will be the one piece of economy my whole life comprises.’ + +‘Stay at home, Dick, and give to your own country the energy you are +willing to bestow on a strange land,’ said Kate. + +‘And labour side by side with the peasant I have looked down upon since I +was able to walk.’ + +‘Don’t look down on him, then--do it no longer. If you would treat the +first stranger you met in the bush as your equal, begin the Christian +practice in your own country.’ + +‘But he needn’t do that at all,’ broke in the old man. ‘If he would take +to strong shoes and early rising here at Kilgobbin, he need never go to +Geelong for a living. Your great-grandfathers lived here for centuries, and +the old house that sheltered them is still standing.’ + +‘What should I stay for--?’ He had got thus far when his eyes met Nina’s, +and he stopped and hesitated, and, as a deep blush covered his face, +faltered out, ‘Gorman O’Shea says he is ready to go with me, and two +fellows with less to detain them in their own country would be hard to +find.’ + +‘O’Shea will do well enough,’ said the old man; ‘he was not brought up +to kid-leather boots and silk linings in his greatcoat. There’s stuff +in _him_, and if it comes to sleeping under a haystack or dining on a +red-herring, he’ll not rise up with rheumatism or heartburn. And what’s +better than all, he’ll not think himself a hero because he mends his own +boots or lights his own kitchen-fire.’ + +‘A letter for your honour,’ said the servant, entering with a very +informal-looking note on coarse paper, and fastened with a wafer. ‘The +gossoon, sir, is waiting for an answer; he run every mile from Moate.’ + +‘Read it, Kitty,’ said the old man, not heeding the servant’s comment. + +‘It is dated “Moate Jail, seven o’clock,”’ said Kitty, as she read: ‘“Dear +Sir,--I have got into a stupid scrape, and have been committed to jail. +Will you come, or send some one to bail me out. The thing is a mere trifle, +but the ‘being locked up’ is very hard to bear.--Yours always, G. O’Shea.”’ + +‘Is this more Fenian work?’ cried Kilgobbin. + +‘I’m certain it is not, sir,’ said Dick. ‘Gorman O’Shea has no liking +for them, nor is he the man to sympathise with what he owns he cannot +understand. It is a mere accidental row.’ + +‘At all events, we must see to set him at liberty. Order the gig, Dick, and +while they are putting on the harness, I’ll finish this decanter of port. +If it wasn’t that we’re getting retired shopkeepers on the bench, we’d not +see an O’Shea sent to prison like a gossoon that stole a bunch of turnips.’ + +‘What has he been doing, I wonder?’ said Nina, as she drew her arm within +Kate’s and left the room. + +‘Some loud talk in the bar-parlour, perhaps,’ was Kate’s reply, and the +toss of her head as she said it implied more even than the words. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV + +HOW IT BEFELL + + +While Lord Kilgobbin and his son are plodding along towards Moate with a +horse not long released from the harrow, and over a road which the late +rains had sorely damaged, the moment is not inopportune to explain the +nature of the incident, small enough in its way, that called on them for +this journey at nightfall. It befell that when Miss Betty, indignant at +her nephew’s defection, and outraged that he should descend to call at +Kilgobbin, determined to cast him off for ever, she also resolved upon a +project over which she had long meditated, and to which the conversation at +her late dinner greatly predisposed her. + +The growing unfertility of the land, the sturdy rejection of the authority +of the Church, manifested in so many ways by the people, had led Miss +O’Shea to speculate more on the insecurity of landed property in Ireland +than all the long list of outrages scheduled at assizes, or all the burning +haggards that ever flared in a wintry sky. Her notion was to retire into +some religious sisterhood, and away from life and its cares, to pass her +remaining years in holy meditation and piety. She would have liked to have +sold her estate and endowed some house or convent with the proceeds, but +there were certain legal difficulties that stood in the way, and her +law-agent, McKeown, must be seen and conferred with about these. + +Her moods of passion were usually so very violent that she would stop at +nothing; and in the torrent of her anger she would decide on a course of +action which would colour a whole lifetime. On the present occasion her +first step was to write and acquaint McKeown that she would be at Moodie’s +Hotel, Dominick Street, the same evening, and begged he might call there at +eight or nine o’clock, as her business with him was pressing. Her next care +was to let the house and lands of O’Shea’s Barn to Peter Gill, for the term +of one year, at a rent scarcely more than nominal, the said Gill binding +himself to maintain the gardens, the shrubberies, and all the ornamental +plantings in their accustomed order and condition. In fact, the extreme +moderation of the rent was to be recompensed by the large space allotted +to unprofitable land, and the great care he was pledged to exercise in +its preservation; and while nominally the tenant, so manifold were the +obligations imposed on him, he was in reality very little other than +the caretaker of O’Shea’s Barn and its dependencies. No fences were +to be altered, or boundaries changed. All the copses of young timber +were to be carefully protected by palings as heretofore, and even the +ornamental cattle--the shorthorns, and the Alderneys, and a few favourite +‘Kerries,’--were to be kept on the allotted paddocks; and to old Kattoo +herself was allotted a loose box, with a small field attached to it, where +she might saunter at will, and ruminate over the less happy quadrupeds that +had to work for their subsistence. + +Now, though Miss Betty, in the full torrent of her anger, had that much of +method in her madness to remember the various details, whose interests were +the business of her daily life, and so far made provision for the future of +her pet cows and horses and dogs and guinea-fowls, so that if she should +ever resolve to return she should find all as she had left it, the short +paper of agreement by which she accepted Gill as her tenant was drawn up by +her own hand, unaided by a lawyer; and, whether from the intemperate haste +of the moment, or an unbounded confidence in Gill’s honesty and fidelity, +was not only carelessly expressed, but worded in a way that implied how her +trustfulness exonerated her from anything beyond the expression of what she +wished for, and what she believed her tenant would strictly perform. Gill’s +repeated phrase of ‘Whatever her honour’s ladyship liked’ had followed +every sentence as she read the document aloud to him; and the only real +puzzle she had was to explain to the poor man’s simple comprehension that +she was not making a hard bargain with him, but treating him handsomely and +in all confidence. + +Shrewd and sharp as the old lady was, versed in the habits of the people, +and long trained to suspect a certain air of dulness, by which, when asking +the explanation of a point, they watch, with a native casuistry, to see +what flaw or chink may open an equivocal meaning or intention, she was +thoroughly convinced by the simple and unreasoning concurrence this humble +man gave to every proviso, and the hearty assurance he always gave ‘that +her honour knew what was best. God reward and keep her long in the way to +do it!’--with all this, Miss O’Shea had not accomplished the first stage +of her journey to Dublin, when Peter Gill was seated in the office of Pat +McEvoy, the attorney at Moate--smart practitioner, who had done more to +foster litigation between tenant and landlord than all the ‘grievances’ +that ever were placarded by the press. + +‘When did you get this, Peter?’ said the attorney, as he looked about, +unable to find a date. + +‘This morning, sir, just before she started.’ + +‘You’ll have to come before the magistrate and make an oath of the date, +and, by my conscience, it’s worth the trouble.’ + +‘Why, sir, what’s in it?’ cried Peter eagerly. + +‘I’m no lawyer if she hasn’t given you a clear possession of the place, +subject to certain trusts, and even for the non-performance of these there +is no penalty attached. When Councillor Holmes comes down at the assizes, +I’ll lay a case before him, and I’ll wager a trifle, Peter, you will turn +out to be an estated gentleman.’ + +‘Blood alive!’ was all Peter could utter. + +Though the conversation that ensued occupied more than an hour, it is not +necessary that we should repeat what occurred, nor state more than the fact +that Peter went home fully assured that if O’Shea’s Barn was not his own +indisputably, it would be very hard to dispossess him, and that, at all +events, the occupation was secure to him for the present. The importance +that the law always attaches to possession Mr. McEvoy took care to impress +on Gill’s mind, and he fully convinced him that a forcible seizure of the +premises was far more to be apprehended than the slower process of a suit +and a verdict. + +It was about the third week after this opinion had been given, when young +O’Shea walked over from Kilgobbin Castle to the Barn, intending to see his +aunt and take his farewell of her. + +Though he had steeled his heart against the emotion such a leave-taking was +likely to evoke, he was in nowise prepared for the feelings the old place +itself would call up, and as he opened a little wicket that led by a +shrubbery walk to the cottage, he was glad to throw himself on the first +seat he could find and wait till his heart could beat more measuredly. +What a strange thing was life--at least that conventional life we make for +ourselves--was his thought now. ‘Here am I ready to cross the globe, to be +the servant, the labourer of some rude settler in the wilds of Australia, +and yet I cannot be the herdsman here, and tend the cattle in the scenes +that I love, where every tree, every bush, every shady nook, and every +running stream is dear to me. I cannot serve my own kith and kin, but must +seek my bread from the stranger! This is our glorious civilisation. I +should like to hear in what consists its marvellous advantage.’ + +And then he began to think of those men of whom he had often +heard--gentlemen and men of refinement--who had gone out to Australia, and +who, in all the drudgery of daily labour--herding cattle on the plains or +conducting droves of horses long miles of way--still managed to retain the +habits of their better days, and, by the instinct of the breeding, which +had become a nature, to keep intact in their hearts the thoughts and the +sympathies and the affections that made them gentlemen. + +‘If my dear aunt only knew me as I know myself, she would let me stay here +and serve her as the humblest labourer on her land. I can see no indignity +in being poor and faring hardly. I have known coarse food and coarse +clothing, and I never found that they either damped my courage or soured my +temper.’ + +It might not seem exactly the appropriate moment to have bethought him of +the solace of companionship in such poverty, but somehow his thoughts _did_ +take that flight, and unwarrantable as was the notion, he fancied himself +returning at nightfall to his lowly cabin, and a certain girlish figure, +whom our reader knows as Kate Kearney, standing watching for his coming. + +There was no one to be seen about as he approached the house. The +hall door, however, lay open. He entered and passed on to the little +breakfast-parlour on the left. The furniture was the same as before, but a +coarse fustian jacket was thrown on the back of a chair, and a clay-pipe +and a paper of tobacco stood on the table. While he was examining these +objects with some attention, a very ragged urchin, of some ten or eleven +years, entered the room with a furtive step, and stood watching him. From +this fellow, all that he could hear was that Miss Betty was gone away, +and that Peter was at the Kilbeggan Market, and though he tried various +questions, no other answers than these were to be obtained. Gorman now +tried to see the drawing-room and the library, but these, as well as the +dining-room, were all locked. He next essayed the bedrooms, but with the +same unsuccess. At length he turned to his own well-known corner--the +well-remembered little ‘green-room’--which he loved to think his own. This +too was locked, but Gorman remembered that by pressing the door underneath +with his walking-stick, he could lift the bolt from the old-fashioned +receptacle that held it, and open the door. Curious to have a last look at +a spot dear by so many memories, he tried the old artifice and succeeded. + +He had still on his watch-chain the little key of an old marquetrie +cabinet, where he was wont to write, and now he was determined to write a +last letter to his aunt from the old spot, and send her his good-bye from +the very corner where he had often come to wish her ‘good-night.’ + +He opened the window and walked out on the little wooden balcony, from +which the view extended over the lawn and the broad belt of wood that +fenced the demesne. The Sliebh Bloom Mountain shone in the distance, and +in the calm of an evening sunlight the whole picture had something in its +silence and peacefulness of almost rapturous charm. + +Who is there amongst us that has not felt, in walking through the rooms of +some uninhabited house, with every appliance of human comfort strewn about, +ease and luxury within, wavy trees and sloping lawn or eddying waters +without--who, in seeing all these, has not questioned himself as to why +this should be deserted? and why is there none to taste and feel all the +blessedness of such a lot as life here should offer? Is not the world full +of these places? is not the puzzle of this query of all lands and of all +peoples? That ever-present delusion of what we should do--what be if we +were aught other than ourselves: how happy, how contented, how unrepining, +and how good--ay, even our moral nature comes into the compact--this +delusion, I say, besets most of us through life, and we never weary of +believing how cruelly fate has treated us, and how unjust destiny has been +to a variety of good gifts and graces which are doomed to die unrecognised +and unrequited. + +I will not go to the length of saying that Gorman O’Shea’s reflections went +thus far, though they did go to the extent of wondering why his aunt had +left this lovely spot, and asked himself, again and again, where she could +possibly have found anything to replace it. + +‘My dearest aunt,’ wrote he, ‘in my own old room at the dear old desk, and +on the spot knitted to my heart by happiest memories, I sit down to send +you my last good-bye ere I leave Ireland for ever. + +‘It is in no mood of passing fretfulness or impatience that I resolve to +go and seek my fortune in Australia. As I feel now, believing you are +displeased with me, I have no heart to go further into the question of my +own selfish interests, nor say why I resolve to give up soldiering, and why +I turn to a new existence. Had I been to you what I have hitherto been, had +I the assurance that I possessed the old claim on your love which made me +regard you as a dear mother, I should tell you of every step that has led +me to this determination, and how carefully and anxiously I tried to study +what might be the turning-point of my life.’ + +When he had written thus far, and his eyes had already grown glassy with +the tears which would force their way across them, a heavy foot was heard +on the stairs, the door was burst rudely open, and Peter Gill stood before +him. + +No longer, however, the old peasant in shabby clothes, and with his look +half-shy, half-sycophant, but vulgarly dressed in broadcloth and bright +buttons, a tall hat on his head, and a crimson cravat round his neck. His +face was flushed, and his eye flashing and insolent, so that O’Shea only +feebly recognised him by his voice. + +‘You thought you’d be too quick for me, young man,’ said the fellow, and +the voice in its thickness showed he had been drinking, ‘and that you would +do your bit of writing there before I’d be back, but I was up to you.’ + +‘I really do not know what you mean,’ cried O’Shea, rising; ‘and as it is +only too plain you have been drinking, I do not care to ask you.’ + +‘Whether I was drinking or no is my own business; there’s none to call me +to account now. I am here in my own house, and I order you to leave it, +and if you don’t go by the way you came in, by my soul you’ll go by that +window!’ A loud bang of his stick on the floor gave the emphasis to the +last words, and whether it was the action or the absurd figure of the man +himself overcame O’Shea, he burst out in a hearty laugh as he surveyed him. +‘I’ll make it no laughing matter to you,’ cried Gill, wild with passion, +and stepping to the door he cried out, ‘Come up, boys, every man of ye: +come up and see the chap that’s trying to turn me out of my holding.’ + +The sound of voices and the tramp of feet outside now drew O’Shea to the +window, and passing out on the balcony, he saw a considerable crowd of +country-people assembled beneath. They were all armed with sticks, and had +that look of mischief and daring so unmistakable in a mob. As the young man +stood looking at them, some one pointed him out to the rest, and a wild +yell, mingled with hisses, now broke from the crowd. He was turning away +from the spot in disgust when he found that Gill had stationed himself at +the window, and barred the passage. + +‘The boys want another look at ye,’ said Gill insolently; ‘go back and show +yourself: it is not every day they see an informer.’ + +‘Stand back, you old fool, and let me pass,’ cried O’Shea. + +‘Touch me if you dare; only lay one finger on me in my own house,’ said the +fellow, and he grinned almost in his face as he spoke. + +‘Stand back,’ said Gorman, and suiting the action to the word, he raised +his arm to make space for him to pass out. Gill, no sooner did he feel the +arm graze his chest, than he struck O’Shea across the face; and though +the blow was that of an old man, the insult was so maddening that O’Shea, +seizing him by the arms, dragged him out upon the balcony. + +‘He’s going to throw the old man over,’ cried several of those beneath, and +amidst the tumult of voices, a number soon rushed up the stairs and out +on the balcony, where the old fellow was clinging to O’Shea’s legs in his +despairing attempt to save himself. The struggle scarcely lasted many +seconds, for the rotten wood-work of the balcony creaked and trembled, +and at last gave way with a crash, bringing the whole party to the ground +together. + +[Illustration: The balcony creaked and trembled, and at last gave way] + +A score of sticks rained their blows on the luckless young man, and each +time that he tried to rise he was struck back and rolled over by a blow or +a kick, till at length he lay still and senseless on the sward, his face +covered with blood and his clothes in ribbons. + +‘Put him in a cart, boys, and take him off to the gaol,’ said the attorney, +McEvoy. ‘We’ll be in a scrape about all this, if we don’t make _him_ in the +wrong.’ + +His audience fully appreciated the counsel, and while a few were busied in +carrying old Gill to the house--for a broken leg made him unable to reach +it alone--the others placed O’Shea on some straw in a cart, and set out +with him to Kilbeggan. + +‘It is not a trespass at all,’ said McEvoy. ‘I’ll make it a burglary and +forcible entry, and if he recovers at all, I’ll stake my reputation I +transport him for seven years.’ + +A hearty murmur of approval met the speech, and the procession, with the +cart at their head, moved on towards the town. + + + + +CHAPTER LV + +TWO J.P.’S + + +It was the Tory magistrate, Mr. Flood--the same who had ransacked Walpole’s +correspondence--before whom the informations were sworn against Gorman +O’Shea, and the old justice of the peace was, in secret, not sorry to see +the question of land-tenure a source of dispute and quarrel amongst the +very party who were always inveighing against the landlords. + +When Lord Kilgobbin arrived at Kilbeggan it was nigh midnight, and as +young O’Shea was at that moment a patient in the gaol infirmary, and sound +asleep, it was decided between Kearney and his son that they would leave +him undisturbed till the following morning. + +Late as it was, Kearney was so desirous to know the exact narrative of +events that he resolved on seeing Mr. Flood at once. Though Dick Kearney +remonstrated with his father, and reminded him that old Tom Flood, as he +was called, was a bitter Tory, had neither a civil word nor a kind thought +for his adversaries in politics, Kearney was determined not to be turned +from his purpose by any personal consideration, and being assured by the +innkeeper that he was sure to find Mr. Flood in his dining-room and over +his wine, he set out for the snug cottage at the entrance of the town, +where the old justice of the peace resided. + +Just as he had been told, Mr. Flood was still in the dinner-room, and +with his guest, Tony Adams, the rector, seated with an array of decanters +between them. + +‘Kearney--Kearney!’ cried Flood, as he read the card the servant handed +him. ‘Is it the fellow who calls himself Lord Kilgobbin, I wonder?’ + +‘Maybe so,’ growled Adams, in a deep guttural, for he disliked the effort +of speech. + +‘I don’t know him, nor do I want to know him. He is one of your +half-and-half Liberals that, to my thinking, are worse than the rebels +themselves! What is this here in pencil on the back of the card?’ Mr. K. +begs to apologise for the hour of his intrusion, and earnestly entreats a +few minutes from Mr. Flood. ‘Show him in, Philip, show him in; and bring +some fresh glasses.’ + +Kearney made his excuses with a tact and politeness which spoke of a time +when he mixed freely with the world, and old Flood was so astonished by the +ease and good-breeding of his visitor that his own manner became at once +courteous and urbane. + +‘Make no apologies about the hour, Mr. Kearney,’ said he. ‘An old +bachelor’s house is never very tight in discipline. Allow me to introduce +Mr. Adams, Mr. Kearney, the best preacher in Ireland, and as good a judge +of port wine as of theology.’ + +The responsive grunt of the parson was drowned in the pleasant laugh of the +others, as Kearney sat down and filled his glass. In a very few words he +related the reason of his visit to the town, and asked Mr. Flood to tell +him what he knew of the late misadventure. + +‘Sworn information, drawn up by that worthy man, Pat McEvoy, the greatest +rascal in Europe, and I hope I don’t hurt you by saying it, Mr. Kearney. +Sworn information of a burglarious entry, and an aggravated assault on the +premises and person of one Peter Gill, another local blessing--bad luck +to him. The aforesaid--if I spoke of hi before--Gorman O’Shea, having, +_suadente diabolo_, smashed down doors and windows, palisadings +and palings, and broke open cabinets, chests, cupboards, and other +contrivances. In a word, he went into another man’s house, and when asked +what he did there, he threw the proprietor out of the window. There’s the +whole of it.’ + +‘Where was the house?’ + +‘O’Shea’s Barn.’ + +‘But surely O’Shea’s Barn, being the residence and property of his aunt, +there was no impropriety in his going there?’ + +‘The informant states that the place was in the tenancy of this said Gill, +one of your own people, Mr. Kearney. I wish you luck of him.’ + +‘I disown him, root and branch; he is a disgrace to any side. And where is +Miss Betty O’Shea?’ + +‘In a convent or a monastery, they say. She has turned abbess or monk; but, +upon my conscience, from the little I’ve seen of her, if a strong will and +a plucky heart be the qualifications, she might be the Pope!’ + +‘And are the young man’s injuries serious? Is he badly hurt? for they would +not let me see him at the gaol.’ + +‘Serious, I believe they are. He is cut cruelly about the face and head, +and his body bruised all over. The finest peasantry have a taste for +kicking with strong brogues on them, Mr. Kearney, that cannot be equalled.’ + +‘I wish with all my heart they’d kick the English out of Ireland!’ cried +Kearney, with a savage energy. + +‘’Faith! if they go on governing us in the present fashion, I do not say +I’ll make any great objection. Eh, Adams?’ + +‘Maybe so!’ was the slow and very guttural reply, as the fat man crossed +his hands on his waistcoat. + +‘I’m sick of them all, Whigs and Tories,’ said Kearney. + +Is not every Irish gentleman sick of them, Mr. Kearney? Ain’t you sick +of being cheated and cajoled, and ain’t _we_ sick of being cheated and +insulted? They seek to conciliate _you_ by outraging _us_. Don’t you think +we could settle our own differences better amongst ourselves? It was +Philpot Curran said of the fleas in Manchester, that if they’d all pulled +together, they’d have pulled him out of bed. Now, Mr. Kearney, what if we +all took to “pulling together?”’ + +‘We cannot get rid of the notion that we’d be out-jockeyed,’ said Kearney +slowly. + +‘We _know_,’ cried the other, ‘that we should be out-numbered, and that is +worse. Eh, Adams?’ + +‘Ay!’ sighed Adams, who did not desire to be appealed to by either side. + +‘Now we’re alone here, and no eavesdropper near us, tell me fairly, +Kearney, are you better because we are brought down in the world? Are you +richer--are you greater--are you happier?’ + +‘I believe we are, Mr. Flood, and I’ll tell you why I say so.’ + +I’ll be shot if I hear you, that’s all. Fill your glass. That’s old port +that John Beresford tasted in the Custom-House Docks seventy-odd years ago, +and you are the only Whig living that ever drank a drop of it!’ + +‘I am proud to be the first exception, and I go so far as to believe--I +shall not be the last!’ + +‘I’ll send a few bottles over to that boy in the infirmary. It cannot but +be good for him,’ said Flood. + +‘Take care, for Heaven’s sake, if he be threatened with inflammation. Do +nothing without the doctor’s leave.’ + +‘I wonder why the people who are so afraid of inflammation, are so fond of +rebellion,’ said he sarcastically. + +‘Perhaps I could tell you that, too--’ + +‘No, do not--do not, I beseech you; reading the Whig Ministers’ speeches +has given me such a disgust to all explanations, I’d rather concede +anything than hear how it could be defended! Apparently Mr. Disraeli is of +my mind also, for he won’t support Paul Hartigan’s motion.’ + +‘What was Hartigan’s motion?’ + +‘For the papers, or the correspondence, or whatever they called it, that +passed between Danesbury and Dan Donogan.’ + +‘But there was none.’ + +‘Is that all you know of it? They were as thick as two thieves. It was +“Dear Dane” and “Dear Dan” between them. “Stop the shooting. We want a +light calendar at the summer assizes,” says one. “You shall have forty +thousand pounds yearly for a Catholic college, if the House will let us.” + “Thank you for nothing for the Catholic college,” says Dan. “We want our +own Parliament and our own militia; free pardon for political offences.” + What would you say to a bill to make landlord-shooting manslaughter, Mr. +Kearney?’ + +‘Justifiable homicide, Mr. Bright called it years ago, but the judges +didn’t see it.’ + +‘This Danesbury “muddle,” for that is the name they give it, will be hushed +up, for he has got some Tory connections, and the lords are never hard on +one of their “order,” so I hear. Hartigan is to be let have his talk out +in the House, and as he is said to be violent and indiscreet, the Prime +Minister will only reply to the violence and the indiscretion, and he +will conclude by saying that the noble Viceroy has begged Her Majesty to +release him of the charge of the Irish Government; and though the Cabinet +have urgently entreated him to remain and carry out the wise policy of +conciliation so happily begun in Ireland, he is rooted in his resolve, and +he will not stay; and there will be cheers; and when he adds that Mr. Cecil +Walpole, having shown his great talents for intrigue, will be sent back +to the fitting sphere--his old profession of diplomacy--there will be +laughter; for as the Minister seldom jokes, the House will imagine this to +be a slip, and then, with every one in good humour--but Paul Hartigan, who +will have to withdraw his motion--the right honourable gentleman will sit +down, well pleased at his afternoon’s work.’ + +Kearney could not but laugh at the sketch of a debate given with all the +mimicry of tone and mock solemnity of an old debater, and the two men now +became, by the bond of their geniality, like old acquaintances. + +‘Ah, Mr. Kearney, I won’t say we’d do it better on College Green, but +we’d do it more kindly, more courteously, and, above all, we’d be less +hypocritical in our inquiries. I believe we try to cheat the devil in +Ireland just as much as our neighbours. But we don’t pretend that we are +arch-bishops all the time we’re doing it. There’s where we differ from the +English.’ + +‘And who is to govern us,’ cried Kearney,’ if we have no Lord-Lieutenant?’ + +‘The Privy Council, the Lords Justices, or maybe the Board of Works, who +knows? When you are going over to Holyhead in the packet, do you ever ask +if the man at the wheel is decent, or a born idiot, and liable to fits? Not +a bit of it. You know that there are other people to look to this, and you +trust, besides, that they’ll land you all safe.’ + +‘That’s true,’ said Kearney, and he drained his glass; ‘and now tell me one +thing more. How will it go with young O’Shea about this scrimmage, will it +be serious?’ + +‘Curtis, the chief constable, says it will be an ugly affair enough. +They’ll swear hard, and they’ll try to make out a title to the land through +the action of trespass; and if, as I hear, the young fellow is a scamp and +a bad lot--’ + +‘Neither one nor the other,’ broke in Kearney; ‘as fine a boy and as +thorough a gentleman as there is in Ireland.’ + +‘And a bit of a Fenian, too,’ slowly interposed Flood. + +‘Not that I know; I’m not sure that he follows the distinctions of party +here; he is little acquainted with Ireland.’ + +‘Ho, ho! a Yankee sympathiser?’ + +‘Not even that; an Austrian soldier, a young lieutenant of lancers over +here for his leave.’ + +‘And why couldn’t he shoot, or course, or kiss the girls, or play at +football, and not be burning his fingers with the new land-laws? There’s +plenty of ways to amuse yourself in Ireland, without throwing a man out of +window; eh, Adams?’ + +And Adams bowed his assent, but did not utter a word. + +‘You are not going to open more wine?’ remonstrated Kearney eagerly. + +‘It’s done. Smell that, Mr. Kearney,’ cried Flood, as he held out a +fresh-drawn cork at the end of the screw. ‘Talk to me of clove-pinks and +violets and carnations after that? I don’t know whether you have any +prayers in your church against being led into temptation.’ + +‘Haven’t we!’ sighed the other. + +‘Then all I say is, Heaven help the people at Oporto; they’ll have more to +answer for even than most men.’ + +It was nigh dawn when they parted, Kearney muttering to himself as he +sauntered back to the inn, ‘If port like that is the drink of the Tories, +they must be good fellows with all their prejudices.’ + +‘I’ll be shot if I don’t like that rebel,’ said Flood as he went to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI + +BEFORE THE DOOR + + +Though Lord Kilgobbin, when he awoke somewhat late in the afternoon, did +not exactly complain of headache, he was free to admit that his faculties +were slightly clouded, and that his memory was not to the desired extent +retentive of all that passed on the preceding night. Indeed, beyond the +fact--which he reiterated with great energy--that ‘old Flood, Tory though +he was, was a good fellow, an excellent fellow, and had a marvellous bin +of port wine,’ his son Dick was totally unable to get any information from +him. ‘Bigot, if you like, or Blue Protestant, and all the rest of it; but +a fine hearty old soul, and an Irishman to the heart’s core!’ That was the +sum of information which a two hours’ close cross-examination elicited; and +Dick was sulkily about to leave the room in blank disappointment when the +old man suddenly amazed him by asking: ‘And do you tell me that you have +been lounging about the town all the morning and have learned nothing? Were +you down to the gaol? Have you seen O’Shea? What’s _his_ account of it? +Who began the row? Has he any bones broken? Do you know anything at all?’ +cried he, as the blank look of the astonished youth seemed to imply utter +ignorance, as well as dismay. + +‘First of all,’ said Dick, drawing a long breath, ‘I have not seen O’Shea; +nobody is admitted to see him. His injuries about the head are so severe +the doctors are in dread of erysipelas.’ + +‘What if he had? Have not every one of us had the erysipelas some time or +other; and, barring the itching, what’s the great harm?’ + +‘The doctors declare that if it come, they will not answer for his life.’ + +‘They know best, and I’m afraid they know why also. Oh dear, oh dear! +if there’s anything the world makes no progress in, it’s the science of +medicine. Everybody now dies of what we all used to have when I was a boy! +Sore throats, smallpox, colic, are all fatal since they’ve found out Greek +names for them, and with their old vulgar titles they killed nobody.’ + +‘Gorman is certainly in a bad way, and Dr. Rogan says it will be some days +before he could pronounce him out of danger.’ + +‘Can he be removed? Can we take him back with us to Kilgobbin?’ + +‘That is utterly out of the question; he cannot be stirred, and requires +the most absolute rest and quiet. Besides that, there is another +difficulty--I don’t know if they would permit us to take him away.’ + +‘What! do you mean, refuse our bail?’ + +‘They have got affidavits to show old Gill’s life’s in danger; he is in +high fever to-day, and raving furiously, and if he should die, McEvoy +declares that they’ll be able to send bills for manslaughter, at least, +before the grand-jury.’ + +‘There’s more of it!’ cried Kilgobbin, with a long whistle. ‘Is it Rogan +swears the fellow is in danger?’ + +‘No, it’s Tom Price, the dispensary doctor; and as Miss Betty withdrew her +subscription last year, they say he swore he’d pay her off for it.’ + +‘I know Tom, and I’ll see to that,’ said Kearney. ‘Are the affidavits +sworn?’ + +‘No. They are drawn out; McEvoy is copying them now; but they’ll be ready +by three o’clock.’ + +‘I’ll have Rogan to swear that the boy must be removed at once. We’ll +take him over with us; and once at Kilgobbin, they’ll want a regiment of +soldiers if they mean to take him. It is nigh twelve o’clock now, is it +not?’ + +‘It is on the stroke of two, sir.’ + +‘Is it possible? I believe I overslept myself in the strange bed. Be alive +now, Dick, and take the 2.40 train to town. Call on McKeown, and find out +where Miss Betty is stopping; break this business to her gently--for with +all that damnable temper, she has a fine womanly heart--tell her the poor +boy was not to blame at all: that he went over to see her, and knew nothing +of the place being let out or hired; and tell her, besides, that the +blackguards that beat him were not her own people at all, but villains from +another barony that old Gill brought over to work on short wages. Mind that +you say that, or we’ll have more law, and more trouble--notices to quit, +and the devil knows what. I know Miss Betty well, and she’d not leave a man +on a town-land if they raised a finger against one of her name! There now, +you know what to do: go and do it!’ + +To hear the systematic and peremptory manner in which the old man detailed +all his directions, one would have pronounced him a model of orderly +arrangement and rule. Having despatched Dick to town, however, he began +to bethink him of all the matters on which he was desirous to learn Miss +O’Shea’s mind. Had she really leased the Barn to this man Gill: and if so, +for what term? And was her quarrel with her nephew of so serious a nature +that she might hesitate as to taking his side here--at least, till she knew +he was in the right; and then, was he in the right? That was, though the +last, the most vital consideration of all. + +‘I’d have thought of all these if the boy had not flurried me so. These +hot-headed fellows have never room in their foolish brains for anything +like consecutive thought; they can just entertain the one idea, and till +they dismiss that, they cannot admit another. Now, he’ll come back by the +next train, and bring me the answer to one of my queries, if even that?’ +sighed he, as he went on with his dressing. + +‘All this blessed business,’ muttered he to himself, ‘comes of this +blundering interference with the land-laws. Paddy hears that they have +given him some new rights and privileges, and no mock-modesty of his own +will let him lose any of them, and so he claims everything. Old experience +had taught him that with a bold heart and a blunderbuss he need not pay +much rent; but Mr. Gladstone--long life to him--had said, “We must do +something for you.” Now what could that be? He’d scarcely go so far as to +give them out Minié rifles or Chassepots, though arms of precision, as they +call them, would have put many a poor fellow out of pain--as Bob Magrath +said when he limped into the public-house with a ball in his back--“It’s +only a ‘healing measure,’ don’t make a fuss about it.”’ + +‘Mr. Flood wants to see your honour when you’re dressed,’ said the waiter, +interrupting his soliloquy. + +‘Where is he?’ + +‘Walking up and down, sir, forenent the door.’ + +‘Will ye say I’m coming down? I’m just finishing a letter to the +Lord-Lieutenant,’ said Kilgobbin, with a sly look to the man, who returned +the glance with its rival, and then left the room. + +‘Will you not come in and sit down?’ said Kearney, as he cordially shook +Flood’s hand. + +‘I have only five minutes to stay, and with your leave, Mr. Kearney, we’ll +pass it here’; and taking the other’s arm, he proceeded to walk up and down +before the door of the inn. + +‘You know Ireland well--few men better, I am told--and you have no need, +therefore, to be told how the rumoured dislikes of party, the reported +jealousies and rancours of this set to that, influence the world here. +It will be a fine thing, therefore, to show these people here that the +Liberal, Mr. Kearney, and that bigoted old Tory, Tom Flood, were to be seen +walking together, and in close confab. It will show them, at all events, +that neither of us wants to make party capital out of this scrimmage, and +that he who wants to affront one of us, cannot, on that ground, at least, +count upon the other. Just look at the crowd that is watching us already! +There ‘a a fellow neglecting the sale of his pig to stare at us, and that +young woman has stopped gartering her stocking for the last two minutes in +sheer curiosity about us.’ + +[Illustration: ‘Just look at the crowd that is watching us already’] + +Kearney laughed heartily as he nodded assent. + +‘You follow me, don’t you?’ asked Flood. ‘Well, then, grant me the favour +I’m about to ask, and it will show me that you see all these things as +I do. This row may turn out more seriously than we thought for. That +scoundrel Gill is in a high fever to-day--I would not say that just out of +spite the fellow would not die. Who knows if it may not become a great case +at the assizes; and if so, Kearney, let us have public opinion with us. +There are scores of men who will wait to hear what you and I say of this +business. There are hundreds more who will expect us to disagree. Let +us prove to them that this is no feud between Orange and Green, this is +nothing of dispute between Whig and Tory, or Protestant and Papist; but +a free fight, where, more shame to them, fifty fell upon one. Now what +you must grant me is leave to send this boy back to Kilgobbin in my own +carriage, and with my own liveries. There is not a peasant cutting turf +on the bog will not reason out his own conclusions when he sees it. Don’t +refuse me, for I have set my heart on it.’ + +‘I’m not thinking of refusing. I was only wondering to myself what my +daughter Kitty will say when she sees me sitting behind the blue and orange +liveries.’ + +‘You may send me back with the green flag over me the next day I dine with +you,’ cried Flood, and the compact was ratified. + +‘It is more than half-past already,’ said Flood. ‘We are to have a full +bench at three; so be ready to give your bail, and I’ll have the carriage +at the corner of the street, and you shall set off with the boy at once.’ + +‘I must say,’ said Kearney, ‘whatever be your Tory faults, lukewarmness is +not one of them! You stand to me like an old friend in all this trouble.’ + +‘Maybe it’s time to begin to forget old grudges. Kearney, I believe in my +heart neither of us is as bad as the other thinks him. Are you aware that +they are getting affidavits to refuse the bail?’ + +‘I know it all; but I have sent a man to McEvoy about a case that will take +all his morning; and he’ll be too late with his affidavits.’ + +‘By the time he is ready, you and your charge will be snug in Kilgobbin; +and another thing, Kearney--for I have thought of the whole matter--you’ll +take out with you that little vermin Price, the doctor, and treat him +well. He’ll be as indiscreet as you wish, and be sure to give him the +opportunity. There, now, give me your most affectionate grasp of the hand, +for there’s an attentive public watching us.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +A DOCTOR + + +Young O’Shea made the journey from Kilbeggan to Kilgobbin Castle in total +unconsciousness. The symptoms had now taken the form which doctors call +concussion; and though to a first brief question he was able to reply +reasonably and well, the effort seemed so exhausting that to all subsequent +queries he appeared utterly indifferent; nor did he even by look +acknowledge that he heard them. + +Perfect and unbroken quiet was enjoined as his best, if not his only, +remedy; and Kate gave up her own room for the sick man, as that most remote +from all possible disturbance, and away from all the bustle of the house. +The doctors consulted on his case in the fashion that a country physician +of eminence condescends to consult with a small local practitioner. Dr. +Rogan pronounced his opinion, prophetically declared the patient in danger, +and prescribed his remedies, while Price, agreeing with everything, and +even slavishly abject in his manner of concurrence, went about amongst the +underlings of the household saying, ‘There’s two fractures of the frontal +bone. It’s trepanned he ought to be; and when there’s an inquest on the +body, I’ll declare I said so.’ + +Though nearly all the care of providing for the sick man’s nursing fell +to Kate Kearney, she fulfilled the duty without attracting any notice +whatever, or appearing to feel as if any extra demand were made upon her +time or her attention; so much so, that a careless observer might have +thought her far more interested in providing for the reception of the aunt +than in cares for the nephew. + +Dick Kearney had written to say that Miss Betty was so overwhelmed with +affliction at young Gorman’s mishap that she had taken to bed, and could +not be expected to be able to travel for several days. She insisted, +however, on two telegrams daily to report on the boy’s case, and asked +which of the great Dublin celebrities of physic should be sent down to see +him. + +‘They’re all alike to me,’ said Kilgobbin; ‘but if I was to choose, I think +I’d say Dr. Chute.’ + +This was so far unlucky, since Dr. Chute had then been dead about forty +years; scarcely a junior of the profession having so much as heard his +name. + +‘We really want no one,’ said Rogan. ‘We are doing most favourably in every +respect. If one of the young ladies would sit and read to him, but not +converse, it would be a service. He made the request himself this morning, +and I promised to repeat it.’ + +A telegram, however, announced that Sir St. Xavier Brennan would arrive +the same evening, and as Sir X. was physician-in-chief to the nuns of the +Bleeding Heart, there could be little doubt whose orthodoxy had chosen him. + +He came at nightfall--a fat, comely-looking, somewhat unctuous gentleman, +with excellent teeth and snow-white hands, symmetrical and dimpled like a +woman’s. He saw the patient, questioned him slightly, and divined without +waiting for it what the answer should be; he was delighted with Rogan, +pleased with Price, but he grew actually enthusiastic over those charming +nurses, Nina and Kate. + +‘With such sisters of charity to tend me, I’d consent to pass my life as an +invalid,’ cried he. + +Indeed, to listen to him, it would seem that, whether from the salubrity +of the air, the peaceful quietude of the spot, the watchful kindness +and attention of the surrounders, or a certain general air--an actual +atmosphere of benevolence and contentment around--there was no pleasure of +life could equal the delight of being laid up at Kilgobbin. + +‘I have a message for you from my old friend Miss O’Shea,’ said he to Kate +the first moment he had the opportunity of speaking with her alone. ‘It +is not necessary to tell you that I neither know, nor desire to know, its +import. Her words were these: “Tell my godchild to forgive me if she still +has any memory for some very rude words I once spoke. Tell her that I +have been sorely punished for them since, and that till I know I have her +pardon, I have no courage to cross her doors.” This was my message, and I +was to bring back your answer.’ + +‘Tell her,’ cried Kate warmly, ‘I have no place in my memory but for the +kindnesses she has bestowed on me, and that I ask no better boon from +Fortune than to be allowed to love her, and to be worthy of her love.’ + +‘I will repeat every word you have told me; and I am proud to be bearer +of such a speech. May I presume, upon the casual confidence I have thus +acquired, to add one word for myself; and it is as the doctor I would +speak.’ + +‘Speak freely. What is it?’ + +‘It is this, then: you young ladies keep your watches in turn in the +sick-room. The patient is unfit for much excitement, and as I dare not take +the liberty of imposing a line of conduct on Mademoiselle Kostalergi, I +have resolved to run the hazard with _you_! Let _hers_ be the task of +entertaining him; let _her_ be the reader--and he loves being read to--and +the talker, and the narrator of whatever goes on. To you be the part of +quiet watchfulness and care, to bathe the heated brow, or the burning hand, +to hold the cold cup to the parched lips, to adjust the pillow, to temper +the light, and renew the air of the sick-room, but to speak seldom, if at +all. Do you understand me?’ + +‘Perfectly; and you are wise and acute in your distribution of labour: each +of us has her fitting station.’ + +‘I dared not have said this much to _her_: my doctor’s instinct told me I +might be frank with _you_.’ + +‘You are safe in speaking to me,’ said she calmly. + +‘Perhaps I ought to say that I give these suggestions without any concert +with my patient. I have not only abstained from consulting, but--’ + +‘Forgive my interrupting you, Sir X. It was quite unnecessary to tell me +this.’ + +‘You are not displeased with me, dear lady?’ said he, in his softest of +accents. + +‘No; but do not say anything which might make me so.’ + +The doctor bowed reverentially, crossed his white hands on his waistcoat, +and looked like a saint ready for martyrdom. + +Kate frankly held out her hand in token of perfect cordiality, and her +honest smile suited the action well. + +‘Tell Miss Betty that our sick charge shall not be neglected, but that we +want her here herself to help us.’ + +‘I shall report your message word for word,’ said he, as he withdrew. + +As the doctor drove back to Dublin, he went over a variety of things in +his thoughts. There were serious disturbances in the provinces; those +ugly outrages which forerun long winter nights, and make the last days of +October dreary and sad-coloured. Disorder and lawlessness were abroad; and +that want of something remedial to be done which, like the thirst in fever, +is fostered and fed by partial indulgence. Then he had some puzzling cases +in hospital, and one or two in private practice, which harassed him; for +some had reached that critical stage where a false move would be fatal, +and it was far from clear which path should be taken. Then there was that +matter of Miss O’Shea herself, who, if her nephew were to die, would most +likely endow that hospital in connection with the Bleeding Heart, and +of which he was himself the founder; and that this fate was by no means +improbable, Sir X. persuaded himself, as he counted over all the different +stages of peril that stood between him and convalescence. ‘We have now the +concussion, with reasonable prospect of meningitis; and there may come on +erysipelas from the scalp wounds, and high fever, with all its dangers; +next there may be a low typhoid state, with high nervous excitement; +and through all these the passing risks of the wrong food or drink, the +imprudent revelations, or the mistaken stimulants. Heigh-ho!’ said he at +last, ‘we come through storm and shipwreck, forlorn-hopes, and burning +villages, and we succumb to ten drops too much of a dark-brown liquor, or +the improvident rashness that reads out a note to us incautiously! + +‘Those young ladies thought to mystify me,’ said he aloud, after a long +reverie. ‘I was not to know which of them was in love with the sick boy. I +could make nothing of the Greek, I own, for, except a half-stealthy +regard for myself, she confessed to nothing, and the other was nearly as +inscrutable. It was only the little warmth at last that betrayed her. I +hurt her pride, and as she winced, I said, “There’s the sore spot--there’s +mischief there!” How the people grope their way through life who have never +studied physic nor learned physiology is a puzzle to _me_! With all its aid +and guidance I find humanity quite hard enough to understand every day I +live.’ + +Even in his few hours’ visit--in which he remarked everything, from the +dress of the man who waited at dinner, to the sherry decanter with the +smashed stopper, the weak ‘Gladstone’ that did duty as claret, and the +cotton lace which Nina sported as ‘point d’Alençon,’ and numberless other +shifts, such as people make who like to play false money with Fortune--all +these he saw, and he saw that a certain jealous rivalry existed between the +two girls; but whether either of them, or both, cared for young O’Shea, he +could not declare; and, strange as it may seem, his inability to determine +this weighed upon him with all the sense of a defeat. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +IN TURKEY + + +Leaving the sick man to the tender care of those ladies whose division of +labour we have just hinted at, we turn to other interests, and to one of +our characters, who, though to all seeming neglected, has not lapsed from +our memory. + +Joe Atlee had been despatched on a very confidential mission by Lord +Danesbury. Not only was he to repossess himself of certain papers he had +never heard of, from a man he had never seen, but he was also to impress +this unknown individual with the immense sense of fidelity to another who +no longer had any power to reward him, and besides this, to persuade him, +being a Greek, that the favour of a great ambassador of England was better +than roubles of gold and vases of malachite. + +Modern history has shown us what a great aid to success in life is the +contribution of a ‘light heart,’ and Joe Atlee certainly brought this +element of victory along with him on his journey. + +His instructions were assuredly of the roughest. To impress Lord Danesbury +favourably on the score of his acuteness he must not press for details, +seek for explanations, and, above all, he must ask no questions. In fact, +to accomplish that victory which he ambitioned for his cleverness, and on +which his Excellency should say, ‘Atlee saw it at once--Atlee caught the +whole thing at a glance,’ Joe must be satisfied with the least definite +directions that ever were issued, and the most confused statement of duties +and difficulties that ever puzzled a human intelligence. Indeed, as he +himself summed up his instructions in his own room, they went no further +than this: That there was a Greek, who, with a number of other names, was +occasionally called Speridionides--a great scoundrel, and with every +good reason for not being come at--who was to be found somewhere in +Stamboul--probably at the bazaar at nightfall. He was to be bullied, +or bribed, or wheedled, or menaced, to give up some letters which Lord +Danesbury had once written to him, and to pledge himself to complete +secrecy as to their contents ever after. From this Greek, whose perfect +confidence Atlee was to obtain, he was to learn whether Kulbash Pasha, +Lord Danesbury’s sworn friend and ally, was not lapsing from his English +alliance and inclining towards Russian connections. To Kulbash himself +Atlee had letters accrediting him as the trusted and confidential agent of +Lord Danesbury, and with the Pasha, Joe was instructed to treat with an +air and bearing of unlimited trustfulness. He was also to mention that his +Excellency was eager to be back at his old post as ambassador, that he +loved the country, the climate, his old colleagues in the Sultan’s service, +and all the interests and questions that made up their political life. + +Last of all, Atlee was to ascertain every point on which any successor to +Lord Danesbury was likely to be mistaken, and how a misconception might be +ingeniously widened into a grave blunder; and by what means such incidents +should be properly commented on by the local papers, and unfavourable +comparisons drawn between the author of these measures and ‘the great and +enlightened statesman’ who had so lately left them. + +In a word, Atlee saw that he was to personate the character of a most +unsuspecting, confiding young gentleman, who possessed a certain natural +aptitude for affairs of importance, and that amount of discretion such +as suited him to be employed confidentially; and to perform this part he +addressed himself. + +The Pasha liked him so much that he invited him to be his guest while he +remained at Constantinople, and soon satisfied that he was a guileless +youth fresh to the world and its ways, he talked very freely before him, +and affecting to discuss mere possibilities, actually sketched events and +consequences which Atlee shrewdly guessed to be all within the range of +casualties. + +Lord Danesbury’s post at Constantinople had not been filled up, except by +the appointment of a Chargé-d’Affaires; it being one of the approved modes +of snubbing a government to accredit a person of inferior rank to its +court. Lord Danesbury detested this man with a hate that only official +life comprehends, the mingled rancour, jealousy, and malice suggested by a +successor, being a combination only known to men who serve their country. + +‘Find out what Brumsey is doing; he is said to be doing wrong. He knows +nothing of Turkey. Learn his blunders, and let me know them.’ + +This was the easiest of all Atlee’s missions, for Brumsey was the weakest +and most transparent of all imbecile Whigs. A junior diplomatist of small +faculties and great ambitions, he wanted to do something, not being clear +as to what, which should startle his chiefs, and make ‘the Office’ exclaim: +‘See what Sam Brumsey has been doing! Hasn’t Brumsey hit the nail on the +head! Brumsey’s last despatch is the finest state-paper since the days of +Canning!’ Now no one knew the short range of this man’s intellectual +tether better than Lord Danesbury--since Brumsey had been his own private +secretary once, and the two men hated each other as only a haughty superior +and a craven dependant know how to hate. + +The old ambassador was right. Russian craft had dug many a pitfall for the +English diplomatist, and Brumsey had fallen into every one of them. Acting +on secret information--all ingeniously prepared to entrap him--Brumsey had +discovered a secret demand made by Russia to enable one of the imperial +family to make the tour of the Black Sea with a ship-of-war. Though it +might be matter of controversy whether Turkey herself could, without the +assent of the other Powers to the Treaty of Paris, give her permission, +Brumsey was too elated by his discovery to hesitate about this, but at once +communicated to the Grand-Vizier a formal declaration of the displeasure +with which England would witness such an infraction of a solemn engagement. + +As no such project had ever been entertained, no such demand ever made, +Kulbash Pasha not only laughed heartily at the mock-thunder of the +Englishman, but at the energy with which a small official always opens +fire, and in the jocularity of his Turkish nature--for they are jocular, +these children of the Koran--he told the whole incident to Atlee. + +‘Your old master, Mr. Atlee,’ said he, ‘would scarcely have read us so +sharp a lesson as that; but,’ he added, ‘we always hear stronger language +from the man who couldn’t station a gunboat at Pera than from the +ambassador who could call up the Mediterranean squadron from Malta.’ + +If Atlee’s first letter to Lord Danesbury admitted of a certain +disappointment as regarded Speridionides, it made ample compensation by the +keen sketch it conveyed of how matters stood at the Porte, the uncertain +fate of Kulbash Pasha’s policy, and the scarcely credible blunder of +Brumsey. + +To tell the English ambassador how much he was regretted and how much +needed, how the partisans of England felt themselves deserted and abandoned +by his withdrawal, and how gravely the best interests of Turkey itself were +compromised for want of that statesmanlike intelligence that had up to this +guided the counsels of the Divan: all these formed only a part of Atlee’s +task, for he wrote letters and leaders, in this sense, to all the great +journals of London, Paris, and Vienna; so that when the _Times_ and the +_Post_ asked the English people whether they were satisfied that the +benefit of the Crimean War should be frittered away by an incompetent youth +in the position of a man of high ability, the _Débats_ commented on the +want of support France suffered at the Porte by the inferior agency of +England, and the _Neue Presse_ of Vienna more openly declared that if +England had determined to annex Turkey and govern it as a crown colony, it +would have been at least courtesy to have informed her co-signatories of +the fact. + +At the same time, an Irish paper in the National interest quietly desired +to be informed how was it that the man who made such a mull of Ireland +could be so much needed in Turkey, aided by a well-known fellow-citizen, +more celebrated for smashing lamps and wringing off knockers than for +administering the rights of a colony; and by which of his services, +ballad-writing or beating the police, he had gained the favour of the +present Cabinet. ‘In fact,’ concluded the writer, ‘if we hear more of +this appointment, we promise our readers some biographical memoirs of the +respected individual, which may serve to show the rising youth of Ireland +by what gifts success in life is most surely achieved, as well as what +peculiar accomplishments find most merit with the grave-minded men who rule +us.’ + +A Cork paper announced on the same day, amongst the promotions, that Joseph +Atlee had been made C.B., and mildly inquired if the honour were bestowed +for that paper on Ireland in the last _Quarterly_, and dryly wound up by +saying, ‘We are not selfish, whatever people may say of us. Our friends +on the Bosporus shall have the noble lord cheap! Let his Excellency only +assure us that he will return with his whole staff, and not leave us Mr. +Cecil Walpole, or any other like incapacity, behind him, as a director +of the Poor-Law Board, or inspector-general of gaols, or +deputy-assistant-secretary anywhere, and we assent freely to the change +that sends this man to the East and leaves us here to flounder on with such +aids to our mistakes as a Liberal Government can safely afford to spare +us.’ + +A paragraph in another part of the same paper, which asked if the Joseph +Atlee who, it was rumoured, was to go out as Governor to Labuan, could be +this man, had, it is needless to say, been written by himself. + +The _Levant Herald_ contented itself with an authorised contradiction to +the report that Sir Joseph Atlee--the Sir was an ingenious blunder--had +conformed to Islamism, and was in treaty for the palace of Tashkir Bey at +Therapia. + +With a neatness and tact all his own, Atlee narrated Brumsey’s blunder in a +tone so simple and almost deferential, that Lord Danesbury could show the +letter to any of his colleagues. The whole spirit of the document was +regret that a very well-intentioned gentleman of good connections +and irreproachable morals should be an ass! Not that he employed the +insufferable designation. + +The Cabinet at home were on thorns lest the press--the vile Tory +organs--should get wind of the case and cap the blundering government of +Ireland with the almost equally gross mistake in diplomacy. + +‘We shall have the _Standard_ at us,’ said the Premier. + +‘Far worse,’ replied the Foreign Secretary. ‘I shall have Brunow here in +a white passion to demand an apology and the recall of our man at +Constantinople.’ + +To accuse a well-known housebreaker of a burglary that he had not +committed, nor had any immediate thought of committing, is the very +luckiest stroke of fortune that could befall him. He comes out not alone +innocent, but injured. The persecutions by which bad men have assailed him +for years have at last their illustration, and the calumniated saint walks +forth into the world, his head high and his port erect, even though a +crowbar should peep out from his coat-pocket and the jingle of false keys +go with him as he went. + +Far too astute to make the scandal public by the newspapers, Atlee only +hinted to his chief the danger that might ensue if the secret leaked out. +He well knew that a press scandal is a nine-day fever, but a menaced +publicity is a chronic malady that may go on for years. + +The last lines of his letter were: ‘I have made a curious and interesting +acquaintance--a certain Stephanotis Bey, governor of Scutari in Albania, a +very venerable old fellow, who was never at Constantinople till now. The +Pasha tells me in confidence that he is enormously wealthy. His fortune +was made by brigandage in Greece, from which he retired a few years ago, +shocked by the sudden death of his brother, who was decapitated at Corinth +with five others. The Bey is a nice, gentle-mannered, simple-hearted old +man, kind to the poor, and eminently hospitable. He has invited me down +to Prevesa for the pig-shooting. If I have your permission to accept the +invitation, I shall make a rapid visit to Athens, and make one more +effort to discover Speridionides. Might I ask the favour of an answer by +telegraph? So many documents and archives were stolen here at the time of +the fire of the Embassy, that, by a timely measure of discredit, we can +impair the value of all papers whatever, and I have already a mass of false +despatches, notes, and telegrams ready for publication, and subsequent +denial, if you advise it. In one of these I have imitated Walpole’s style +so well that I scarcely think he will read it without misgivings. With so +much “bad bank paper” in circulation, Speridionides is not likely to set a +high price on his own scrip.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +A LETTER-BAG + + +Lord Danesbury read Atlee’s letter with an enjoyment not unlike the feeling +an old sportsman experiences in discovering that his cover hack--an animal +not worth twenty pounds--was a capital fencer; that a beast only destined +to the commonest of uses should actually have qualities that recalled the +steeplechaser--that the scrubby little creature with the thin neck and the +shabby quarters should have a turn of speed and a ‘big jump’ in him, was +something scarcely credible, and highly interesting. + +Now political life has its handicaps like the turf, and that old jockey of +many Cabinets began seriously to think whether he might not lay a little +money on that dark horse Joe Atlee, and make something out of him before he +was better known in ‘the ring.’ + +He was smarting, besides, under the annoyances of that half-clever fellow +Walpole, when Atlee’s letter reached him, and though the unlucky Cecil had +taken ill and kept his room ever since his arrival, his Excellency had +never forgiven him, nor by a word or sign showed any disposition to restore +him to favour. + +That he was himself overwhelmed by a correspondence, and left to deal with +it almost alone, scarcely contributed to reconcile him to a youth who was +not really ill, but smarting, as he deemed it, under a recent defeat; and +he pointed to the mass of papers which now littered his breakfast-table, +and querulously asked his niece if that brilliant young gentleman upstairs +could be induced to postpone his sorrows and copy a despatch. + +‘If it be not something very difficult or requiring very uncommon care, +perhaps I could do it myself.’ + +‘So you could, Maude, but I want you too--I shall want you to copy out +parts of Atlee’s last letter, which I wish to place before the Foreign +Office Secretary. He ought to see what his protégé Brumsey is making of +it. These are the idiots who get us into foreign wars, or those apologetic +movements in diplomacy, which are as bad as lost battles. What a contrast +to Atlee--a rare clever dog, Atlee--and so awake, not only to one, but to +every contingency of a case. I like that fellow--I like a fellow that stops +all the earths! Your half-clever ones never do that; they only do enough +to prolong the race; they don’t win it. That bright relative of +ours--Cecil--is one of those. Give Atlee Walpole’s chances, and where would +he be?’ + +A very faint colour tinged her cheek as she listened, but did not speak. + +‘That’s the real way to put it,’ continued he, more warmly. ‘Say to Atlee, +“You shall enter public life without any pressing need to take office for +a livelihood; you shall have friends able to push you with one party, and +relations and connections with the Opposition, to save you from unnecessary +cavil or question; you shall be well introduced socially, and have a seat +in the House before--” What’s his age? five-and-twenty?’ + +‘I should say about three-and-twenty, my lord; but it is a mere guess.’ + +‘Three-and-twenty is he? I suspect you are right--he can’t be more. But +what a deal the fellow has crammed for that time--plenty of rubbish, no +doubt: old dramatists and such like; but he is well up in his treaties; +and there’s not a speaker of eminence in the House that he cannot make +contradict himself out of Hansard.’ + +‘Has he any fortune?’ sighed she, so lazily that it scarcely sounded as a +question. + +‘I suppose not.’ + +‘Nor any family?’ + +‘Brothers and sisters he may have--indeed, he is sure to have; but if you +mean connections--belonging to persons of admitted station--of course he +has not. The name alone might show it.’ + +Another little sigh, fainter than before, followed, and all was still. + +‘Five years hence, if even so much, the plebeian name and the unknown stock +will be in his favour; but we have to wade through a few dreary measures +before that. I wish he was in the House--he ought to be in the House.’ + +‘Is there a vacancy?’ said she lazily. + +‘Two. There is Cradford, and there is that Scotch place--the +something-Burg, which, of course, one of their own people will insist on.’ + +‘Couldn’t he have Cradford?’ asked she, with a very slight animation. + +‘He might--at least if Brand knew him, he’d see he was the man they wanted. +I almost think I’ll write a line to Brand, and send him some extracts of +the last letter. I will--here goes.’ + +‘If you’ll tell me--’ + +‘DEAR B.,--Read the inclosed, and say have you anybody better than the +writer for your ancient borough of Cradford? The fellow can talk, and I am +sure he can speak as well as he writes. He is well up in all Irish press +iniquities. Better than all, he has neither prejudices nor principles, nor, +as I believe, a five-pound note in the world. He is now in Greece, but I’ll +have him over by telegraph if you give me encouragement. + +‘Tell Tycross at F. O. to send Walpole to Guatemala, and order him to his +post at once. G. will have told you that I shall not go back to Ireland. +The blunder of my ever seeing it was the blackest in the life of yours, +DANESBUBY.’ + +The first letter his lordship opened gave him very little time or +inclination to bestow more thought on Atlee. It was from the head of the +Cabinet, and in the coldest tone imaginable. The writer directed his +attention to what had occurred in the House the night before, and how +impossible it was for any Government to depend on colleagues whose +administration had been so palpably blundering and unwise. ‘Conciliation +can only succeed by the good faith it inspires. Once that it leaks out +you are more eager to achieve a gain than confer a benefit, you cease to +conciliate, and you only cajole. Now your lordship might have apprehended +that, in this especial game, the Popish priest is your master and mine--not +to add that he gives an undivided attention to a subject which we have to +treat as one amongst many, and with the relations and bearings which attach +it to other questions of state. + +‘That you cannot, with advantage to the Crown, or, indeed, to your own +dignity, continue to hold your present office, is clear enough; and the +only question now is in what way, consistent with the safety of the +Administration, and respect for your lordship’s high character, the +relinquishment had best be made. The debate has been, on Gregory’s motion, +adjourned. It will be continued on Tuesday, and my colleagues opine that if +your resignation was in their hands before that day, certain leaders of the +Opposition would consent to withdraw their motion. I am not wholly +agreed with the other members of the Cabinet on this point; but, without +embarrassing you by the reasons which sway my judgment, I will simply place +the matter before you for your own consideration, perfectly assured, as I +am, that your decision will be come to only on consideration of what you +deem best for the interests of the country. + +‘My colleague at the Foreign Office will write to-day or to-morrow with +reference to your former post, and I only allude to it now to say the +unmixed satisfaction it would give the Cabinet to find that the greatest +interests of Eastern Europe were once more in the keeping of the ablest +diplomatist of the age, and one of the most far-sighted of modern +statesmen. + +‘A motion for the abolition of the Irish viceroyalty is now on the notice +paper, and it will be matter for consideration whether we may not make it +an open question in the Cabinet. Perhaps your lordship would favour me with +such opinions on the subject as your experiences suggest. + +‘The extra session has wearied out every one, and we can with difficulty +make a House.--Yours sincerely, G. ANNIVEY.’ + +The next he opened was briefer. It ran thus:-- + +‘DEAR DANESBURY,--You must go back at once to Turkey. That inscrutable +idiot Brumsey has discovered another mare’s-nest, and we are lucky if +Gortschakoff does not call upon us for public apology. Brunow is outrageous +and demands B.’s recall. I sent off the despatch while he was with me. +Leflo Pasha is very ill, they say dying, so that you must haste back to +your old friend (query: which is he?) Kulbash, if it be not too late, as +Apponyi thinks.--Yours, G. + +‘_P.S._--Take none of your Irish suite with you to the East. The papers are +sure to note the names and attack you if you should. They shall be cared +for somehow, if there be any who interest you. + +‘You have seen that the House was not over civil to you on Saturday night, +though A. thinks you got off well.’ + +‘Resign!’ cried he aloud, as he dashed the letter on the table. ‘I think I +would resign! If they asked what would tempt me to go back there, I should +be sorely puzzled to name it. No; not the blue ribbon itself would induce +me to face that chaos once more. As to the hint about my Irish staff, it +was quite unnecessary. Not very likely, Maude, we should take Walpole to +finish in the Bosporus what he has begun on the Liffey.’ + +He turned hastily to the _Times_, and threw his eyes over the summary of +the debate. It was acrimonious and sneery. The Opposition leaders, with +accustomed smoothness, had made it appear that the Viceroy’s Eastern +experience had misled him, and that he thought ‘Tipperary was a Pashalick!’ +Imbued with notions of wholesale measures of government, so applicable to +Turkey, it was easy to see how the errors had affected his Irish policy. +‘There was,’ said the speaker, ‘somebody to be conciliated in Ireland, and +some one to be hanged; and what more natural than that he should forget +which, or that he should make the mistake of keeping all the flattery for +the rebel and the rope for the priest.’ The neatness of the illustration +took with the House, and the speaker was interrupted by ‘much laughter.’ +And then he went on to say that, ‘as with those well-known ointments or +medicines whose specific virtues lay in the enormous costliness of some +of the constituents, so it must give unspeakable value to the efficacy +of those healing measures for Ireland, to know that the whole British +Constitution was boiled down to make one of them, and every right and +liberty brayed in the mortar to furnish even one dose of this precious +elixir.’ And then there was ‘laughter’ again. + +‘He ought to be more merciful to charlatans. Dogs do not eat dogs,’ +muttered his lordship to himself, and then asked his niece to send Walpole +to him. + +It was some time before Walpole appeared, and when he did, it was with such +a wasted look and careworn aspect as might have pleaded in his favour. + +‘Maude told me you wished to see me, my lord,’ said he, half diffidently. + +‘Did I? eh? Did I say so? I forget all about it. What could it be? Let us +see. Was it this stupid row they were making in the House? Have you read +the debate?’ + +‘No, my lord; not looked at a paper.’ + +‘Of course not; you have been too ill, too weak. Have you seen a doctor?’ + +‘I don’t care to see a doctor; they all say the same thing. I only need +rest and quiet.’ + +‘Only that! Why, they are the two things nobody can get. Power cannot have +them, nor money buy them. The retired tradesman--I beg his pardon, the +cheesemonger--he is always a cheesemonger now who represents vulgarity and +bank-stock--he may have his rest and quiet; but a Minister must not dream +of such a luxury, nor any one who serves a Minister. Where’s the quiet to +come from, I ask you, after such a tirade of abuse as that?’ And he pointed +to the _Times_. ‘There’s _Punch_, too, with a picture of me measuring out +“Danesbury’s drops to cure loyalty.” That slim youth handing the spoon is +meant for _you_, Walpole.’ + +‘Perhaps so, my lord,’ said he coldly. + +‘They haven’t given you too much leg, Cecil,’ said the other, laughing; but +Cecil scarcely relished the joke. + +‘I say, Piccadilly is scarcely the place for a man after that: I mean, of +course, for a while,’ continued he. ‘These things are not eternal; they +have their day. They had me last week travelling in Ireland on a camel; and +I was made to say, “That the air of the desert always did me good!” Poor +fun, was it not?’ + +‘Very poor fun indeed!’ + +‘And you were the boy preparing my chibouque; and, I must say, devilish +like.’ + +‘I did not see it, my lord.’ + +‘That’s the best way. Don’t look at the caricatures; don’t read the +_Saturday Review_; never know there is anything wrong with you; nor, if you +can, that anything disagrees with you.’ + +‘I should like the last delusion best of all,’ said he. + +‘Who would not?’ cried the old lord. ‘The way I used to eat potted prawns +at Eton, and peach jam after them, and iced guavas, and never felt better! +And now everything gives acidity.’ + +‘Just because our fathers and grandfathers would have those potted prawns +you spoke of.’ + +‘No, no; you are all wrong. It’s the new race--it’s the new generation. +They don’t bear reverses. Whenever the world goes wrong with them, they +talk as they feel, they lose appetite, and they fall down in a state like +your--a--Walpole--like your own!’ + +‘Well, my lord, I don’t think I could be called captious for saying that +the world has not gone over well with me.’ + +‘Ah--hum. You mean--no matter--I suppose the luckiest hand is not all +trumps! The thing is to score the trick--that’s the point, Walpole, to +score the trick!’ + +‘Up to this, I have not been so fortunate.’ + +‘Well, who knows what’s coming! I have just asked the Foreign Office people +to give you Guatemala; not a bad thing, as times go.’ + +‘Why, my lord, it’s banishment and barbarism together. The pay is +miserable! It _is_ far away, and it _is_ not Pall Mall or the Rue Rivoli.’ + +‘No, not that. There is twelve hundred for salary, and something for a +house, and something more for a secretary that you don’t keep, and an +office that you need not have. In fact, it makes more than two thousand; +and for a single man in a place where he cannot be extravagant, it will +suffice.’ + +‘Yes, my lord; but I was presumptuous enough to imagine a condition in +which I should not be a single man, and I speculated on the possibility +that another might venture to share even poverty as my companion.’ + +‘A woman wouldn’t go there--at least, she ought not. It’s all bush life, +or something like it. Why should a woman bear that? or a man ask her to do +so?’ + +‘You seem to forget, my lord, that affections may be engaged, and pledges +interchanged.’ + +‘Get a bill of indemnity, therefore, to release you: better that than wait +for yellow fever to do it.’ ‘I confess that your lordship’s words give me +great discouragement, and if I could possibly believe that Lady Maude was +of your mind--’ + +‘Maude! Maude! why, you never imagined that Lady Maude would leave comfort +and civilisation for this bush life, with its rancheros and rattlesnakes. I +confess,’ said he, with a bitter laugh, ‘I did not think either of you were +bent on being Paul or Virginia.’ + +‘Have I your lordship’s permission to ask her own judgment in the matter: I +mean with the assurance of its not being biassed by you?’ + +‘Freely, most freely do I give it. She is not the girl I believe her if she +leaves you long in doubt. But I prejudge nothing, and I influence nothing.’ + +‘Am I to conclude, my lord, that I am sure of this appointment?’ + +‘I almost believe I can say you are. I have asked for a reply by telegraph, +and I shall probably have one to-morrow.’ + +‘You seemed to have acted under the conviction that I should be glad to get +this place.’ + +‘Yes, such was my conclusion. After that fiasco in Ireland you must go +somewhere, for a time at least, out of the way. Now as a man cannot die for +half-a-dozen years and come back to life when people have forgotten +his unpopularity, the next best thing is South America. Bogota and the +Argentine Republic have whitewashed many a reputation.’ + +‘I will remember your lordship’s wise words.’ + +‘Do so,’ said my lord curtly, for he felt offended at the flippant tone in +which the other spoke. ‘I don’t mean to say that I’d send the writer of +that letter yonder to Yucatan or Costa Rica.’ + +‘Who may the gifted writer be, my lord?’ + +‘Atlee, Joe Atlee; the fellow you sent over here.’ + +‘Indeed!’ was all that Walpole could utter. + +‘Just take it to your room and read it over. You will be astonished at +the thing. The fellow has got to know the bearings of a whole set of new +questions, and how he understands the men he has got to deal with!’ + +‘With your leave I will do so,’ said he, as he took the letter and left the +room. + + + + +CHAPTER LX + +A DEFEAT + + +Cecil Walpole’s Italian experiences had supplied him with an Italian +proverb which says, ‘_Tutto il mal non vien per nuocere_,’ or, in other +words, that no evil comes unmixed with good; and there is a marvellous +amount of wisdom in the adage. + +That there is a deep philosophy, too, in showing how carefully we should +sift misfortune to the dregs, and ascertain what of benefit we might rescue +from the dross, is not to be denied; and the more we reflect on it, the +more should we see that the germ of all real consolation is intimately +bound up in this reservation. + +No sooner, then, did Walpole, in novelist phrase, ‘realise the fact’ that +he was to go to Guatemala, than he set very practically to inquire what +advantages, if any, could be squeezed out of this unpromising incident. + +The creditors--and he had some--would not like it! The dreary process of +dunning a man across half the globe, the hopelessness of appeals that took +two months to come to hand, and the inefficacy of threats that were wafted +over miles of ocean! And certainly he smiled as he thought of these, and +rather maliciously bethought him of the truculent importunity that menaced +him with some form of publicity in the more insolent appeal to some +Minister at home. ‘Our tailor will moderate his language, our jeweller +will appreciate the merits of polite letter-writing,’ thought he. ‘A few +parallels of latitude become a great school-master.’ + +But there were greater advantages even than these. This banishment--for it +was nothing else--could not by any possibility be persisted in, and if Lady +Maude should consent to accompany him, would be very short-lived. + +‘The women will take it up,’ said he, ‘and with that charming clanship that +distinguishes them, will lead the Foreign Secretary a life of misery till +he gives us something better.--“Maude says the thermometer has never been +lower than 132°, and that there is no shade. The nights have no breeze, and +are rather hotter than the days. She objects seriously to be waited on by +people in feathers, and very few of them, and she remonstrates against +alligators in the kitchen-garden, and wild cats coming after the canaries +in the drawing-room.” + +‘I hear the catalogue of misfortunes, which begins with nothing to +eat, plus the terror of being eaten. I recognise the lament over lost +civilisation and a wasted life, and I see Downing Street besieged with +ladies in deputations, declaring that they care nothing for party or +politics, but a great deal for the life of a dear young creature who is to +be sacrificed to appease some people belonging to the existing Ministry. I +think I know how beautifully illogical they will be, but how necessarily +successful; and now for Maude herself.’ + +Of Lady Maude Bickerstaffe Walpole had seen next to nothing since his +return; his own ill-health had confined him to his room, and her inquiries +after him had been cold and formal; and though he wrote a tender little +note and asked for books, slyly hinting what measure of bliss a five +minutes’ visit would confer on him, the books he begged for were sent, but +not a line of answer accompanied them. On the whole, he did not dislike +this little show of resentment. What he really dreaded was indifference. +So long as a woman is piqued with you, something can always be done; it is +only when she becomes careless and unmindful of what you do, or say, or +look, or think, that the game looks hopeless. Therefore it was that he +regarded this demonstration of anger as rather favourable than otherwise. + +‘Atlee has told her of the Greek! Atlee has stirred up her jealousy of the +Titian Girl. Atlee has drawn a long indictment against me, and the fellow +has done me good service in giving me something to plead to. Let me have +a charge to meet, and I have no misgivings. What really unmans me is the +distrust that will not even utter an allegation, and the indifference that +does not want disproof.’ + +He learned that her ladyship was in the garden, and he hastened down to +meet her. In his own small way Walpole was a clever tactician; and he +counted much on the ardour with which he should open his case, and the +amount of impetuosity that would give her very little time for reflection. + +‘I shall at once assume that her fate is irrevocably knitted to my own, and +I shall act as though the tie was indissoluble. After all, if she puts me +to the proof, I have her letters--cold and guarded enough, it is true. No +fervour, no gush of any kind, but calm dissertations on a future that must +come, and a certain dignified acceptance of her own part in it. Not the +kind of letters that a Q.C. could read with much rapture before a crowded +court, and ask the assembled grocers, “What happiness has life to offer to +the man robbed of those precious pledges of affection--how was he to +face the world, stripped of every attribute that cherished hope and fed +ambition?”’ + +He was walking slowly towards her when he first saw her, and he had some +seconds to prepare himself ere they met. + +‘I came down after you, Maude,’ said he, in a voice ingeniously modulated +between the tone of old intimacy and a slight suspicion of emotion. ‘I came +down to tell you my news’--he waited, and then added--‘my fate!’ + +Still she was silent, the changed word exciting no more interest than its +predecessor. + +‘Feeling as I do,’ he went on, ‘and how we stand towards each other, I +cannot but know that my destiny has nothing good or evil in it, except as +it contributes to your happiness.’ He stole a glance at her, but there was +nothing in that cold, calm face that could guide him. With a bold effort, +however, he went on: ‘My own fortune in life has but one test--is my +existence to be shared with you or not? With _your_ hand in mine, +Maude,’--and he grasped the marble-cold fingers as he spoke--‘poverty, +exile, hardships, and the world’s neglect, have no terrors for me. With +your love, every ambition of my heart is gratified. Without it--’ + +[Illustration: ‘I should like to have back my letters’] + +‘Well, without it--what?’ said she, with a faint smile. + +‘You would not torture me by such a doubt? Would you rack my soul by a +misery I have not words to speak of?’ + +‘I thought you were going to say what it might be, when I stopped you.’ + +‘Oh, drop this cold and bantering tone, dearest Maude. Remember the +question is now of my very life itself. If you cannot be affectionate, at +least be reasonable!’ + +‘I shall try,’ said she calmly. + +Stung to the quick by a composure which he could not imitate, he was +able, however, to repress every show of anger, and with a manner cold and +measured as her own, he went on: ‘My lord advises that I should go back to +diplomacy, and has asked the Ministers to give me Guatemala. It is nothing +very splendid. It is far away in a remote part of the world; not over-well +paid, but at least I shall be Chargé-d’Affaires, and by three years--four +at most, of this banishment--I shall have a claim for something better. + +‘I hope you may, I’m sure,’ said she, as he seemed to expect something like +a remark. + +‘That is not enough, Maude, if the hope be not a wish--and a wish that +includes self-interest.’ + +‘I am so dull, Cecil: tell me what you mean.’ + +‘Simply this, then: does your heart tell you that you could share this +fortune, and brave these hardships; in one word, will you say what will +make me regard this fate as the happiest of my existence? will you give +me this dear hand as my own--my own?’ and he pressed his lips upon it +rapturously as he spoke. + +She made no effort to release her hand; nor for a second or two did she say +one word. At last, in a very measured tone, she said, ‘I should like to +have back my letters.’ + +‘Your letters? Do you mean, Maude, that--that you would break with me?’ + +‘I mean certainly that I should not go to this horrid place--’ + +‘Then I shall refuse it,’ broke he in impetuously. + +‘Not that only, Cecil,’ said she, for the first time faltering; ‘but except +being very good friends, I do not desire that there should be more between +us.’ + +‘No engagement?’ + +‘No, no engagement. I do not believe there ever was an actual promise, +at least on my part. Other people had no right to promise for either of +us--and--and, in fact, the present is a good opportunity to end it.’ + +‘To end it,’ echoed he, in intense bitterness; ‘to end it?’ + +‘And I should like to have my letters,’ said she calmly, while she took +some freshly plucked flowers from a basket on her arm, and appeared to seek +for something at the bottom of the basket. + +‘I thought you would come down here, Cecil,’ said she, ‘when you had spoken +to my uncle. Indeed, I was sure you would, and so I brought these with me.’ +And she drew forth a somewhat thick bundle of notes and letters tied with a +narrow ribbon. ‘These are yours,’ said she, handing them. + +Far more piqued by her cold self-possession than really wounded in feeling, +he took the packet without a word; at last he said, ‘This is your own +wish--your own, unprompted by others?’ + +She stared almost insolently at him for answer. + +‘I mean, Maude--oh, forgive me if I utter that dear name once more--I mean +there has been no influence used to make you treat me thus?’ + +‘You have known me to very little purpose all these years, Cecil Walpole, +to ask me such a question.’ + +‘I am not sure of that. I know too well what misrepresentation and calumny +can do anywhere; and I have been involved in certain difficulties which, if +not explained away, might be made accusations--grave accusations.’ + +‘I make none--I listen to none.’ + +‘I have become an object of complete indifference, then? You feel no +interest in me either way. If I dared, Maude. I should like to ask the date +of this change--when it began?’ + +‘I don’t well know what you mean. There was not, so far as I am aware, +anything between us, except a certain esteem and respect, of which +convenience was to make something more. Now convenience has broken faith +with us, but we are not the less very good friends--excellent friends if +you like.’ + +‘Excellent friends! I could swear to the friendship!’ said he, with a +malicious energy. + +‘So at least I mean to be,’ said she calmly. + +‘I hope it is not I shall fail in the compact. And now, will my quality of +friend entitle me to ask one question, Maude?’ + +‘I am not sure till I hear it.’ + +‘I might have hoped a better opinion of my discretion; at all events, I +will risk my question. What I would ask is, how far Joseph Atlee is mixed +up with your judgment of me? Will you tell me this?’ + +‘I will only tell you, sir, that you are over-vain of that discretion you +believe you possess.’ + +‘Then I am right,’ cried he, almost insolently. ‘I _have_ hit the blot.’ + +A glance, a mere glance of haughty disdain, was the only reply she made. + +‘I am shocked, Maude,’ said he at last. ‘I am ashamed that we should spend +in this way perhaps the very last few minutes we shall ever pass together. +Heart-broken as I am, I should desire to carry away one memory at least of +her whose love was the loadstar of my existence.’ + +‘I want my letters, Cecil,’ said she coldly. + +‘So that you came down here with mine, prepared for this rupture, Maude? It +was all prearranged in your mind.’ + +‘More discretion--more discretion, or good taste--which is it?’ + +‘I ask pardon, most humbly I ask it; your rebuke was quite just. I was +presuming upon a past which has no relation to the present. I shall not +offend any more. And now, what was it you said?’ + +‘I want my letters.’ + +‘They are here,’ said he, drawing a thick envelope fully crammed with +letters from his pocket and placing it in her hand. ‘Scarcely as carefully +or as nicely kept as mine, for they have been read over too many times; +and with what rapture, Maude. How pressed to my heart and to my lips, how +treasured! Shall I tell you?’ + +There was that of exaggerated passion--almost rant--in these last words, +that certainly did not impress them with reality; and either Lady Maude +was right in doubting their sincerity, or cruelly unjust, for she smiled +faintly as she heard them. + +‘No, don’t tell me,’ said she faintly. ‘I am already so much flattered by +courteous anticipation of my wishes that I ask for nothing more.’ + +He bowed his head lowly; but his smile was one of triumph, as he thought +how, this time at least, he had wounded her. + +‘There are some trinkets, Cecil,’ said she coldly, ‘which I have made into +a packet, and you will find them on your dressing-table. And--it may save +you some discomfort if I say that you need not give yourself trouble to +recover the little ring with an opal I once gave you, for I have it now.’ + +‘May I dare?’ + +‘You may not dare. Good-bye.’ + +And she gave her hand; he bent over it for a moment, scarcely touched it +with his lips, and turned away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI + +A CHANGE OF FRONT + + +Of all the discomfitures in life there was one which Cecil Walpole did not +believe could possibly befall him. Indeed, if it could have been made a +matter of betting, he would have wagered all he had in the world that no +woman should ever be able to say she refused his offer of marriage. + +He had canvassed the matter very often with himself, and always arrived +at the same conclusion--that if a man were not a mere coxcomb, blinded +by vanity and self-esteem, he could always know how a woman really felt +towards him; and that where the question admitted of a doubt--where, +indeed, there was even a flaw in the absolute certainty--no man with a +due sense of what was owing to himself would risk his dignity by the +possibility of a refusal. It was a part of his peculiar ethics that a man +thus rejected was damaged, pretty much as a bill that has been denied +acceptance. It was the same wound to credit, the same outrage on character. +Considering, therefore, that nothing obliged a man to make an offer of his +hand till he had assured himself of success, it was to his thinking a mere +gratuitous pursuit of insult to be refused. That no especial delicacy +kept these things secret, that women talked of them freely--ay, +triumphantly--that they made the staple of conversation at afternoon tea +and the club, with all the flippant comments that dear friends know how to +contribute as to your vanity and presumption, he was well aware. Indeed, +he had been long an eloquent contributor to that scandal literature which +amuses the leisure of fashion and helps on the tedium of an ordinary +dinner. How Lady Maude would report the late scene in the garden to +the Countess of Mecherscroft, who would tell it to her company at her +country-house!--How the Lady Georginas would discuss it over luncheon, and +the Lord Georges talk of it out shooting! What a host of pleasant anecdotes +would be told of his inordinate puppyism and self-esteem! How even the +dullest fellows would dare to throw a stone at him! What a target for a +while he would be for every marksman at any range to shoot at! All these +his quick-witted ingenuity pictured at once before him. + +‘I see it all,’ cried he, as he paced his room in self-examination. ‘I +have suffered myself to be carried away by a burst of momentary impulse. I +brought up all my reserves, and have failed utterly. Nothing can save +me now, but a “change of front.” It is the last bit of generalship +remaining--a change of front--a change of front!’ And he repeated the words +over and over, as though hoping they might light up his ingenuity. ‘I might +go and tell her that all I had been saying was mere jest--that I could +never have dreamed of asking her to follow me into barbarism: that to go +to Guatemala was equivalent to accepting a yellow fever--it was courting +disease, perhaps death; that my insistence was a mere mockery, in the worst +possible taste; but that I had already agreed with Lord Danesbury, +our engagement should be cancelled; that his lordship’s memory of our +conversation would corroborate me in saying I had no intention to propose +such a sacrifice to her; and indeed I had but provoked her to say the very +things, and use the very arguments, I had already employed to myself as a +sort of aid to my own heartfelt convictions. Here would be a “change of +front” with a vengeance. + +‘She will already have written off the whole interview: the despatch is +finished,’ cried he, after a moment. ‘It is a change of front the day after +the battle. The people will read of my manoeuvre with the bulletin of +victory before them. + +‘Poor Frank Touchet used to say,’ cried he aloud, ‘“Whenever they refuse +my cheques at the Bank, I always transfer my account”; and fortunately the +world is big enough for these tactics for several years. That’s a change of +front too, if I knew how to adapt it. I must marry another woman--there’s +nothing else for it. It is the only escape; and the question is, who shall +she be?’ The more he meditated over this change of front the more he saw +that his destiny pointed to the Greek. If he could see clearly before him +to a high career in diplomacy, the Greek girl, in everything but fortune, +would suit him well. Her marvellous beauty, her grace of manner, her social +tact and readiness, her skill in languages, were all the very qualities +most in request. Such a woman would make the full complement, by her +fascinations, of all that her husband could accomplish by his abilities. +The little indiscretions of old men--especially old men--with these women, +the lapses of confidence they made them, the dropping admissions of this or +that intention, made up what Walpole knew to be high diplomacy. + +‘Nothing worth hearing is ever got by a man,’ was an adage he treasured as +deep wisdom. Why kings resort to that watering-place, and accidentally meet +certain Ministers going somewhere else; why kaisers affect to review troops +here, that they may be able to talk statecraft there; how princely compacts +and contracts of marriage are made at sulphur springs; all these and +such like leaked out as small-talk with a young and pretty woman, whose +frivolity of manner went bail for the safety of the confidence, and +went far to persuade Walpole, that though bank-stock might be a surer +investment, there were paying qualities in certain women that in the end +promised larger returns than mere money and higher rewards than mere +wealth. ‘Yes,’ cried he to himself, ‘this is the real change of front--this +has all in its favour.’ + +Nor yet all. Strong as Walpole’s self-esteem was, and high his estimate of +his own capacity, he had--he could not conceal it--a certain misgiving as +to whether he really understood that girl or not. ‘I have watched many a +bolt from her bow,’ said he, ‘and think I know their range. But now and +then she has shot an arrow into the clear sky, and far beyond my sight to +follow it.’ + +That scene in the wood too. Absurd enough that it should obtrude itself at +such a moment, but it was the sort of indication that meant much more to a +man like Walpole than to men of other experiences. Was she flirting with +this young Austrian soldier? No great harm if she were; but still there had +been passages between himself and her which should have bound her over to +more circumspection. Was there not a shadowy sort of engagement between +them? Lawyers deem a mere promise to grant a lease as equivalent to a +contract. It would be a curious question in morals to inquire how far the +licensed perjuries of courtship are statutory offences. Perhaps a sly +consciousness on his own part that he was not playing perfectly fair made +him, as it might do, more than usually tenacious that his adversary should +be honest. What chance the innocent public would have with two people +who were so adroit with each other was his next thought; and he actually +laughed aloud as it occurred to him. ‘I only wish my lord would invite us +here before we sail. If I could but show her to Maude, half an hour of +these women together would be the heaviest vengeance I could ask her! I +wonder how could that be managed?’ + +‘A despatch, sir, his lordship begs you to read,’ said a servant, entering. +It was an open envelope, and contained these words on a slip of paper:-- + +‘W. shall have Guatemala. He must go out by the mail of November 15. +Send him here for instructions.’ Some words in cipher followed, and an +under-secretary’s initials. + +‘Now, then, for the “change of front.” I’ll write to Nina by this post. +I’ll ask my lord to let me tear off this portion of the telegram, and I +shall inclose it.’ + +The letter was not so easily written as he thought--at least he made more +than one draft--and was at last in great doubt whether a long statement or +a few and very decided lines might be better. How he ultimately determined, +and what he said, cannot be given here; for, unhappily, the conditions +of my narrative require I should ask my reader to accompany me to a very +distant spot and other interests which were just then occupying the +attention of an almost forgotten acquaintance of ours, the redoubted Joseph +Atlee. + + + + +CHAPTER LXII + +WITH A PASHA + + +Joseph Atlee had a very busy morning of it on a certain November day at +Pera, when the post brought him tidings that Lord Danesbury had resigned +the Irish viceroyalty, and had been once more named to his old post as +ambassador at Constantinople. + +‘My uncle desires me,’ wrote Lady Maude, ‘to impress you with the now +all-important necessity of obtaining the papers you know of, and, so far +as you are able, to secure that no authorised copies of them are extant. +Kulbash Pasha will, my lord says, be very tractable when once assured +that our return to Turkey is a certainty; but should you detect signs of +hesitation or distrust in the Grand-Vizier’s conduct, you will hint that +the investigation as to the issue of the Galatz shares--“preference +shares”--may be reopened at any moment, and that the Ottoman Bank agent, +Schaffer, has drawn up a memoir which my uncle now holds. I copy my lord’s +words for all this, and sincerely hope you will understand it, which, I +confess,_ I_ do not at all. My lord cautioned me not to occupy your time or +attention by any reference to Irish questions, but leave you perfectly free +to deal with those larger interests of the East that should now engage you. +I forbear, therefore, to do more than mark with a pencil the part in the +debates which might interest you especially, and merely add the fact, +otherwise, perhaps, not very credible, that Mr. Walpole _did_ write the +famous letter imputed to him--_did_ promise the amnesty, or whatever be the +name of it, and _did_ pledge the honour of the Government to a transaction +with these Fenian leaders. With what success to his own prospects, the +_Gazette_ will speak that announces his appointment to Guatemala. + +‘I am myself very far from sorry at our change of destination. I prefer the +Bosporus to the Bay of Dublin, and like Pera better than the Phoenix. It +is not alone that the interests are greater, the questions larger, and the +consequences more important to the world at large, but that, as my uncle +has just said, you are spared the peddling impertinence of Parliament +interfering at every moment, and questioning your conduct, from an +invitation to Cardinal Cullen to the dismissal of a chief constable. +Happily, the gentlemen at Westminster know nothing about Turkey, and have +the prudence not to ventilate their ignorance, except in secret committee. +I am sorry to have to tell you that my lord sees great difficulty in what +you propose as to yourself. F. O., he says, would not easily consent to +your being named even a third secretary without your going through the +established grade of attaché. All the unquestionable merits he knows you to +possess would count for nothing against an official regulation. The course +my lord would suggest is this: To enter now as mere attaché, to continue +in this position some three or four months, come over here for the general +election in February, get into “the House,” and after some few sessions, +one or two, rejoin diplomacy, to which you might be appointed as a +secretary of legation. My uncle named to me three, if not four cases +of this kind--one, indeed, stepped at once into a mission and became a +minister; and though of course the Opposition made a fuss, they failed in +their attempt to break the appointment, and the man will probably be soon +an ambassador. I accept the little yataghan, but sincerely wish the present +had been of less value. There is one enormous emerald in the handle which I +am much tempted to transfer to a ring. Perhaps I ought, in decency, to have +your permission for the change. The burnous is very beautiful, but I could +not accept it--an article of dress is in the category of things impossible. +Have you no Irish sisters, or even cousins? Pray give me a destination to +address it to in your next. + +‘My uncle desires me to say that, all invaluable as your services have +become where you are, he needs you greatly here, and would hear with +pleasure that you were about to return. He is curious to know who wrote +“L’Orient et Lord D.” in the last _Revue des Deux Mondes_. The savagery of +the attack implies a personal rancour. Find out the author, and reply to +him in the _Edinburgh_. My lord suspects he may have had access to the +papers he has already alluded to, and is the more eager to repossess them.’ + +A telegraphic despatch in cipher was put into his hands as he was reading. +It was from Lord Danesbury, and said: ‘Come back as soon as you can, but +not before making K. Pasha know his fate is in my hands.’ + +As the Grand-Vizier had already learned from the Ottoman ambassador at +London the news that Lord Danesbury was about to resume his former post +at Constantinople, his Turkish impassiveness was in no way imperilled by +Atlee’s abrupt announcement. It is true he would have been pleased had the +English Government sent out some one new to the East and a stranger to all +Oriental questions. He would have liked one of those veterans of diplomacy +versed in the old-fashioned ways and knaveries of German courts, and whose +shrewdest ideas of a subtle policy are centred in a few social spies and a +‘Cabinet Noir.’ The Pasha had no desire to see there a man who knew all the +secret machinery of a Turkish administration, what corruption could do, and +where to look for the men who could employ it. + +The thing was done, however, and with that philosophy of resignation to +a fact in which no nation can rival his own, he muttered his polite +congratulations on the event, and declared that the dearest wish of his +heart was now accomplished. + +‘We had half begun to believe you had abandoned us, Mr. Atlee,’ said he. +‘When England commits her interests to inferior men, she usually means to +imply that they are worth nothing better. I am rejoiced to see that we are, +at last, awakened from this delusion. With his Excellency Lord Danesbury +here, we shall be soon once more where we have been.’ + +‘Your fleet is in effective condition, well armed, and well disciplined?’ + +‘All, all,’ smiled the Pasha. + +‘The army reformed, the artillery supplied with the most efficient guns, +and officers of European services encouraged to join your staff?’ + +‘All.’ + +‘Wise economies in your financial matters, close supervision in the +collection of the revenue, and searching inquiries where abuses exist?’ + +‘All.’ + +‘Especial care that the administration of justice should be beyond even +the malevolence of distrust, that men of station and influence should be +clear-handed and honourable, not a taint of unfairness to attach to them?’ + +‘Be it all so,’ ejaculated the Pasha blandly. + +‘By the way, I am reminded by a line I have just received from his +Excellency with reference to Sulina, or was it Galatz?’ + +The Pasha could not decide, and he went on-- + +‘I remember, it is Galatz. There is some curious question there of a +concession for a line of railroad, which a Servian commissioner had the +skill to obtain from the Cabinet here, by a sort of influence which our +Stock Exchange people in London scarcely regard as regular.’ + +The Pasha nodded to imply attention, and smoked on as before. + +‘But I weary your Excellency,’ said Atlee, rising, ‘and my real business +here is accomplished.’ + +‘Tell my lord that I await his arrival with impatience, that of all pending +questions none shall receive solution till he comes, that I am the very +least of his servants.’ And with an air of most dignified sincerity, he +bowed him out, and Atlee hastened away to tell his chief that he had +‘squared the Turk,’ and would sail on the morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIII + +ATLEE ON HIS TRAVELS + + +On board the Austrian Lloyd’s steamer in which he sailed from +Constantinople, Joseph Atlee employed himself in the composition of a small +volume purporting to be _The Experiences of a Two Years’ Residence in +Greece_. In an opening chapter of this work he had modestly intimated to +the reader how an intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of +modern Greece, great opportunities of mixing with every class and condition +of the people, a mind well stored with classical acquirements and +thoroughly versed in antiquarian lore, a strong poetic temperament and the +feeling of an artist for scenery, had all combined to give him a certain +fitness for his task; and by the extracts from his diary it would be seen +on what terms of freedom he conversed with Ministers and ambassadors, even +with royalty itself. + +A most pitiless chapter was devoted to the exposure of the mistakes and +misrepresentations of a late _Quarterly_ article called ‘Greece and her +Protectors,’ whose statements were the more mercilessly handled and +ridiculed that the paper in question had been written by himself, and the +sarcastic allusions to the sources of the information not the less pungent +on that account. + +That the writer had been admitted to frequent audiences of the king, that +he had discussed with his Majesty the cutting of the Isthmus of Corinth, +that the king had seriously confided to him his belief that in the event +of his abdication, the Ionian Islands must revert to him as a personal +appanage, the terms on which they were annexed to Greece being decided by +lawyers to bear this interpretation--all these Atlee denied of his own +knowledge, an asked the reader to follow him into the royal cabinet for his +reasons. + +When, therefore, he heard that from some damage to the machinery the vessel +must be detained some days at Syra to refit, Atlee was scarcely sorry that +necessity gave him an opportunity to visit Athens. + +A little about Ulysses and a good deal about Lord Byron, a smattering of +Grote, and a more perfect memory of About, were, as he owned to himself, +all his Greece; but he could answer for what three days in the country +would do for him, particularly with that spirit of candid inquiry he could +now bring to his task, and the genuine fairness with which he desired to +judge the people. + +‘The two years’ resident’ in Athens must doubtless often have dined with +his Minister, and so Atlee sent his card to the Legation. + +Mr. Brammell, our ‘present Minister at Athens,’ as the _Times_ continued +to designate him, as though to imply that the appointment might not be +permanent, was an excellent man, of that stamp of which diplomacy has +more--who consider that the Court to which they are accredited concentrates +for the time the political interests of the globe. That any one in Europe +thought, read, spoke, or listened to anything but what was then happening +in Greece, Mr. Brammell could not believe. That France or Prussia, Spain +or Italy, could divide attention with this small kingdom; that the +great political minds of the Continent were not more eager to know what +Comoundouros thought and Bulgaris required, than all about Bismarck and +Gortschakoff, he could not be brought to conceive; and in consequence of +these convictions, he was an admirable Minister, and fully represented all +the interests of his country. + +As that admirable public instructor, the _Levant Herald_, had frequently +mentioned Atlee’s name, now as the guest of Kulbash Pasha, now as having +attended some public ceremony with other persons of importance, and once +as ‘our distinguished countryman, whose wise suggestions and acute +observations have been duly accepted by the imperial cabinet,’ Brammell +at once knew that this distinguished countryman should be entertained at +dinner, and he sent him an invitation. That habit--so popular of late +years--to send out some man from England to do something at a foreign Court +that the British ambassador or Minister there either has not done, or +cannot do, possibly ought never to do, had invested Atlee in Brammell’s +eyes with the character of one of those semi-accredited inscrutable people +whose function it would seem to be to make us out the most meddlesome +people in Europe. + +Of course Brammell was not pleased to see him at Athens, and he ran over +all the possible contingencies he might have come for. It might be the old +Greek loan, which was to be raked up again as a new grievance. It might be +the pensions that they would not pay, or the brigands that they would not +catch--pretty much for the same reasons--that they could not. It might +be that they wanted to hear what Tsousicheff, the new Russian Minister, +was doing, and whether the farce of the ‘Grand Idea’ was advertised for +repetition. It might be Crete was on the _tapis_, or it might be the +question of the Greek envoy to the Porte that the Sultan refused to +receive, and which promised to turn out a very pretty quarrel if only +adroitly treated. + +The more Brammell thought of it, the more he felt assured this must be the +reason of Atlee’s visit, and the more indignant he grew that extra-official +means should be employed to investigate what he had written seventeen +despatches to explain--seventeen despatches, with nine ‘inclosures,’ and a +‘private and confidential,’ about to appear in a blue-book. + +To make the dinner as confidential as might be, the only guests besides +Atlee were a couple of yachting Englishmen, a German Professor of +Archæology, and the American Minister, who, of course, speaking no language +but his own, could always be escaped from by a digression into French, +German, or Italian. + +Atlee felt, as he entered the drawing-room, that the company was what he +irreverently called afterwards, a scratch team; and with an almost equal +quickness, he saw that he himself was the ‘personage’ of the entertainment, +the ‘man of mark’ of the party. + +The same tact which enabled him to perceive all this, made him especially +guarded in all he said, so that his host’s efforts to unveil his intentions +and learn what he had come for were complete failures. ‘Greece was a +charming country--Greece was the parent of any civilisation we boasted. +She gave us those ideas of architecture with which we raised that glorious +temple at Kensington, and that taste for sculpture which we exhibited near +Apsley House. Aristophanes gave us our comic drama, and only the defaults +of our language made it difficult to show why the member for Cork did not +more often recall Demosthenes.’ + +As for insolvency, it was a very gentlemanlike failing; while brigandage +was only what Sheil used to euphemise as ‘the wild justice’ of noble +spirits, too impatient for the sluggard steps of slow redress, and too +proud not to be self-reliant. + +Thus excusing and extenuating wherein he could not flatter, Atlee talked on +the entire evening, till he sent the two Englishmen home heartily sick of a +bombastic eulogy on the land where a pilot had run their cutter on a rock, +and a revenue officer had seized all their tobacco. The German had retired +early, and the Yankee hastened to his lodgings to ‘jot down’ all the fine +things he could commit to his next despatch home, and overwhelm Mr. Seward +with an array of historic celebrities such as had never been seen at +Washington. + +‘They’re gone at last,’ said the Minister. ‘Let us have our cigar on the +terrace.’ + +The unbounded frankness, the unlimited trustfulness that now ensued between +these two men, was charming. Brammell represented one hard worked and +sorely tried in his country’s service--the perfect slave of office, +spending nights long at his desk, but not appreciated, not valued at home. +It was delightful, therefore, to him, to find a man like Atlee to whom he +could tell this--could tell for what an ungrateful country he toiled, +what ignorance he sought to enlighten, what actual stupidity he had to +counteract. He spoke of the Office--from his tone of horror it might have +been the Holy Office--with a sort of tremulous terror and aversion: the +absurd instructions they sent him, the impossible things he was to do, the +inconceivable lines of policy he was to insist on; how but for him the king +would abdicate, and a Russian protectorate be proclaimed; how the revolt +at Athens would be proclaimed in Thessaly; how Skulkekoff, the Russian +general, was waiting to move into the provinces ‘at the first check my +policy shall receive here,’ cried he. ‘I shall show you on this map; and +here are the names, armament, and tonnage of a hundred and ninety-four +gunboats now ready at Nicholief to move down on Constantinople.’ + +Was it not strange, was it not worse than strange, after such a show of +unbounded confidence as this, Atlee would reveal nothing? Whatever his +grievances against the people he served--and who is without them?--he would +say nothing, he had no complaint to make. Things he admitted were bad, but +they might be worse. The monarchy existed still, and the House of Lords +was, for a while at least, tolerated. Ireland was disturbed, but not in +open rebellion; and if we had no army to speak of, we still had a navy, and +even the present Admiralty only lost about five ships a year! + +Till long after midnight did they fence with each other, with buttons on +their foils--very harmlessly, no doubt, but very uselessly too: Brammell +could make nothing of a man who neither wanted to hear about finance or +taxation, court scandal, schools, or public robbery; and though he could +not in so many words ask--What have you come for? why are you here? he said +this in full fifty different ways for three hours and more. + +‘You make some stay amongst us, I trust?’ said the Minister, as his guest +rose to take leave. ‘You mean to see something of this interesting country +before you leave?’ + +‘I fear not; when the repairs to the steamer enable her to put to sea, they +are to let me know by telegraph, and I shall join her.’ + +‘Are you so pressed for time that you cannot spare us a week or two?’ + +‘Totally impossible! Parliament will sit in January next, and I must hasten +home.’ + +This was to imply that he was in the House, or that he expected to be, or +that he ought to be, and even if he were not, that his presence in England +was all-essential to somebody who was in Parliament, and for whom his +information, his explanation, his accusation, or anything else, was all +needed, and so Brammell read it and bowed accordingly. + +‘By the way,’ said the Minister, as the other was leaving the room, and +with that sudden abruptness of a wayward thought, ‘we have been talking of +all sorts of things and people, but not a word about what we are so full of +here. How is this difficulty about the new Greek envoy to the Porte to end? +You know, of course, the Sultan refuses to receive him?’ + +‘The Pasha told me something of it, but I confess to have paid little +attention. I treated the matter as insignificant.’ + +‘Insignificant! You cannot mean that an affront so openly administered +as this, the greatest national offence that could be offered, is +insignificant?’ and then with a volubility that smacked very little of want +of preparation, he showed that the idea of sending a particular man, long +compromised by his complicity in the Cretan revolt, to Constantinople, came +from Russia, and that the opposition of the Porte to accept him was also +Russian. ‘I got to the bottom of the whole intrigue. I wrote home how +Tsousicheff was nursing this new quarrel. I told our people facts of the +Muscovite policy that they never got a hint of from their ambassador at St. +Petersburg.’ + +‘It was rare luck that we had you here: good-night, good-night,’ said Atlee +as he buttoned his coat. + +‘More than that, I said, “If the Cabinet here persist in sending +Kostalergi--“’ + +‘Whom did you say? What name was it you said?’ + +‘Kostalergi--the Prince. As much a prince as you are. First of all, they +have no better; and secondly, this is the most consummate adventurer in the +East.’ + +‘I should like to know him. Is he here--at Athens?’ + +‘Of course he is. He is waiting till he hears the Sultan will receive him.’ + +‘I should like to know him,’ said Atlee, more seriously. + +‘Nothing easier. He comes here every day. Will you meet him at dinner +to-morrow?’ + +‘Delighted! but then I should like a little conversation with him in the +morning. Perhaps you would kindly make me known to him?’ + +‘With sincere pleasure. I’ll write and ask him to dine--and I’ll say that +you will wait on him. I’ll say, “My distinguished friend Mr. Atlee, of whom +you have heard, will wait on you about eleven or twelve.” Will that do?’ + +‘Perfectly. So then I may make my visit on the presumption of being +expected?’ + +‘Certainly. Not that Kostalergi wants much preparation. He plays baccarat +all night, but he is at his desk at six.’ + +‘Is he rich?’ + +‘Hasn’t a sixpence--but plays all the same. And what people are more +surprised at, pays when he loses. If I had not already passed an evening +in your company, I should be bold enough to hint to you the need of +caution--great caution--in talking with him.’ + +‘I know--I am aware,’ said Atlee, with a meaning smile. + +‘You will not be misled by his cunning, Mr. Atlee, but beware of his +candour.’ + +‘I will be on my guard. Many thanks for the caution. Good-night!--once +more, good-night!’ + + + + +CHAPTER LXIV + +GREEK MEETS GREEK + + +So excited did Atlee feel about meeting the father of Nina Kostalergi--of +whose strange doings and adventurous life he had heard much--that he +scarcely slept the entire night. It puzzled him greatly to determine in +what character he should present himself to this crafty Greek. Political +amateurship was now so popular in England, that he might easily enough +pass off for one of those ‘Bulls’ desirous to make himself up on the Greek +question. This was a part that offered no difficulty. ‘Give me five +minutes of any man--a little longer with a woman--and I’ll know where +his sympathies incline to.’ This was a constant boast of his, and not +altogether a vain one. He might be an archæological traveller eager about +new-discovered relics and curious about ruined temples. He might be a +yachting man, who only cared for Salamis as good anchorage, nor thought of +the Acropolis, except as a point of departure; or he might be one of those +myriads who travel without knowing where, or caring why: airing their ennui +now at Thebes, now at Trolhatten; a weariful, dispirited race, who rarely +look so thoroughly alive as when choosing a cigar or changing their money. +There was no reason why the ‘distinguished Mr. Atlee’ might not be one of +these--he was accredited, too, by his Minister, and his ‘solidarity,’ as +the French call it, was beyond question. + +While yet revolving these points, a kavass--with much gold in his jacket, +and a voluminous petticoat of white calico--came to inform him that his +Excellency the Prince hope to see him at breakfast at eleven o’clock; and +it now only wanted a few minutes of that hour. Atlee detained the messenger +to show him the road, and at last set out. + +Traversing one dreary, ill-built street after another, they arrived at last +at what seemed a little lane, the entrance to which carriages were denied +by a line of stone posts, at the extremity of which a small green gate +appeared in a wall. Pushing this wide open, the kavass stood respectfully, +while Atlee passed in, and found himself in what for Greece was a garden. +There were two fine palm-trees, and a small scrub of oleanders and dwarf +cedars that grew around a little fish-pond, where a small Triton in the +middle, with distended cheeks, should have poured forth a refreshing jet of +water, but his lips were dry, and his conch-shell empty, and the muddy tank +at his feet a mere surface of broad water-lilies convulsively shaken by +bull-frogs. A short shady path led to the house, a two-storeyed edifice, +with the external stair of wood that seemed to crawl round it on every +side. + +In a good-sized room of the ground-floor Atlee found the prince awaiting +him. He was confined to a sofa by a slight sprain, he called it, and +apologised for his not being able to rise. + +The prince, though advanced in years, was still handsome: his features had +all the splendid regularity of their Greek origin; but in the enormous +orbits, of which the tint was nearly black, and the indented temples, +traversed by veins of immense size, and the firm compression of his lips, +might be read the signs of a man who carried the gambling spirit into every +incident of life, one ready ‘to back his luck,’ and show a bold front to +fortune when fate proved adverse. + +The Greek’s manner was perfect. There was all the ease of a man used to +society, with a sort of half-sly courtesy, as he said, ‘This is kindness, +Mr. Atlee--this is real kindness. I scarcely thought an Englishman would +have the courage to call upon anything so unpopular as I am.’ + +‘I have come to see you and the Parthenon, Prince, and I have begun with +you.’ + +‘And you will tell them, when you get home, that I am not the terrible +revolutionist they think me: that I am neither Danton nor Félix Pyat, but +a very mild and rather tiresome old man, whose extreme violence goes no +further than believing that people ought to be masters in their own house, +and that when any one disputes the right, the best thing is to throw him +out of the window.’ + +‘If he will not go by the door,’ remarked Atlee. + +‘No, I would not give him the chance of the door. Otherwise you make no +distinction between your friends and your enemies. It is by the mild +methods--what you call “milk-and-water methods”--men spoil all their +efforts for freedom. You always want to cut off somebody’s head and spill +no blood. There’s the mistake of those Irish rebels: they tell me they have +courage, but I find it hard to believe them.’ + +‘Do believe them then, and know for certain that there is not a braver +people in Europe.’ + +‘How do you keep them down, then?’ + +‘You must not ask _me_ that, for I am one of them.’ + +‘You Irish?’ + +‘Yes, Irish--very Irish.’ + +‘Ah! I see. Irish in an English sense? Just as there are Greeks here +who believe in Kulbash Pasha, and would say, Stay at home and till your +currant-fields and mind your coasting trade. Don’t try to be civilised, for +civilisation goes badly with brigandage, and scarcely suits trickery. And +you are aware, Mr. Atlee, that trickery and brigandage are more to Greece +than olives or dried figs?’ + +There was that of mockery in the way he said this, and the little +smile that played about his mouth when he finished, that left Atlee in +considerable doubt how to read him. + +‘I study your newspapers, Mr. Atlee,’ resumed he. ‘I never omit to read +your _Times_, and I see how my old acquaintance, Lord Danesbury, has been +making Turkey out of Ireland! It is so hard to persuade an old ambassador +that you cannot do everything by corruption!’ + +‘I scarcely think you do him justice.’ + +‘Poor Danesbury,’ ejaculated he sorrowfully. + +‘You opine that his policy is a mistake?’ + +‘Poor Danesbury!’ said he again. + +‘He is one of our ablest men, notwithstanding. At this moment we have not +his superior in anything.’ + +‘I was going to say, Poor Danesbury, but I now say, Poor England.’ + +Atlee bit his lips with anger at the sarcasm, but went on, ‘I infer you are +not aware of the exact share subordinates have had in what you call Lord +Danesbury’s Irish blunders--’ + +‘Pardon my interrupting you, but a really able man has no subordinates. His +inferior agents are so thoroughly absorbed by his own individuality +that they have no wills--no instincts--and, therefore, they can do no +indiscretions They are the simple emanations of himself in action.’ + +‘In Turkey, perhaps,’ said Atlee, with a smile. + +‘If in Turkey, why not in England, or, at least, in Ireland? If you are +well served--and mind, you must be well served, or you are powerless--you +can always in political life see the adversary’s hand. That he sees yours, +is of course true: the great question then is, how much you mean to mislead +him by the showing it? I give you an instance: Lord Danesbury’s cleverest +stroke in policy here, the one hit probably he made in the East, was to +have a private correspondence with the Khedive made known to the Russian +embassy, and induce Gortschakoff to believe that he could not trust the +Pasha! All the Russian preparations to move down on the Provinces were +countermanded. The stores of grain that were being made on the Pruth were +arrested, and three, nearly four weeks elapsed before the mistake was +discovered, and in that interval England had reinforced the squadron at +Malta, and taken steps to encourage Turkey--always to be done by money, or +promise of money.’ + +‘It was a _coup_ of great adroitness,’ said Atlee. + +‘It was more,’ cried the Greek, with elation. ‘It was a move of such +subtlety as smacks of something higher than the Saxon! The men who do these +things have the instinct of their craft. It is theirs to understand that +chemistry of human motives by which a certain combination results in +effects totally remote from the agents that produce it. Can you follow me?’ + +‘I believe I can.’ + +‘I would rather say, Is my attempt at an explanation sufficiently clear to +be intelligible?’ + +Atlee looked fixedly at him, and he could do so unobserved, for the other +was now occupied in preparing his pipe, without minding the question. +Therefore Atlee set himself to study the features before him. It was +evident enough, from the intensity of his gaze and a certain trembling of +his upper lip, that the scrutiny cost him no common effort. It was, in +fact, the effort to divine what, if he mistook to read aright, would be an +irreparable blunder. + +With the long-drawn inspiration a man makes before he adventures a daring +feat, he said: ‘It is time I should be candid with you, Prince. It is time +I should tell you that I am in Greece only to see _you_.’ + +‘To see me?’ said the other, and a very faint flush passed across his face. + +‘To see you,’ said Atlee slowly, while he drew out a pocket-book and took +from it a letter. ‘This,’ said he, handing it, ‘is to your address.’ The +words on the cover were M. Spiridionides. + +‘I am Spiridion Kostalergi, and by birth a Prince of Delos,’ said the +Greek, waving back the letter. + +‘I am well aware of that, and it is only in perfect confidence that I +venture to recall a past that your Excellency will see I respect,’ and +Atlee spoke with an air of deference. + +‘The antecedents of the men who serve this country are not to be measured +by the artificial habits of a people who regulate condition by money. +_Your_ statesmen have no need to be journalists, teachers, tutors; +Frenchmen and Italians are all these, and on the Lower Danube and in Greece +we are these and something more.--Nor are we less politicians that we are +more men of the world.--The little of statecraft that French Emperor ever +knew, he picked up in his days of exile.’ All this he blurted out in short +and passionate bursts, like an angry man who was trying to be logical in +his anger, and to make an effort of reason subdue his wrath. + +‘If I had not understood these things as you yourself understand them, I +should not have been so indiscreet as to offer you that letter,’ and once +more he proffered it. + +This time the Greek took it, tore open the envelope, and read it through. + +‘It is from Lord Danesbury,’ said he at length. ‘When we parted last, I +was, in a certain sense, my lord’s subordinate--that is, there were things +none of his staff or secretaries or attachés or dragomen could do, and I +could do them. Times are changed, and if we are to meet again, it will be +as colleagues. It is true, Mr. Atlee, the ambassador of England and the +envoy of Greece are not exactly of the same rank. I do not permit myself +many illusions, and this is not one of them; but remember, if Great Britain +be a first-rate Power, Greece is a volcano. It is for us to say when there +shall be an eruption.’ + +It was evident, from the rambling tenor of this speech, he was speaking +rather to conceal his thoughts and give himself time for reflection, than +to enunciate any definite opinion; and so Atlee, with native acuteness, +read him, as he simply bowed a cold assent. + +‘Why should I give him back his letters?’ burst out the Greek warmly. +‘What does he offer me in exchange for them? Money! mere money! By what +presumption does he assume that I must be in such want of money, that the +only question should be the sum? May not the time come when I shall be +questioned in our chamber as to certain matters of policy, and my only +vindication be the documents of this same English ambassador, written +in his own hand, and signed with his name? Will you tell me that the +triumphant assertion of a man’s honour is not more to him than bank-notes?’ + +Though the heroic spirit of this speech went but a short way to deceive +Atlee, who only read it as a plea for a higher price, it was his policy to +seem to believe every word of it, and he looked a perfect picture of quiet +conviction. + +‘You little suspect what these letters are?’ said the Greek. + +I believe I know: I rather think I have a catalogue of them and their +contents,’ mildly hinted the other. + +‘Ah! indeed, and are you prepared to vouch for the accuracy and +completeness of your list?’ + +‘You must be aware it is only my lord himself can answer that question.’ + +‘Is there--in your enumeration--is there the letter about Crete? and the +false news that deceived the Baron de Baude? Is there the note of my +instructions to the Khedive? Is there--I’m sure there is not--any mention +of the negotiation with Stephanotis Bey?’ + +‘I have seen Stephanotis myself; I have just come from him,’ said Atlee, +grasping at the escape the name offered. + +‘Ah, you know the old Paiikao?’ + +‘Intimately; we are, I hope, close friends; he was at Kulbash Pasha’s while +I was there, and we had much talk together.’ + +‘And from him it was you learned that Spiridionides was Spiridion +Kostalergi?’ said the Greek slowly. + +‘Surely this is not meant as a question, or, at least, a question to be +answered?’ said Atlee, smiling. + +‘No, no, of course not,’ replied the other politely. ‘We are chatting +together, if not like old friends, like men who have every element to +become dear friends. We see life pretty much from the same point of view, +Mr. Atlee, is it not so?’ + +‘It would be a great flattery to me to think it.’ And Joe’s eyes sparkled +as he spoke. + +‘One has to make his choice somewhat early in the world, whether he will +hunt or be hunted: I believe that is about the case.’ + +‘I suspect so.’ + +‘I did not take long to decide: _I_ took my place with the wolves!’ Nothing +could be more quietly uttered than these words; but there was a savage +ferocity in his look as he said them that held Atlee almost spell-bound. +‘And you, Mr. Atlee? and you? I need scarcely ask where _your_ choice +fell!’ It was so palpable that the words meant a compliment, Atlee had only +to smile a polite acceptance of them. + +‘These letters,’ said the Greek, resuming, and like one who had not +mentally lapsed from the theme--‘these letters are all that my lord deems +them. They are the very stuff that, in your country of publicity and free +discussion, would make or mar the very best reputations amongst you. And,’ +added he, after a pause, ‘there are none of them destroyed, none!’ + +‘He is aware of that.’ + +‘No, he is not aware of it to the extent I speak of, for many of the +documents that he believed he saw burned in his own presence, on his own +hearth, are here, here in the room we sit in! So that I am in the proud +position of being able to vindicate his policy in many cases where his +memory might prove weak or fallacious.’ + +‘Although I know Lord Danesbury’s value for these papers does not bear out +your own, I will not suffer myself to discuss the point. I return at once +to what I have come for. Shall I make you an offer in money for them, +Monsieur Kostalergi?’ + +‘What is the amount you propose?’ + +‘I was to negotiate for a thousand pounds first. I was to give two thousand +at the last resort. I will begin at the last resort and pay you two.’ + +‘Why not piastres, Mr. Atlee? I am sure your instructions must have said +piastres.’ + +Quite unmoved by the sarcasm, Atlee took out his pocket-book and read +from a memorandum: ‘Should M. Kostalergi refuse your offer, or think it +insufficient, on no account let the negotiation take any turn of acrimony +or recrimination. He has rendered me great services in past times, and it +will be for himself to determine whether he should do or say what should in +any way bar our future relations together.’ + +‘This is not a menace?’ said the Greek, smiling superciliously. + +‘No. It is simply an instruction,’ said the other, after a slight +hesitation. + +‘The men who make a trade of diplomacy,’ said the Greek haughtily, ‘reserve +it for their dealings with Cabinets. In home or familiar intercourse they +are straightforward and simple. Without these papers your noble master +cannot return to Turkey as ambassador. Do not interrupt me. He cannot come +back as ambassador to the Porte! It is for him to say how he estimates the +post. An ambitious man with ample reason for his ambition, an able man with +a thorough conviction of his ability, a patriotic man who understood and +saw the services he could render to his country, would not bargain at the +price the place should cost him, nor say ten thousand pounds too much to +pay for it.’ + +‘Ten thousand pounds!’ exclaimed Atlee, but in real and unfeigned +astonishment. + +‘I have said ten thousand, and I will not say nine--nor nine thousand nine +hundred.’ + +Atlee slowly arose and took his hat. + +‘I have too much respect for yourself and for your time, M. Kostalergi, to +impose any longer on your leisure. I have no need to say that your proposal +is totally unacceptable.’ + +‘You have not heard it all, sir. The money is but a part of what I insist +on. I shall demand, besides, that the British ambassador at Constantinople +shall formally support my claim to be received as envoy from Greece, and +that the whole might of England be pledged to the ratification of my +appointment.’ + +A very cold but not uncourteous smile was all Atlee’s acknowledgment of +this speech. + +‘There are small details which regard my title and the rank that I lay +claim to. With these I do not trouble you. I will merely say I reserve them +if we should discuss this in future.’ + +‘Of that there is little prospect. Indeed, I see none whatever. I may say +this much, however, Prince, that I shall most willingly undertake to place +your claims to be received as Minister for Greece at the Porte under Lord +Danesbury’s notice, and, I have every hope, for favourable consideration. +We are not likely to meet again: may I assume that we part friends?’ + +‘You only anticipate my own sincere desire.’ + +As they passed slowly through the garden, Atlee stopped and said: ‘Had +I been able to tell my lord, “The Prince is just named special envoy at +Constantinople. The Turks are offended at something he has done in Crete or +Thessaly. Without certain pressure on the Divan they will not receive him. +Will your lordship empower me to say that you will undertake this, and, +moreover, enable me to assure him that all the cost and expenditure of his +outfit shall be met in a suitable form?” If, in fact, you give me your +permission to submit such a basis as this, I should leave Athens far +happier than I feel now.’ + +‘The Chamber has already voted the outfit. It is very modest, but it is +enough. Our national resources are at a low ebb. You might, indeed--that +is, if you still wished to plead my cause--you might tell my lord that I +had destined this sum as the fortune of my daughter. I have a daughter, Mr. +Atlee, and at present sojourning in your own country. And though at one +time I was minded to recall her, and take her with me to Turkey, I have +grown to doubt whether it would be a wise policy. Our Greek contingencies +are too many and too sudden to let us project very far in life.’ + +‘Strange enough,’ said Atlee thoughtfully, ‘you have just--as it were by +mere hazard--struck the one chord in the English nature that will always +respond to the appeal of a home affection. Were I to say, “Do you know why +Kostalergi makes so hard a bargain? It is to endow a daughter. It is the +sole provision he stipulates to make her--Greek statesmen can amass no +fortunes--this hazard will secure the girl’s future!” On my life, I cannot +think of one argument that would have equal weight.’ + +Kostalergi smiled faintly, but did not speak. + +‘Lord Danesbury never married, but I know with what interest and affection +he follows the fortunes of men who live to secure the happiness of their +children. It is the one plea he could not resist; to be sure he might say, +“Kostalergi told you this, and perhaps at the time he himself believed it; +but how can a man who likes the world and its very costliest pleasures +guard himself against his own habits? Who is to pledge his honour that the +girl will ever be the owner of this sum?”’ + +‘I shall place _that_ beyond a cavil or a question: he shall be himself her +guardian. The money shall not leave his hands till she marries. You have +your own laws, by which a man can charge his estate with the payment of a +certain amount. My lord, if he assents to this, will know how it may be +done. I repeat, I do not desire to touch a drachma of the sum.’ + +‘You interest me immensely. I cannot tell you how intensely I feel +interested in all this. In fact, I shall own to you frankly that you have +at last employed an argument, I do not know how, even if I wished, to +answer. Am I at liberty to state this pretty much as you have told it?’ + +‘Every word of it.’ + +‘Will you go further--will you give me a little line, a memorandum in your +own hand, to show that I do not misstate nor mistake you--that I have your +meaning correctly, and without even a chance of error?’ + +‘I will write it formally and deliberately.’ + +The bell of the outer door rang at the moment. It was a telegraphic message +to Atlee, to say that the steamer had perfected her repairs and would sail +that evening. + +‘You mean to sail with her?’ asked the Greek. ‘Well, within an hour, you +shall have my packet. Good-bye. I have no doubt we shall hear of each other +again.’ + +‘I think I could venture to bet on it,’ were Atlee’s last words as he +turned away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXV + +IN TOWN + + +Lord Danesbury had arrived at Bruton Street to confer with certain members +of the Cabinet who remained in town after the session, chiefly to consult +with him. He was accompanied by his niece, Lady Maude, and by Walpole, the +latter continuing to reside under his roof, rather from old habit than from +any strong wish on either side. + +Walpole had obtained a short extension of his leave, and employed the +time in endeavouring to make up his mind about a certain letter to Nina +Kostalergi, which he had written nearly fifty times in different versions +and destroyed. Neither his lordship nor his niece ever saw him. They knew +he had a room or two somewhere, a servant was occasionally encountered on +the way to him with a breakfast-tray and an urn; his letters were seen on +the hall-table; but, except these, he gave no signs of life--never appeared +at luncheon or at dinner--and as much dropped out of all memory or interest +as though he had ceased to be. + +It was one evening, yet early--scarcely eleven o’clock--as Lord Danesbury’s +little party of four Cabinet chiefs had just departed, that he sat at +the drawing-room fire with Lady Maude, chatting over the events of the +evening’s conversation, and discussing, as men will do at times, the +characters of their guests. + +‘It has been nearly as tiresome as a Cabinet Council, Maude!’ said he, with +a sigh, ‘and not unlike it in one thing--it was almost always the men who +knew least of any matter who discussed it most exhaustively.’ + +‘I conclude you know what you are going out to do, my lord, and do not care +to hear the desultory notions of people who know nothing.’ + +‘Just so. What could a First Lord tell me about those Russian intrigues +in Albania, or is it likely that a Home Secretary is aware of what is +preparing in Montenegro? They get hold of some crotchet in the _Revue des +Deux Mondes_, and assuming it all to be true, they ask defiantly, “How +are you going to deal with that? Why did you not foresee the other?” and +such like. How little they know, as that fellow Atlee says, that a man +evolves his Turkey out of the necessities of his pocket, and captures his +Constantinople to pay for a dinner at the “Frères.” What fleets of Russian +gunboats have I seen launched to procure a few bottles of champagne! I +remember a chasse of Kersch, with the café, costing a whole battery of +Krupp’s breech-loaders!’ + +‘Are our own journals more correct?’ + +‘They are more cautious, Maude--far more cautious. Nine days’ wonders with +us would be too costly. Nothing must be risked that can affect the funds. +The share-list is too solemn a thing for joking.’ + +‘The Premier was very silent to-night,’ said she, after a pause. + +‘He generally is in company: he looks like a man bored at being obliged to +listen to people saying the things that he knows as well, and could tell +better, than they do.’ + +‘How completely he appears to have forgiven or forgotten the Irish fiasco.’ + +‘Of course he has. An extra blunder in the conduct of Irish affairs is only +like an additional mask in a fancy ball--the whole thing is motley; and +asking for consistency would be like requesting the company to behave like +arch-deacons.’ + +‘And so the mischief has blown over?’ + +‘In a measure it has. The Opposition quarrelled amongst themselves; and +such as were not ready to take office if we were beaten, declined to press +the motion. The irresponsibles went on, as they always do, to their own +destruction. They became violent, and, of course, our people appealed +against the violence, and with such temperate language and good-breeding +that we carried the House with us.’ + +‘I see there was quite a sensation about the word “villain.”’ + +‘No; miscreant. It was miscreant--a word very popular in O’Connell’s day, +but rather obsolete now. When the Speaker called on the member for an +apology, we had won the day! These rash utterances in debate are the +explosive balls that no one must use in battle; and if we only discover one +in a fellow’s pouch, we discredit the whole army.’ + +‘I forget; did they press for a division?’ + +‘No; we stopped them. We agreed to give them a “special committee to +inquire.” Of all devices for secrecy invented, I know of none like a +“special committee of inquiry.” Whatever people have known beforehand, +their faith will now be shaken in, and every possible or accidental +contingency assume a shape, a size, and a stability beyond all belief. They +have got their committee, and I wish them luck of it! The only men who +could tell them anything will take care not to criminate themselves, and +the report will be a plaintive cry over a country where so few people +can be persuaded to tell the truth, and nobody should seem any worse in +consequence.’ + +‘Cecil certainly did it,’ said she, with a certain bitterness. ‘I suppose +he did. These young players are always thinking of scoring eight or ten on +a single hazard: one should never back them!’ + +‘Mr. Atlee said there was some female influence at work. He would not tell +what nor whom. Possibly he did not know.’ + +‘I rather suspect he _did_ know. They were people, if I mistake not, +belonging to that Irish castle--Kil--Kil-somebody, or Kil-something.’ + +‘Was Walpole flirting there? was he going to marry one of them?’ + +‘Flirting, I take it, must have been the extent of the folly. Cecil often +said he could not marry Irish. I have known men do it! You are aware, +Maude,’ and here he looked with uncommon gravity, ‘the penal laws have all +been repealed.’ + +‘I was speaking of society, my lord, not the statutes,’ said she +resentfully, and half suspicious of a sly jest. + +‘Had she money?’ asked he curtly. + +‘I cannot tell; I know nothing of these people whatever! I remember +something--it was a newspaper story--of a girl that saved Cecil’s life +by throwing herself before him--a very pretty incident it was; but these +things make no figure in a settlement; and a woman may be as bold as Joan +of Arc, and not have sixpence. Atlee says you can always settle the courage +on the younger children.’ + +‘Atlee’s an arrant scamp,’ said my lord, laughing. ‘He should have written +some days since.’ + +‘I suppose he is too late for the borough: the Cradford election comes on +next week?’ Though there could not be anything more languidly indifferent +than her voice in this question, a faint pinkish tinge flitted across her +cheek, and left it colourless as before. + +‘Yes, he has his address out, and there is a sort of committee--certain +licensed-victualler people--to whom he has been promising some especial +Sabbath-breaking that they yearn after. I have not read it.’ + +‘I have; and it is cleverly written, and there is little more radical in +it than we heard this very day at dinner. He tells the electors, “You are +no more bound to the support of an army or a navy, if you do not wish to +fight, than to maintain the College of Surgeons or Physicians, if you +object to take physic.” He says, “To tell _me_ that I, with eight shillings +a week, have an equal interest in resisting invasion as your Lord Dido, +with eighty thousand per annum, is simply nonsense. If you,” cries he to +one of his supporters, “were to be offered your life by a highwayman on +surrendering some few pence or halfpence you carried in _your_ pocket, you +do not mean to dictate what my Lord Marquis might do, who has got a gold +watch and a pocketful of notes in _his_. And so I say once more, let the +rich pay for the defence of what they value. You and I have nothing worth +fighting for, and we will not fight. Then as to religion--“’ + +‘Oh, spare me his theology! I can almost imagine it, Maude. I had no +conception he was such a Radical.’ + +‘He is not really, my lord; but he tells me that we must all go through +this stage. It is, as he says, like a course of those waters whose benefit +is exactly in proportion to the way they disagree with you at first. He +even said, one evening before he went away, “Take my word for it, Lady +Maude, we shall be burning these apostles of ballot and universal suffrage +in effigy one day; but I intend to go beyond every one else in the +meanwhile, else the rebound will lose half its excellence.”’ + +‘What is this?’ cried he, as the servant entered with a telegram. ‘This is +from Athens, Maude, and in cipher, too. How are we to make it out.’ + +‘Cecil has the key, my lord. It is the diplomatic cipher.’ + +‘Do you think you could find it in his room, Maude? It is possible this +might be imminent.’ + +‘I shall see if he is at home,’ said she, rising to ring the bell. The +servant sent to inquire returned, saying that Mr. Walpole had dined abroad, +and not returned since dinner. + +‘I’m sure you could find the book, Maude, and it is a small square-shaped +volume, bound in dark Russia leather, marked with F. O. on the cover.’ + +‘I know the look of it well enough; but I do not fancy ransacking Cecil’s +chamber.’ + +‘I do not know that I should like to await his return to read my despatch. +I can just make out that it comes from Atlee.’ + +‘I suppose I had better go, then,’ said she reluctantly, as she rose and +left the room. + +Ordering the butler to precede and show her the way, Lady Maude ascended +to a storey above that she usually inhabited, and found herself in a very +spacious chamber, with an alcove, into which a bed fitted, the remaining +space being arranged like an ordinary sitting-room. There were numerous +chairs and sofas of comfortable form, a well-cushioned ottoman, smelling, +indeed, villainously of tobacco, and a neat writing-table, with a most +luxurious arrangement of shaded wax-lights above it. + +A singularly well-executed photograph of a young and very lovely woman, +with masses of loose hair flowing over her neck and shoulders, stood on +a little easel on the desk, and it was, strange enough, with a sense of +actual relief, Maude read the word Titian on the frame. It was a copy of +the great master’s picture in the Dresden Gallery, and of which there is a +replica in the Barberini Palace at Rome; but still the portrait had another +memory for Lady Maude, who quickly recalled the girl she had once seen +in a crowded assembly, passing through a murmur of admiration that no +conventionality could repress, and whose marvellous beauty seemed to glow +with the homage it inspired. + +Scraps of poetry, copies of verses, changed and blotted couplets, were +scrawled on loose sheets of paper on the desk; but Maude minded none of +these, as she pushed them away to rest her arm on the table, while she sat +gazing on the picture. + +The face had so completely absorbed her attention--so, to say, fascinated +her--that when the servant had found the volume he was in search of, and +presented it to her, she merely said, ‘Take it to my lord,’ and sat still, +with her head resting on her hands, and her eyes fixed on the portrait. +‘There may be some resemblance, there may be, at least, what might remind +people of “the Laura “--so was it called; but who will pretend that _she_ +carried her head with that swing of lofty pride, or that _her_ look could +rival the blended majesty and womanhood we see here! I do not--I cannot +believe it!’ + +‘What is it, Maude, that you will not or cannot believe?’ said a low voice, +and she saw Walpole standing beside her. + +‘Let me first excuse myself for being here,’ said she, blushing. ‘I came +in search of that little cipher-book to interpret a despatch that has just +come. When Fenton found it, I was so engrossed by this pretty face that I +have done nothing but gaze at it.’ + +‘And what was it that seemed so incredible as I came in?’ + +‘Simply this, then, that any one should be so beautiful.’ + +‘Titian seems to have solved that point; at least, Vasari tells us this was +a portrait of a lady of the Guicciardini family.’ + +‘I know--I know that,’ said she impatiently; ‘and we do see faces in +which Titian or Velasquez have stamped nobility and birth as palpably as +they have printed loveliness and expression. And such were these women, +daughters in a long line of the proud Patricians who once ruled Rome.’ + +‘And yet,’ said he slowly, ‘that portrait has its living counterpart.’ + +‘I am aware of whom you speak: the awkward angular girl we all saw at Rome, +whom young gentlemen called the Tizziana.’ + +‘She is certainly no longer awkward, nor angular, now, if she were once so, +which I do not remember. She is a model of grace and symmetry, and as much +more beautiful than that picture as colour, expression, and movement are +better than a lifeless image.’ + +‘There is the fervour of a lover in your words, Cecil,’ said she, smiling +faintly. + +‘It is not often I am so forgetful,’ muttered he; ‘but so it is, our +cousinship has done it all, Maude. One revels in expansiveness with his +own, and I can speak to you as I cannot speak to another.’ + +‘It is a great flattery to me.’ + +‘In fact, I feel that at last I have a sister--a dear and loving spirit +who will give to true friendship those delightful traits of pity and +tenderness, and even forgiveness, of which only the woman’s nature can know +the needs.’ + +Lady Maude rose slowly, without a word. Nothing of heightened colour or +movement of her features indicated anger or indignation, and though Walpole +stood with an affected submissiveness before her, he marked her closely. +‘I am sure, Maude,’ continued he, ‘you must often have wished to have a +brother.’ + +‘Never so much as at this moment!’ said she calmly--and now she had reached +the door. ‘If I had had a brother, Cecil Walpole, it is possible I might +have been spared this insult!’ + +The next moment the door closed, and Walpole was alone. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVI + +ATLEE’S MESSAGE + + +‘I am right, Maude,’ said Lord Danesbury as his niece re-entered the +drawing-room. ‘This is from Atlee, who is at Athens; but why there I cannot +make out as yet. There are, according to the book, two explanations here. +491 means a white dromedary or the chief clerk, and B + 49 = 12 stands for +our envoy in Greece or a snuffer-dish.’ + +‘Don’t you think, my lord, it would be better for you to send this up to +Cecil? He has just come in. He has had much experience of these things.’ + +‘You are quite right, Maude; let Fenton take it up and beg for a speedy +transcript of it. I should like to see it at once!’ + +While his lordship waited for his despatch, he grumbled away about +everything that occurred to him, and even, at last, about the presence of +the very man, Walpole, who was at that same moment engaged in serving him. + +‘Stupid fellow,’ muttered he, ‘why does he ask for extension of his leave? +Staying in town here is only another name for spending money. He’ll have to +go out at last; better do it at once!’ + +‘He may have his own reasons, my lord, for delay,’ said Maude, rather to +suggest further discussion of the point. + +‘He may think he has, I’ve no doubt. These small creatures have always +scores of irons in the fire. So it was when I agreed to go to Ireland. +There were innumerable fine things and clever things he was to do. There +were schemes by which “the Cardinal” was to be cajoled, and the whole Bar +bamboozled. Every one was to have office dangled before his eyes, and to be +treated so confidentially and affectionately, under disappointment, that +even when a man got nothing he would feel he had secured the regard of the +Prime Minister! If I took him out to Turkey to-morrow, he’d never be easy +till he had a plan “to square” the Grand-Vizier, and entrap Gortschakoff or +Miliutin. These men don’t know that a clever fellow no more goes in search +of rogueries than a foxhunter looks out for stiff fences. You “take them” + when they lie before you, that’s all.’ This little burst of indignation +seemed to have the effect on him of a little wholesome exercise, for he +appeared to feel himself better and easier after it. + +‘Dear me! dear me!’ muttered he, ‘how pleasant one’s life might be if it +were not for the clever fellows! I mean, of course,’ added he, after a +second or two, ‘the clever fellows who want to impress us with their +cleverness.’ + +Maude would not be entrapped or enticed into what might lead to a +discussion. She never uttered a word, and he was silent. + +It was in the perfect stillness that followed that Walpole entered the room +with the telegram in his hand, and advanced to where Lord Danesbury was +sitting. + +‘I believe, my lord, I have made out this message in such a shape as +will enable you to divine what it means. It runs thus: “_Athens, 5th, 12 +o’clock. Have seen S----, and conferred at length with him. His estimate of +value_” or “_his price_”--for the signs will mean either--“_to my thinking +enormous. His reasonings certainly strong and not easy to rebut_.” That may +be possibly rendered, “_demands that might probably be reduced._” “_I leave +to-day, and shall be in England by middle of next week._--ATLEE.”’ + +Walpole looked keenly at the other’s face as he read the paper, to mark +what signs of interest and eagerness the tidings might evoke. There was, +however, nothing to be read in those cold and quiet features. + +‘I am glad he is coming back,’ said he at length. ‘Let us see: he can reach +Marseilles by Monday, or even Sunday night. I don’t see why he should not +be here Wednesday, or Thursday at farthest. By the way, Cecil, tell me +something about our friend--who is he?’ + +[Illustration: Walpole looked keenly at the other’s face as he read the +paper] + +‘Don’t know, my lord.’ + +‘Don’t know! How came you acquainted with him?’ + +‘Met him at a country-house, where I happened to break my arm, and took +advantage of this young fellow’s skill in surgery to engage his services to +carry me to town. There’s the whole of it.’ + +‘Is he a surgeon?’ + +‘No, my lord, any more than he is fifty other things, of which he has a +smattering.’ + +‘Has he any means--any private fortune?’ + +‘I suspect not.’ + +‘Who and what are his family? Are there Atlees in Ireland?’ + +‘There may be, my lord. There was an Atlee, a college porter, in Dublin; +but I heard our friend say that they were only distantly related.’ + +He could not help watching Lady Maude as he said this, and was rejoiced to +see a sudden twitch of her lower lip as if in pain. + +‘You evidently sent him over to me, then, on a very meagre knowledge of the +man,’ said his lordship rebukingly. + +‘I believe, my lord, I said at the time that I had by me a clever fellow, +who wrote a good hand, could copy correctly, and was sufficient of a +gentleman in his manners to make intercourse with him easy, and not +disagreeable.’ + +‘A very guarded recommendation,’ said Lady Maude, with a smile. + +‘Was it not, Maude?’ continued he, his eyes flashing with triumphant +insolence. + +‘_I_ found he could do more than copy a despatch--I found he could write +one. He replied to an article in the _Edinburgh_ on Turkey, and I saw him +write it as I did not know there was another man but myself in England +could have done.’ + +‘Perhaps your lordship had talked over the subject in his presence, or with +him?’ + +‘And if I had, sir? and if all his knowledge on a complex question was such +as he could carry away from a random conversation, what a gifted dog he +must be to sift the wheat from the chaff--to strip a question of what were +mere accidental elements, and to test a difficulty by its real qualities. +Atlee is a clever fellow, an able fellow, I assure you. That very telegram +before us is a proof how he can deal with a matter on which instruction +would be impossible.’ + +‘Indeed, my lord!’ said Walpole, with well-assumed innocence. + +‘I am right glad to know he is coming home. He must demolish that writer in +the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ at once--some unprincipled French blackguard, +who has been put up to attack me by Thouvenel!’ + +Would it have appeased his lordship’s wrath to know that the writer of this +defamatory article was no other than Joe Atlee himself, and that the reply +which was to ‘demolish it’ was more than half-written in his desk at that +moment? + +‘I shall ask,’ continued my lord, ‘I shall ask him, besides, to write a +paper on Ireland, and that fiasco of yours, Cecil.’ + +‘Much obliged, my lord!’ + +‘Don’t be angry or indignant! A fellow with a neat, light hand like Atlee +can, even under the guise of allegation, do more to clear you than scores +of vulgar apologists. He can, at least, show that what our distinguished +head of the Cabinet calls “the flesh-and-blood argument,” has its full +weight with us in our government of Ireland, and that our bitterest enemies +cannot say we have no sympathies with the nation we rule over.’ + +‘I suspect, my lord, that what you have so graciously called _my_ fiasco +is well-nigh forgotten by this time, and wiser policy would say, “Do not +revive it.”’ + +‘There’s a great policy in saying in “an article” all that could be said in +“a debate,” and showing, after all, how little it comes to. Even the feeble +grievance-mongers grow ashamed at retailing the review and the newspapers; +but, what is better still, if the article be smartly written, they are sure +to mistake the peculiarities of style for points in the argument. I have +seen some splendid blunders of that kind when I sat in the Lower House! I +wish Atlee was in Parliament.’ + +‘I am not aware that he can speak, my lord.’ + +‘Neither am I; but I should risk a small bet on it. He is a ready fellow, +and the ready fellows are many-sided--eh, Maude?’ Now, though his lordship +only asked for his niece’s concurrence in his own sage remark, Walpole +affected to understand it as a direct appeal to her opinion of Atlee, and +said, ‘Is that your judgment of this gentleman, Maude?’ + +‘I have no prescription to measure the abilities of such men as Mr. Atlee.’ + +‘You find him pleasant, witty, and agreeable, I hope?’ said he, with a +touch of sarcasm. + +‘Yes, I think so.’ + +‘With an admirable memory and great readiness for an _apropos_?’ + +‘Perhaps he has.’ + +‘As a retailer of an incident they tell me he has no rival.’ + +‘I cannot say.’ + +‘Of course not. I take it the fellow has tact enough not to tell stories +here.’ + +‘What is all that you are saying there?’ cried his lordship, to whom these +few sentences were an ‘aside.’ + +‘Cecil is praising Mr. Atlee, my lord,’ said Maude bluntly. + +‘I did not know I had been, my lord,’ said he. ‘He belongs to that class of +men who interest me very little.’ + +‘What class may that be?’ + +‘The adventurers, my lord. The fellows who make the campaign of life on the +faith that they shall find their rations in some other man’s knapsack.’ + +‘Ha! indeed. Is that our friend’s line?’ + +‘Most undoubtedly, my lord. I am ashamed to say that it was entirely my own +fault if you are saddled with the fellow at all.’ + +‘I do not see the infliction--’ + +‘I mean, my lord, that, in a measure, I put him on you without very well +knowing what it was that I did.’ + +‘Have you heard--do you know anything of the man that should inspire +caution or distrust?’ + +‘Well, these are strong words,’ muttered he hesitatingly. + +But Lady Maude broke in with a passionate tone, ‘Don’t you see, my lord, +that he does not know anything to this person’s disadvantage; that it +is only my cousin’s diplomatic reserve--that commendable caution of his +order--suggests his careful conduct? Cecil knows no more of Atlee than we +do.’ + +‘Perhaps not so much,’ said Walpole, with an impertinent simper. + +‘_I_ know,’ said his lordship, ‘that he is a monstrous clever fellow. He +can find you the passage you want or the authority you are seeking for at a +moment; and when he writes, he can be rapid and concise too.’ + +‘He has many rare gifts, my lord,’ said Walpole, with the sly air of one +who had said a covert impertinence. ‘I am very curious to know what you +mean to do with him.’ + +‘Mean to do with him? Why, what should I mean to do with him?’ + +‘The very point I wish to learn. A protégé, my lord, is a parasitic plant, +and you cannot deprive it of its double instincts--to cling and to climb.’ + +‘How witty my cousin has become since his sojourn in Ireland,’ said Maude. + +Walpole flushed deeply, and for a moment he seemed about to reply angrily; +but, with an effort, he controlled himself, and turning towards the +timepiece on the chimney, said, ‘How late! I could not have believed it was +past one! I hope, my lord, I have made your despatch intelligible?’ + +‘Yes, yes; I think so. Besides, he will be here in a day or two to +explain.’ + +‘I shall, then, say good-night, my lord. Good-night, Cousin Maude.’ But +Lady Maude had already left the room unnoticed. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVII + +WALPOLE ALONE + + +Once more in his own room, Walpole returned to the task of that letter to +Nina Kostalergi, of which he had made nigh fifty drafts, and not one with +which he was satisfied. + +It was not really very easy to do what he wished. He desired to seem a +warm, rapturous, impulsive lover, who had no thought in life--no other hope +or ambition--than the success of his suit. He sought to show that she had +so enraptured and enthralled him that, until she consented to share his +fortunes, he was a man utterly lost to life and life’s ambitions; and while +insinuating what a tremendous responsibility she would take on herself if +she should venture by a refusal of him to rob the world of those abilities +that the age could ill spare, he also dimly shadowed the natural pride a +woman ought to feel in knowing that she was asked to be the partner of +such a man, and that one, for whom destiny in all likelihood reserved the +highest rewards of public life, was then, with the full consciousness of +what he was, and what awaited him, ready to share that proud eminence with +her, as a prince might have offered to share his throne. + +In spite of himself, in spite of all he could do, it was on this latter +part of his letter his pen ran most freely. He could condense his raptures, +he could control in most praiseworthy fashion all the extravagances of +passion and the imaginative joys of love, but, for the life of him, he +could abate nothing of the triumphant ecstasy that must be the feeling of +the woman who had won him--the passionate delight of her who should be his +wife, and enter life the chosen one of his affection. + +It was wonderful how glibly he could insist on this to himself; and +fancying for the moment that he was one of the outer world commenting +on the match, say, ‘Yes, let people decry the Walpole class how they +might--they are elegant, they are exclusive, they are fastidious, they are +all that you like to call the spoiled children of Fortune in their wit, +their brilliancy, and their readiness, but they are the only men, the only +men in the world, who marry--we’ll not say for “love,” for the phrase is +vulgar--but who marry to please themselves! This girl had not a shilling. +As to family, all is said when we say she was a Greek! Is there not +something downright chivalrous in marrying such a woman? Is it the act of a +worldly man?’ + +He walked the room, uttering this question to himself over and over. +Not exactly that he thought disparagingly of worldliness and material +advantages, but he had lashed himself into a false enthusiasm as to +qualities which he thought had some special worshippers of their own, +and whose good opinion might possibly be turned to profit somehow and +somewhere, if he only knew how and where. It was a monstrous fine thing he +was about to do; that he felt. Where was there another man in his position +would take a portionless girl and make her his wife? Cadets and cornets in +light-dragoon regiments did these things: they liked their ‘bit of beauty’; +and there was a sort of mock-poetry about these creatures that suited that +sort of thing; but for a man who wrote his letters from Brookes’s, and +whose dinner invitations included all that was great in town, to stoop to +such an alliance was as bold a defiance as one could throw at a world of +self-seeking and conventionality. + +‘That Emperor of the French did it,’ cried he. ‘I cannot recall to my mind +another. He did the very same thing I am going to do. To be sure, he had +the “pull on me” in one point. As he said himself, “_I_ am a parvenu.” Now, +_I_ cannot go that far! I must justify my act on other grounds, as I hope +I can do,’ cried he, after a pause; while, with head erect and swelling +chest, he went on: ‘I felt within me the place I yet should occupy. I +knew--ay, knew--the prize that awaited me, and I asked myself, “Do you see +in any capital of Europe one woman with whom you would like to share +this fortune? Is there one sufficiently gifted and graceful to make her +elevation seem a natural and fitting promotion, and herself appear the +appropriate occupant of the station?” + +‘She is wonderfully beautiful: there is no doubt of it. Such beauty as they +have never seen here in their lives! Fanciful extravagances in dress, and +atrocious hair-dressing, cannot disfigure her; and by Jove! she has tried +both. And one has only to imagine that woman dressed and “coifféed,” as she +might be, to conceive such a triumph as London has not witnessed for the +century! And I do long for such a triumph. If my lord would only invite +us here, were it but for a week! We should be asked to Goreham and the +Bexsmiths’. My lady never omits to invite a great beauty. It’s _her_ way to +protest that she is still handsome, and not at all jealous. How are we to +get “asked” to Bruton Street?’ asked he over and over, as though the sounds +must secure the answer. ‘Maude will never permit it. The unlucky picture +has settled _that_ point. Maude will not suffer her to cross the threshold! +But for the portrait I could bespeak my cousin’s favour and indulgence for +a somewhat countrified young girl, dowdy and awkward. I could plead for her +good looks in that _ad misericordiam_ fashion that disarms jealousy and +enlists her generosity for a humble connection she need never see more of! +If I could only persuade Maude that I had done an indiscretion, and that I +knew it, I should be sure of her friendship. Once make her believe that I +have gone clean head over heels into a _mésalliance_, and our honeymoon +here is assured. I wish I had not tormented her about Atlee. I wish +with all my heart I had kept my impertinences to myself, and gone no +further than certain dark hints about what I could say, if I were to be +evil-minded. What rare wisdom it is not to fire away one’s last cartridge. +I suppose it is too late now. She’ll not forgive me that disparagement +before my uncle; that is, if there be anything between herself and Atlee, +a point which a few minutes will settle when I see them together. It would +not be very difficult to make Atlee regard me as his friend, and as one +ready to aid him in this same ambition. Of course he is prepared to see in +me the enemy of all his plans. What would he not give, or say, or do, to +find me his aider and abettor? Shrewd tactician as the fellow is, he will +know all the value of having an accomplice within the fortress; and it +would be exactly from a man like myself he might be disposed to expect the +most resolute opposition.’ + +He thought for a long time over this. He turned it over and over in his +mind, canvassing all the various benefits any line of action might promise, +and starting every doubt or objection he could imagine. Nor was the thought +extraneous to his calculations that in forwarding Atlee’s suit to Maude he +was exacting the heaviest ‘vendetta’ for her refusal of himself. + +‘There is not a woman in Europe,’ he exclaimed, ‘less fitted to encounter +small means and a small station--to live a life of petty economies, and be +the daily associate of a snob!’ + +‘What the fellow may become at the end of the race--what place he may win +after years of toil and jobbery, I neither know nor care! _She_ will be an +old woman by that time, and will have had space enough in the interval to +mourn over her rejection of me. I shall be a Minister, not impossibly at +some court of the Continent; Atlee, to say the best, an Under-Secretary +of State for something, or a Poor-Law or Education Chief. There will be +just enough of disparity in our stations to fill her woman’s heart with +bitterness--the bitterness of having backed the wrong man! + +‘The unavailing regrets that beset us for not having taken the left-hand +road in life instead of the right are our chief mental resources after +forty, and they tell me that we men only know half the poignancy of these +miserable recollections. Women have a special adaptiveness for this kind of +torture--would seem actually to revel in it.’ + +He turned once more to his desk, and to the letter. Somehow he could make +nothing of it. All the dangers that he desired to avoid so cramped his +ingenuity that he could say little beyond platitudes; and he thought with +terror of her who was to read them. The scornful contempt with which _she_ +would treat such a letter was all before him, and he snatched up the paper +and tore it in pieces. + +‘It must not be done by writing,’ cried he at last. ‘Who is to guess for +which of the fifty moods of such a woman a man’s letter is to be composed? +What you could say _now_ you dared not have written half an hour ago. What +would have gone far to gain her love yesterday, to-day will show you the +door! It is only by consummate address and skill she can be approached at +all, and without her look and bearing, the inflections of her voice, her +gestures, her “pose,” to guide you, it would be utter rashness to risk her +humour.’ + +He suddenly bethought him at this moment that he had many things to do +in Ireland ere he left England. He had tradesmen’s bills to settle, and +‘traps’ to be got rid of. ‘Traps’ included furniture, and books, and +horses, and horse-gear: details which at first he had hoped his friend +Lockwood would have taken off his hands; but Lockwood had only written him +word that a Jew broker from Liverpool would give him forty pounds for his +house effects, and as for ‘the screws,’ there was nothing but an auction. + +Most of us have known at some period or other of our lives what it is to +suffer from the painful disparagement our chattels undergo when they become +objects of sale; but no adverse criticism of your bed or your bookcase, +your ottoman or your arm-chair, can approach the sense of pain inflicted by +the impertinent comments on your horse. Every imputed blemish is a distinct +personality, and you reject the insinuated spavin, or the suggested splint, +as imputations on your honour as a gentleman. In fact, you are pushed into +the pleasant dilemma of either being ignorant as to the defects of your +beast, or wilfully bent on an act of palpable dishonesty. When we remember +that every confession a man makes of his unacquaintance with matters +‘horsy’ is, in English acceptance, a count in the indictment against his +claim to be thought a gentleman, it is not surprising that there will be +men more ready to hazard their characters than their connoisseurship. +‘I’ll go over myself to Ireland,’ said he at last; ‘and a week will do +everything.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII + +THOUGHTS ON MARRIAGE + + +Lockwood was seated at his fireside in his quarters, the Upper Castle Yard, +when Walpole burst in upon him unexpectedly. ‘What! you here?’ cried the +major. ‘Have _you_ the courage to face Ireland again?’ + +‘I see nothing that should prevent my coming here. Ireland certainly cannot +pretend to lay a grievance to my charge.’ + +‘Maybe not. I don’t understand these things. I only know what people say in +the clubs and laugh over at dinner-tables.’ + +‘I cannot affect to be very sensitive as to these Celtic criticisms, and I +shall not ask you to recall them.’ + +‘They say that Danesbury got kicked out, all for your blunders!’ + +‘Do they?’ said Walpole innocently. + +‘Yes; and they declare that if old Daney wasn’t the most loyal fellow +breathing, he’d have thrown you over, and owned that the whole mess was of +your own brewing, and that he had nothing to do with it.’ + +‘Do they, indeed, say that?’ + +‘That’s not half of it, for they have a story about a woman--some woman +you met down at Kilgobbin--who made you sing rebel songs and take a Fenian +pledge, and give your word of honour that Donogan should be let escape.’ + +‘Is that all?’ + +‘Isn’t it enough? A man must be a glutton for tomfoolery if he could not be +satisfied with that.’ + +‘Perhaps you never heard that the chief of the Cabinet took a very +different view of my Irish policy.’ + +‘Irish policy?’ cried the other, with lifted eyebrows. + +‘I said Irish policy, and repeat the words. Whatever line of political +action tends to bring legislation into more perfect harmony with the +instincts and impulses of a very peculiar people, it is no presumption to +call a policy.’ + +‘With all my heart. Do you mean to deal with that old Liverpool rascal for +the furniture?’ + +‘His offer is almost an insult.’ + +‘Well, you’ll be gratified to know he retracts it. He says now he’ll only +give £35! And as for the screws, Bobbidge, of the Carbineers, will take +them both for £50.’ + +‘Why, Lightfoot alone is worth the money!’ + +‘Minus the sand-crack.’ + +‘I deny the sand-crack. She was pricked in the shoeing.’ + +‘Of course! I never knew a broken knee that wasn’t got by striking the +manger, nor a sand-crack that didn’t come of an awkward smith.’ + +‘What a blessing it would be if all the bad reputations in society could be +palliated as pleasantly.’ + +‘Shall I tell Bobbidge you take his offer? He wants an answer at once.’ + +‘My dear major, don’t you know that the fellow who says that, simply means +to say: “Don’t be too sure that I shall not change my mind.” Look out that +you take the ball at the hop!’ + +‘Lucky if it hops at all.’ + +‘Is that your experience of life?’ said Walpole inquiringly. + +‘It is one of them. Will you take £50 for the screws?’ + +‘Yes; and as much more for the break and the dog-cart. I want every rap I +can scrape together, Harry. I’m going out to Guatemala.’ + +‘I heard that.’ + +‘Infernal place; at least, I believe, in climate--reptiles, fevers, +assassination--it stands without a rival.’ + +‘So they tell me.’ + +‘It was the only thing vacant; and they rather affected a difficulty about +giving it.’ + +‘So they do when they send a man to the Gold Coast; and they tell the +newspapers to say what a lucky dog he is.’ + +‘I can stand all that. What really kills me is giving a man the C.B. when +he is just booked for some home of yellow fever.’ + +‘They do that too,’ gravely observed the other, who was beginning to feel +the pace of the conversation rather too fast for him. ‘Don’t you smoke?’ + +‘I’m rather reducing myself to half batta in tobacco. I’ve thoughts of +marrying.’ + +‘Don’t do that.’ + +‘Why? It’s not wrong.’ + +‘No, perhaps not; but it’s stupid.’ + +‘Come now, old fellow, life out there in the tropics is not so jolly all +alone! Alligators are interesting creatures, and cheetahs are pretty pets; +but a man wants a little companionship of a more tender kind; and a nice +girl who would link her fortunes with one’s own, and help one through the +sultry hours, is no bad thing.’ + +‘The nice girl wouldn’t go there.’ + +‘I’m not so sure of that. With your great knowledge of life, you must know +that there has been a glut in “the nice-girl” market these years back. +Prime lots are sold for a song occasionally, and first-rate samples sent as +far as Calcutta. The truth is, the fellow who looks like a real buyer may +have the pick of the fair, as they call it here.’ + +So he ought,’ growled out the major. + +‘The speech is not a gallant one. You are scarcely complimentary to the +ladies, Lockwood.’ + +‘It was you that talked of a woman like a cow, or a sack of corn, not I.’ + +‘I employed an illustration to answer one of your own arguments.’ + +‘Who is she to be?’ bluntly asked the major. + +‘I’ll tell you whom I mean to ask, for I have not put the question yet.’ + +‘A long, fine whistle expressed the other’s astonishment. ‘And are you so +sure she’ll say Yes?’ + +‘I have no other assurance than the conviction that a woman might do +worse.’ + +‘Humph! perhaps she might. I’m not quite certain; but who is she to be?’ + +‘Do you remember a visit we made together to a certain Kilgobbin Castle.’ + +‘To be sure I do. A rum old ruin it was.’ + +‘Do you remember two young ladies we met there?’ + +‘Perfectly. Are you going to marry both of them?’ + +‘My intention is to propose to one, and I imagine I need not tell you +which?’ + +‘Naturally, the Irish girl. She saved your life--’ + +‘Pray let me undeceive you in a double error. It is not the Irish girl; nor +did she save my life.’ + +‘Perhaps not; but she risked her own to save yours. You said so yourself at +the time.’ + +‘We’ll not discuss the point now. I hope I feel duly grateful for the +young lady’s heroism, though it is not exactly my intention to record my +gratitude in a special license.’ + +‘A very equivocal sort of repayment,’ grumbled out Lockwood. + +‘You are epigrammatic this evening, major.’ + +‘So, then, it’s the Greek you mean to marry?’ + +‘It is the Greek I mean to ask.’ + +‘All right. I hope she’ll take you. I think, on the whole, you suit each +other. If I were at all disposed to that sort of bondage, I don’t know a +girl I’d rather risk the road with than the Irish cousin, Miss Kearney.’ + +‘She is very pretty, exceedingly obliging, and has most winning manners.’ + +‘She is good-tempered, and she is natural--the two best things a woman can +be.’ + +‘Why not come down along with me and try your luck?’ + +‘When do you go?’ + +‘By the 10.30 train to-morrow. I shall arrive at Moate by four o’clock, and +reach the castle to dinner.’ + +‘They expect you?’ + +‘Only so far, that I have telegraphed a line to say I’m going down to bid +“Good-bye” before I sail for Guatemala. I don’t suspect they know where +that is, but it’s enough when they understand it is far away.’ + +‘I’ll go with you.’ + +‘Will you really?’ + +‘I will. I’ll not say on such an errand as your own, because that requires +a second thought or two; but I’ll reconnoitre, Master Cecil, I’ll +reconnoitre.’ + +‘I suppose you know there is no money.’ + +‘I should think money most unlikely in such a quarter; and it’s better she +should have none than a small fortune. I’m an old whist-player, and when +I play dummy, there’s nothing I hate more than to see two or three small +trumps in my partner’s hand.’ + +‘I imagine you’ll not be distressed in that way here.’ + +‘I’ve got enough to come through with; that is, the thing can be done if +there be no extravagances.’ + +‘Does one want for more?’ cried Walpole theatrically. + +‘I don’t know that. If it were only ask and have, I should like to be +tempted.’ + +‘I have no such ambition. I firmly believe that the moderate limits a man +sets to his daily wants constitute the real liberty of his intellect and +his intellectual nature.’ + +‘Perhaps I’ve no intellectual nature, then,’ growled out Lockwood, ‘for I +know how I should like to spend fifteen thousand a year. I suppose I shall +have to live on as many hundreds.’ + +‘It can be done.’ + +‘Perhaps it may. Have another weed?’ + +‘No. I told you already I have begun a tobacco reformation.’ + +‘Does she object to the pipe?’ + +‘I cannot tell you. The fact is, Lockwood, my future and its fortunes are +just as uncertain as your own. This day week will probably have decided the +destiny of each of us.’ + +‘To our success, then!’ cried the major, filling both their glasses. + +‘To our success!’ said Walpole, as he drained his, and placed it upside +down on the table. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIX + +AT KILGOBBIN CASTLE + + +The ‘Blue Goat’ at Moate was destined once more to receive the same +travellers whom we presented to our readers at a very early stage of this +history. + +‘Not much change here,’ cried Lockwood, as he strode into the little +sitting-room and sat down. ‘I miss the old fellow’s picture, that’s all.’ + +‘Ah! by the way,’ said Walpole to the landlord, ‘you had my Lord +Kilgobbin’s portrait up there the last time I came through here.’ + +‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said the man, smoothing down his hair and looking +apologetically. ‘But the Goats and my lord, who was the Buck Goat, got into +a little disagreement, and they sent away his picture, and his lordship +retired from the club, and--and--that was the way of it.’ + +‘A heavy blow to your town, I take it,’ said the major, as he poured out +his beer. + +‘Well, indeed, your honour, I won’t say it was. You see, sir, times +is changed in Ireland. We don’t care as much as we used about the +“neighbouring gentry,” as they called them once; and as for the lord, +there! he doesn’t spend a hundred a year in Moate.’ + +‘How is that?’ + +‘They get what they want by rail from Dublin, your honour; and he might as +well not be here at all.’ + +‘Can we have a car to carry us over to the castle?’ asked Walpole, who did +not care to hear more of local grievances. + +‘Sure, isn’t my lord’s car waiting for you since two o’clock!’ said the +host spitefully, for he was not conciliated by a courtesy that was to lose +him a fifteen-shilling fare. ‘Not that there’s much of a horse between the +shafts, or that old Daly himself is an elegant coachman,’ continued the +host; ‘but they’re ready in the yard when you want them.’ + +The travellers had no reason to delay them in their present quarters, and +taking their places on the car, set out for the castle. + +‘I scarcely thought when I last drove this road,’ said Walpole, ‘that the +next time I was to come should be on such an errand as my present one.’ + +‘Humph!’ ejaculated the other. ‘Our noble relative that is to be does not +shine in equipage. That beast is dead lame.’ + +‘If we had our deserts, Lockwood, we should be drawn by a team of doves, +with the god Cupid on the box.’ + +‘I’d rather have two posters and a yellow postchaise.’ + +A drizzling rain that now began to fall interrupted all conversation, and +each sank back into his own thoughts for the rest of the way. + +Lord Kilgobbin, with his daughter at his side, watched the car from the +terrace of the castle as it slowly wound its way along the bog road. + +‘As well as I can see, Kate, there is a man on each side of the car,’ said +Kearney, as he handed his field-glass to his daughter. + +‘Yes, papa, I see there are two travellers.’ + +‘And I don’t well know why there should be even one! There was no such +great friendship between us that he need come all this way to bid us +good-bye.’ + +‘Considering the mishap that befell him here, it is a mark of good feeling +to desire to see us all once more, don’t you think so?’ + +‘May be so,’ muttered he drearily. ‘At all events, it’s not a pleasant +house he’s coming to. Young O’Shea there upstairs, just out of a fever; and +old Miss Betty, that may arrive any moment.’ + +‘There’s no question of that. She says it would be ten days or a fortnight +before she is equal to the journey.’ + +‘Heaven grant it!--hem--I mean that she’ll be strong enough for it by that +time. At all events, if it is the same as to our fine friend, Mr. Walpole, +I wish he’d have taken his leave of us in a letter.’ + +‘It is something new, papa, to see you so inhospitable.’ + +‘But I am not inhospitable, Kitty. Show me the good fellow that would like +to pass an evening with me and think me good company, and he shall have the +best saddle of mutton and the raciest bottle of claret in the house. But +it’s only mock-hospitality to be entertaining the man that only comes out +of courtesy and just stays as long as good manners oblige him.’ + +‘I do not know that I should undervalue politeness, especially when it +takes the shape of a recognition.’ + +‘Well, be it so,’ sighed he, almost drearily. ‘If the young gentleman is +so warmly attached to us all that he cannot tear himself away till he has +embraced us, I suppose there’s no help for it. Where is Nina?’ + +‘She was reading to Gorman when I saw her. She had just relieved Dick, who +has gone out for a walk.’ + +‘A jolly house for a visitor to come to!’ cried he sarcastically. + +‘We are not very gay or lively, it is true, papa; but it is not unlikely +that the spirit in which our guest comes here will not need much jollity.’ + +‘I don’t take it as a kindness for a man to bring me his depression and his +low spirits. I’ve always more of my own than I know what to do with. Two +sorrows never made a joy, Kitty.’ + +‘There! they are lighting the lamps,’ cried she suddenly. ‘I don’t think +they can be more than three miles away.’ + +‘Have you rooms ready, if there be two coming?’ + +‘Yes, papa, Mr. Walpole will have his old quarters; and the stag-room is in +readiness if there be another guest.’ + +‘I’d like to have a house as big as the royal barracks, and every room of +it occupied!’ cried Kearney, with a mellow ring in his voice. ‘They talk +of society and pleasant company; but for real enjoyment there’s nothing to +compare with what a man has under his own roof! No claret ever tastes so +good as the decanter he circulates himself. I was low enough half an hour +ago, and now the mere thought of a couple of fellows to dine with me cheers +me up and warms my heart! I’ll give them the green seal, Kitty; and I don’t +know there’s another house in the county could put a bottle of ‘46 claret +before them.’ + +‘So you shall, papa. I’ll go to the cellar myself and fetch it.’ + +Kearney hastened to make the moderate toilet he called dressing for dinner, +and was only finished when his old servant informed him that two gentlemen +had arrived and gone up to their rooms. + +‘I wish it was two dozen had come,’ said Kearney, as he descended to the +drawing-room. + +‘It is Major Lockwood, papa,’ cried Kate, entering and drawing him into a +window-recess; ‘the Major Lockwood that was here before, has come with Mr. +Walpole. I met him in the hall while I had the basket with the wine in my +hand, and he was so cordial and glad to see me you cannot think.’ + +‘He knew that green wax, Kitty. He tasted that “bin” when he was here +last.’ + +‘Perhaps so; but he certainly seemed overjoyed at something.’ + +‘Let me see,’ muttered he, ‘wasn’t he the big fellow with the long +moustaches?’ + +‘A tall, very good-looking man; dark as a Spaniard, and not unlike one.’ + +‘To be sure, to be sure. I remember him well. He was a capital shot with +the pistol, and he liked his wine. By the way, Nina did not take to him.’ + +‘How do you remember that, papa?’ said she archly. + +If I don’t mistake, she told me so, or she called him a brute, or a savage, +or some one of those things a man is sure to be, when a woman discovers he +will not be her slave.’ + +Nina entering at the moment cut short all rejoinder, and Kearney came +forward to meet her with his hand out. + +‘Shake out your lower courses, and let me look at you,’ cried he, as he +walked round her admiringly. ‘Upon my oath, it’s more beautiful than +ever you are! I can guess what a fate is reserved for those dandies from +Dublin.’ + +‘Do you like my dress, sir? Is it becoming?’ asked she. + +‘Becoming it is; but I’m not sure whether I like it.’ + +‘And how is that, sir?’ + +‘I don’t see how, with all that floating gauze and swelling lace, a man is +to get an arm round you at all--’ + +‘I cannot perceive the necessity, sir,’ and the insolent toss of her head, +more forcibly even than her words, resented such a possibility. + + + + +CHAPTER LXX + +ATLEE’S RETURN + + +When Atlee arrived at Bruton Street, the welcome that met him was almost +cordial. Lord Danesbury--not very demonstrative at any time--received him +with warmth, and Lady Maude gave him her hand with a sort of significant +cordiality that overwhelmed him with delight. The climax of his enjoyment +was, however, reached when Lord Danesbury said to him, ‘We are glad to see +you at home again.’ + +This speech sank deep into his heart, and he never wearied of repeating it +over and over to himself. When he reached his room, where his luggage had +already preceded him, and found his dressing articles laid out, and all the +little cares and attentions which well-trained servants understand awaiting +him, he muttered, with a tremulous sort of ecstasy, ‘This is a very +glorious way to come home!’ + +The rich furniture of the room, the many appliances of luxury and ease +around him, the sense of rest and quiet, so delightful after a journey, all +appealed to him as he threw himself into a deep-cushioned chair. He cried +aloud, ‘Home! home! Is this indeed home? What a different thing from that +mean life of privation and penury I have always been associating with this +word--from that perpetual struggle with debt--the miserable conflict that +went on through every day, till not an action, not a thought, remained +untinctured with money, and if a momentary pleasure crossed the path, the +cost of it as certain to tarnish all the enjoyment! Such was the only home +I have ever known, or indeed imagined.’ + +It is said that the men who have emerged from very humble conditions in +life, and occupy places of eminence or promise, are less overjoyed at this +change of fortune than impressed with a kind of resentment towards the +destiny that once had subjected them to privation. Their feeling is not so +much joy at the present as discontent with the past. + +‘Why was I not born to all this?’ cried Atlee indignantly. ‘What is there +in me, or in my nature, that this should be a usurpation? Why was I not +schooled at Eton, and trained at Oxford? Why was I not bred up amongst the +men whose competitor I shall soon find myself? Why have I not their +ways, their instincts, their watchwords, their pastimes, and even their +prejudices, as parts of my very nature? Why am I to learn these late in +life, as a man learns a new language, and never fully catches the sounds or +the niceties? Is there any competitorship I should flinch from, any rivalry +I should fear, if I had but started fair in the race?’ + +This sense of having been hardly treated by Fortune at the outset, marred +much of his present enjoyment, accompanied as it was by a misgiving that, +do what he might, that early inferiority would cling to him, like some rag +of a garment that he must wear over all his ‘braverie,’ proclaiming as it +did to the world, ‘This is from what I sprung originally.’ + +It was not by any exercise of vanity that Atlee knew he talked better, knew +more, was wittier and more ready-witted than the majority of men of his age +and standing. The consciousness that he could do scores of things _they_ +could not do was not enough, tarnished as it was by a misgiving that, by +some secret mystery of breeding, some freemasonry of fashion, he was not +one of them, and that this awkward fact was suspended over him for life, to +arrest his course in the hour of success, and balk him at the very moment +of victory. + +‘Till a man’s adoption amongst them is ratified by a marriage, he is not +safe,’ muttered he. ‘Till the fate and future of one of their own is +embarked in the same boat with himself, they’ll not grieve over his +shipwreck.’ + +Could he but call Lady Maude his wife! Was this possible? There were +classes in which affections went for much, where there was such a thing +as engaging these same affections, and actually pledging all hope of +happiness in life on the faith of such engagements. These, it is true, +were the sentiments that prevailed in humbler walks of life, amongst +those lowly-born people whose births and marriages were not chronicled in +gilt-bound volumes. The Lady Maudes of the world, whatever imprudences +they might permit themselves, certainly never ‘fell in love.’ Condition +and place in the world were far too serious things to be made the sport of +sentiment. Love was a very proper thing in three-volume novels, and Mr. +Mudie drove a roaring trade in it; but in the well-bred world, immersed in +all its engagements, triple-deep in its projects and promises for pleasure, +where was the time, where the opportunity, for this pleasant fooling? +That luxurious selfishness in which people delight to plan a future life, +and agree to think that they have in themselves what can confront narrow +fortune and difficulty--these had no place in the lives of persons of +fashion! In that coquetry of admiration and flattery which in the language +of slang is called spooning, young persons occasionally got so far +acquainted that they agreed to be married, pretty much as they agreed +to waltz or to polka together; but it was always with the distinct +understanding that they were doing what mammas would approve of, and family +solicitors of good conscience could ratify. No tyrannical sentimentality, +no uncontrollable gush of sympathy, no irresistible convictions about all +future happiness being dependent on one issue, overbore these natures, and +made them insensible to title, and rank, and station, and settlements. + +In one word, Atlee, after due consideration, satisfied his mind that, +though a man might gain the affections of the doctor’s daughter or the +squire’s niece, and so establish him as an element of her happiness that +friends would overlook all differences of fortune, and try to make some +sort of compromise with Fate, all these were unsuited to the sphere in +which Lady Maude moved. It was, indeed, a realm where this coinage did not +circulate. To enable him to address her with any prospect of success, he +should be able to show--ay, and to show argumentatively--that she was, in +listening to him, about to do something eminently prudent and worldly-wise. +She must, in short, be in a position to show her friends and ‘society’ that +she had not committed herself to anything wilful or foolish--had not been +misled by a sentiment or betrayed by a sympathy; and that the well-bred +questioner who inquired, ‘Why did she marry Atlee?’ should be met by an +answer satisfactory and convincing. + +In the various ways he canvassed the question and revolved it with himself, +there was one consideration which, if I were at all concerned for his +character for gallantry, I should be reluctant to reveal; but as I feel +little interest on this score, I am free to own was this. He remembered +that as Lady Maude was no longer in her first youth, there was reason to +suppose she might listen to addresses now which, some years ago, would have +met scant favour in her eyes. + +In the matrimonial Lloyd’s, if there were such a body, she would not have +figured A No. 1; and the risks of entering the conjugal state have probably +called for an extra premium. Atlee attached great importance to this fact; +but it was not the less a matter which demanded the greatest delicacy of +treatment. He must know it, and he must not know it. He must see that she +had been the belle of many seasons, and he must pretend to regard her as +fresh to the ways of life, and new to society. He trusted a good deal to +his tact to do this, for while insinuating to her the possible future of +such a man as himself--the high place, and the great rewards which, in all +likelihood, awaited him--there would come an opportune moment to suggest, +that to any one less gifted, less conversant with knowledge of life than +herself, such reasonings could not be addressed. + +‘It could never be,’ cried he aloud; ‘to some miss fresh from the +schoolroom and the governess, I could dare to talk a language only +understood by those who have been conversant with high questions, and moved +in the society of thoughtful talkers.’ + +There is no quality so dangerous to eulogise as experience, and Atlee +thought long over this. One determination or another must speedily be come +to. If there was no likelihood of success with Lady Maude, he must not +lose his chances with the Greek girl. The sum, whatever it might be, which +her father should obtain for his secret papers, would constitute a very +respectable portion. ‘I have a stronger reason to fight for liberal terms,’ +thought he, ‘than the Prince Kostalergi imagines; and, fortunately, that +fine parental trait, that noble desire to make a provision for his child, +stands out so clearly in my brief, I should be a sorry advocate if I could +not employ it.’ + +In the few words that passed between Lord Danesbury and himself on +arriving, he learned that there was but little chance of winning his +election for the borough. Indeed, he bore the disappointment jauntily and +good-humouredly. That great philosophy of not attaching too much importance +to any one thing in life, sustained him in every venture. ‘Bet on the +field--never back the favourite,’ was his formula for inculcating the +wisdom of trusting to the general game of life, rather than to any +particular emergency. ‘Back the field,’ he would say, ‘and you must be +unlucky, or you’ll come right in the long run.’ + +They dined that day alone, that is, they were but three at table; and Atlee +enjoyed the unspeakable pleasure of hearing them talk with the freedom +and unconstraint people only indulge in when ‘at home.’ Lord Danesbury +discussed confidential questions of political importance: told how his +colleagues agreed in this, or differed on that; adverted to the nice points +of temperament which made one man hopeful and that other despondent or +distrustful; he exposed the difficulties they had to meet in the Commons, +and where the Upper House was intractable; and even went so far in his +confidences as to admit where the criticisms of the Press were felt to be +damaging to the administration. + +‘The real danger of ridicule,’ said he, ‘is not the pungency of the satire, +it is the facility with which it is remembered and circulated. The man who +reads the strong leader in the _Times_ may have some general impression +of being convinced, but he cannot repeat its arguments or quote its +expressions. The pasquinade or the squib gets a hold on the mind, and in +its very drollery will ensure its being retained there.’ + +Atlee was not a little gratified to hear that this opinion was delivered +apropos to a short paper of his own, whose witty sarcasms on the Cabinet +were exciting great amusement in town, and much curiosity as to the writer. + +‘He has not seen “The Whitebait Dinner” yet,’ said Lady Maude; ‘the +cleverest _jeu d’esprit_ of the day.’ + +‘Ay, or of any day,’ broke in Lord Danesbury. ‘Even the _Anti-Jacobin_ +has nothing better. The notion is this. The Devil happens to be taking a +holiday, and he is in town just at the time of the Ministerial dinner, +and hearing that he is at Claridge’s, the Cabinet, ashamed at the little +attention bestowed on a crowned head, ask him down to Greenwich. He +accepts, and to kill an hour-- + + “He strolled down, of course, + To the Parliament House, + And heard how England stood, + As she has since the Flood, + Without ally or friend to assist her. + But, while every persuasion + Was full of invasion + From Russian or Prussian, + Yet the only discussion + Was, how should a Gentleman marry his sister.”’ + +‘Can you remember any more of it, my lord?’ asked Atlee, on whose table at +that moment were lying the proof-sheets of the production. + +‘Maude has it all somewhere. You must find it for him, and let him guess +the writer--if he can.’ + +‘What do the clubs say?’ asked Atlee. + +‘I think they are divided between Orlop and Bouverie. I’m told that the +Garrick people say it’s Sankey, a young fellow in F. O.’ + +‘You should see Aunt Jerningham about it, Mr. Atlee--her eagerness is +driving her half mad.’ + +‘Take him out to “Lebanon” on Sunday,’ said my lord; and Lady Maude agreed +with a charming grace and courtesy, adding as she left the room, ‘So +remember you are engaged for Sunday.’ + +Atlee bowed as he held the door open for her to pass out, and threw into +his glance what he desired might mean homage and eternal devotion. + +‘Now then for a little quiet confab,’ said my lord. ‘Let me hear what you +mean by your telegram. All I could make out was that you found our man.’ + +‘Yes, I found him, and passed several hours in his company.’ + +‘Was the fellow very much out at elbows, as usual?’ + +‘No, my lord--thriving, and likely to thrive. He has just been named envoy +to the Ottoman Court.’ + +‘Bah!’ was all the reply his incredulity could permit. + +‘True, I assure you. Such is the estimation he is held in at Athens, +the Greeks declare he has not his equal. You are aware that his name is +Spiridion Kostalergi, and he claims to be Prince of Delos.’ + +‘With all my heart. Our Hellenic friends never quarrel over their nobility. +There are titles and to spare for every one. Will he give us our papers?’ + +‘Yes; but not without high terms. He declares, in fact, my lord, that you +can no more return to the Bosporus without _him_ than he can go there +without _you_.’ + +‘Is the fellow insolent enough to take this ground?’ + +‘That is he. In fact, he presumes to talk as your lordship’s colleague, and +hints at the several points in which you may act in concert.’ + +‘It is very Greek all this.’ + +‘His terms are ten thousand pounds in cash, and--’ + +‘There, there, that will do. Why not fifty--why not a hundred thousand?’ + +‘He affects a desire to be moderate, my lord.’ + +‘I hope you withdrew at once after such a proposal? I trust you did not +prolong the interview a moment longer?’ + +‘I arose, indeed, and declared that the mere mention of such terms was like +a refusal to treat at all.’ + +‘And you retired?’ + +‘I gained the door, when he detained me. He has, I must admit, a marvellous +plausibility, for though at first he seemed to rely on the all-importance +of these documents to your lordship--how far they would compromise you +in the past and impede you for the future, how they would impair your +influence, and excite the animosity of many who were freely canvassed and +discussed in them--yet he abandoned all that at the end of our interview, +and restricted himself to the plea that the sum, if a large one, could not +be a serious difficulty to a great English noble, and would be the +crowning fortune of a poor Greek gentleman, who merely desired to secure a +marriage-portion for his only daughter.’ + +‘And you believed this?’ + +‘I so far believed him that I have his pledge in writing that, when he has +your lordship’s assurance that you will comply with his terms--and he only +asks that much--he will deposit the papers in the hands of the Minister at +Athens, and constitute your lordship the trustee of the amount in favour of +his daughter, the sum only to be paid on her marriage.’ + +‘How can it possibly concern me that he has a daughter, or why should I +accept such a trust?’ + +‘The proposition had no other meaning than to guarantee the good faith on +which his demand is made.’ + +‘I don’t believe in the daughter.’ + +‘That is, that there is one?’ + +‘No. I am persuaded that she has no existence. It is some question of a +mistress or a dependant; and if so, the sentimentality, which would seem to +have appealed so forcibly to you, fails at once.’ + +‘That is quite true, my lord; and I cannot pretend to deny the weakness you +accuse me of. There may be no daughter in the question.’ + +‘Ah! You begin to perceive now that you surrendered your convictions too +easily, Atlee. You failed in that element of “restless distrust” that +Talleyrand used to call the temper of the diplomatist.’ + +‘It is not the first time I have had to feel I am your lordship’s +inferior.’ + +‘_My_ education was not made in a day, Atlee. It need be no discouragement +to you that you are not as long-sighted as I am. No, no; rely upon it, +there is no daughter in the case.’ + +‘With that conviction, my lord, what is easier than to make your adhesion +to his terms conditional on his truth? You agree, if his statement be in +all respects verified.’ + +‘Which implies that it is of the least consequence to me whether the fellow +has a daughter or not?’ + +‘It is so only as the guarantee of the man’s veracity.’ + +‘And shall I give ten thousand pounds to test _that?_’ + +‘No, my lord; but to repossess yourself of what, in very doubtful hands, +might prove a great scandal and a great disaster.’ + +‘Ten thousand pounds! ten thousand pounds!’ + +‘Why not eight--perhaps five? I have not your lordship’s great knowledge to +guide me, and I cannot tell when these men really mean to maintain their +ground. From my own very meagre experiences, I should say he was not a very +tractable individual. He sees some promise of better fortune before him, +and like a genuine gambler--as I hear he is--he determines to back his +luck.’ + +‘Ten thousand pounds!’ muttered the other, below his breath. + +‘As regards the money, my lord, I take it that these same papers were +documents which more or less concerned the public service--they were in no +sense personal, although meant to be private; and, although in my ignorance +I may be mistaken, it seems to me that the fund devoted to secret services +could not be more fittingly appropriated than in acquiring documents whose +publicity could prove a national injury.’ + +‘Totally wrong--utterly wrong. The money could never be paid on such a +pretence--the “Office” would not sanction--no Minister would dare to advise +it.’ + +‘Then I come back to my original suggestion. I should give a conditional +acceptance, and treat for a reduction of the amount.’ + +‘You would say five?’ + +‘I opine, my lord, eight would have more chance of success.’ + +‘You are a warm advocate for your client,’ said his lordship, laughing; and +though the shot was merely a random one, it went so true to the mark that +Atlee flushed up and became crimson all over. ‘Don’t mistake me, Atlee,’ +said his lordship, in a kindly tone. ‘I know thoroughly how _my_ interests, +and only mine, have any claim on your attention. This Greek fellow must be +less than nothing to you. Tell me now frankly, do you believe one word he +has told you? Is he really named as Minister to Turkey?’ + +‘That much I can answer for--he is.’ + +‘What of the daughter--is there a daughter?’ + +‘I suspect there may be. However, the matter admits of an easy proof. He +has given me names and addresses in Ireland of relatives with whom she +is living. Now, I am thoroughly conversant with Ireland, and, by the +indications in my power, I can pledge myself to learn all, not only about +the existence of this person, but of such family circumstances as might +serve to guide you in your resolve. Time is what is most to be thought of +here. Kostalergi requires a prompt answer--first of all, your assurance +that you will support his claim to be received by the Sultan. Well, my +lord, if you refuse, Mouravieff will do it. You know better than me how +impolitic it might be to throw those Turks more into Russian influence--’ + +‘Never mind _that_, Atlee. Don’t distress yourself about the political +aspect of the question.’ + +‘I promised a telegraphic line to say, would you or would you not sustain +his nomination. It was to be Yes or No--not more.’ + +‘Say Yes. I’ll not split hairs about what Greek best represents his nation. +Say Yes.’ + +‘I am sure, my lord, you do wisely. He is evidently a man of ability, and, +I suspect, not morally much worse than his countrymen in general.’ + +‘Say Yes; and then’--he mused for some minutes before he continued--‘and +then run over to Ireland--learn something, if you can, of this girl, with +whom she is staying, in what position, what guarantees, if any, could be +had for the due employment and destination of a sum of money, in the event +of our agreeing to pay it. Mind, it is simply as a gauge of the fellow’s +veracity that this story has any value for us. Daughter or no daughter, is +not of any moment to me; but I want to test the problem--can he tell one +word of truth about anything? You are shrewd enough to see the bearing of +this narrative on all he has told you--where it sustains, where it accuses +him.’ + +‘Shall I set out at once, my lord?’ + +‘No. Next week will do. We’ll leave him to ruminate over your telegram. +_That_ will show him we have entertained his project; and he is too +practised a hand not to know the value of an opened negotiation. Cradock +and Mellish, and one or two more, wish to talk with you about Turkey. +Graydon, too, has some questions to ask you about Suez. They dine here on +Monday. Tuesday we are to have the Hargraves and Lord Masham, and a couple +of Under-Secretaries of State; and Lady Maude will tell us about Wednesday, +for all these people, Atlee, are coming to meet _you_. The newspapers have +so persistently been keeping you before the world, every one wants to see +you.’ + +Atlee might have told his lordship--but he did not--by what agency it +chanced that his journeys and his jests were so thoroughly known to the +press of every capital in Europe. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXI + +THE DRIVE + + +Sunday came, and with it the visit to South Kensington, where Aunt +Jerningham lived; and Atlee found himself seated beside Lady Maude in a +fine roomy barouche, whirling along at a pace that our great moralist +himself admits to be amongst the very pleasantest excitements humanity can +experience. + +‘I hope you will add your persuasions to mine, Mr. Atlee, and induce my +uncle to take these horses with him to Turkey. You know Constantinople, and +can say that real carriage-horses cannot be had there.’ + +‘Horses of this size, shape, and action the Sultan himself has not the +equals of.’ + +‘No one is more aware than my lord,’ continued she, ‘that the measure of an +ambassador’s influence is, in a great degree, the style and splendour in +which he represents his country, and that his household, his equipage, his +retinue, and his dinners, should mark distinctly the station he assumes to +occupy. Some caprice of Mr. Walpole’s about Arab horses--Arabs of bone and +blood he used to talk of--has taken hold of my uncle’s mind, and I half +fear that he may not take the English horses with him.’ + +‘By the way,’ said Atlee, half listlessly, ‘where _is_ Walpole? What has +become of him?’ + +‘He is in Ireland at this moment.’ + +‘In Ireland! Good heavens! has he not had enough of Ireland?’ + +‘Apparently not. He went over there on Tuesday last.’ + +‘And what can he possibly have to do in Ireland?’ + +‘I should say that _you_ are more likely to furnish the answer to that +question than I. If I’m not much mistaken, his letters are forwarded to the +same country-house where you first made each other’s acquaintance.’ + +‘What, Kilgobbin Castle?’ + +‘Yes, it is something Castle, and I think the name you mentioned.’ + +‘And this only puzzles me the more,’ added Atlee, pondering. ‘His first +visit there, at the time I met him, was a mere accident of travel--a +tourist’s curiosity to see an old castle supposed to have some historic +associations.’ + +‘Were there not some other attractions in the spot?’ interrupted she, +smiling. + +‘Yes, there was a genial old Irish squire, who did the honours very +handsomely, if a little rudely, and there were two daughters, or a daughter +and a niece, I’m not very clear which, who sang Irish melodies and talked +rebellion to match very amusingly.’ + +‘Were they pretty?’ + +‘Well, perhaps courtesy would say “pretty,” but a keener criticism would +dwell on certain awkwardnesses of manner--Walpole called them Irishries.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Yes, he confessed to have been amused with the eccentric habits and odd +ways, but he was not sparing of his strictures afterwards.’ + +‘So that there were no “tendernesses?”’ + +‘Oh, I’ll not go that far. I rather suspect there were “tendernesses,” + but only such as a fine gentleman permits himself amongst semi-savage +peoples--something that seems to say, “Be as fond of me as you like, and it +is a great privilege you enjoy; and I, on my side, will accord you such of +my affections as I set no particular store by.” Just as one throws small +coin to a beggar.’ + +‘Oh, Mr. Atlee!’ + +‘I am ashamed to own that I have seen something of this kind myself.’ + +‘It is not like my cousin Cecil to behave in that fashion.’ + +‘I might say, Lady Maude, that your home experiences of people would prove +a very fallacious guide as to what they might or might not do in a society +of whose ways you know nothing.’ + +‘A man of honour would always be a man of honour.’ + +‘There are men, and men of honour, as there are persons of excellent +principles with delicate moral health, and they--I say it with regret--must +be satisfied to be as respectably conducted as they are able.’ + +‘I don’t think you like Cecil,’ said she, half-puzzled by his subtlety, but +hitting what she thought to be a ‘blot.’ + +‘It is difficult for me to tell his cousin what I should like to say in +answer to this remark.’ + +‘Oh, have no embarrassment on that score. There are very few people less +trammelled by the ties of relationship than we are. Speak out, and if you +want to say anything particularly severe, have no fears of wounding my +susceptibilities.’ + +‘And do you know, Lady Maude,’ said he, in a voice of almost confidential +meaning, ‘this was the very thing I was dreading? I had at one time a good +deal of Walpole’s intimacy--I’ll not call it friendship, for somehow there +were certain differences of temperament that separated us continually. We +could commonly agree upon the same things; we could never be one-minded +about the same people. In _my_ experiences, the world is by no means the +cold-hearted and selfish thing _he_ deems it; and yet I suppose, Lady +Maude, if there were to be a verdict given upon us both, nine out of ten +would have fixed on _me_ as the scoffer. Is not this so?’ + +The artfulness with which he had contrived to make himself and his +character a question of discussion achieved only a half-success, for she +only gave one of her most meaningless smiles as she said, ‘I do not know; I +am not quite sure.’ + +‘And yet I am more concerned to learn what _you_ would think on this score +than for the opinion of the whole world.’ + +Like a man who has taken a leap and found a deep ‘drop’ on the other side, +he came to a dead halt as he saw the cold and impassive look her features +had assumed. He would have given worlds to recall his speech and stand as +he did before it was uttered; for though she did not say one word, there +was that in her calm and composed expression which reproved all that +savoured of passionate appeal. A now-or-never sort of courage nerved him, +and he went on: ‘I know all the presumption of a man like myself daring to +address such words to you, Lady Maude; but do you remember that though all +eyes but one saw only fog-bank in the horizon, Columbus maintained there +was land in the distance; and so say I, “He who would lay his fortunes +at your feet now sees high honours and great rewards awaiting him in the +future. It is with you to say whether these honours become the crowning +glories of a life, or all pursuit of them be valueless!” May I--dare I +hope?’ + +‘This is Lebanon,’ said she; ‘at least I think so’; and she held her glass +to her eye. ‘Strange caprice, wasn’t it, to call her house Lebanon because +of those wretched cedars? Aunt Jerningham is so odd!’ + +‘There is a crowd of carriages here,’ said Atlee, endeavouring to speak +with unconcern. + +‘It is her day; she likes to receive on Sundays, as she says she escapes +the bishops. By the way, did you tell me you were an old friend of hers, or +did I dream it?’ + +‘I’m afraid it was the vision revealed it?’ + +‘Because, if so, I must not take you in. She has a rule against all +presentations on Sundays--they are only her intimates she receives on that +day. We shall have to return as we came.’ + +‘Not for worlds. Pray let me not prove an embarrassment. You can make your +visit, and I will go back on foot. Indeed, I should like a walk.’ + +‘On no account! Take the carriage, and send it back for me. I shall remain +here till afternoon tea.’ + +‘Thanks, but I hold to my walk.’ + +‘It is a charming day, and I’m sure a walk will be delightful.’ + +‘Am I to suppose, Lady Maude,’ said he, in a low voice, as he assisted her +to alight, ‘that you will deign me a more formal answer at another time to +the words I ventured to address you? May I live in the hope that I shall +yet regard this day as the most fortunate of my life?’ + +‘It is wonderful weather for November--an English November, too. Pray let +me assure you that you need not make yourself uneasy about what you were +speaking of. I shall not mention it to any one, least of all to “my lord”; +and as for myself, it shall be as completely forgotten as though it had +never been uttered.’ + +And she held out her hand with a sort of cordial frankness that actually +said, ‘There, you are forgiven! Is there any record of generosity like +this?’ + +Atlee bowed low and resignedly over that gloved hand, which he felt he was +touching for the last time, and turned away with a rush of thoughts through +his brain, in which certainly the pleasantest were not the predominating +ones. + +He did not dine that day at Bruton Street, and only returned about ten +o’clock, when he knew he should find Lord Danesbury in his study. + +‘I have determined, my lord,’ said he, with somewhat of decision in his +tone that savoured of a challenge, ‘to go over to Ireland by the morning +mail.’ + +Too much engrossed by his own thoughts to notice the other’s manner, Lord +Danesbury merely turned from the papers before him to say, ‘Ah, indeed! +it would be very well done. We were talking about that, were we not, +yesterday? What was it?’ + +‘The Greek--Kostalergi’s daughter, my lord?’ + +‘To be sure. You are incredulous about her, ain’t you?’ + +‘On the contrary, my lord, I opine that the fellow has told us the truth. I +believe he has a daughter, and destines this money to be her dowry.’ + +‘With all my heart; I do not see how it should concern me. If I am to pay +the money, it matters very little to me whether he invests it in a Greek +husband or the Double Zero--speculations, I take it, pretty much alike. +Have you sent a telegram?’ + +‘I have, my lord. I have engaged your lordship’s word that you are willing +to treat.’ + +‘Just so; it is exactly what I am! Willing to treat, willing to hear +argument, and reply with my own, why I should give more for anything than +it is worth.’ + +‘We need not discuss further what we can only regard from one point of +view, and that our own.’ + +Lord Danesbury started. The altered tone and manner struck him now for the +first time, and he threw his spectacles on the table and stared at the +speaker with astonishment. + +‘There is another point, my lord,’ continued Atlee, with unbroken calm, +‘that I should like to ask your lordship’s judgment upon, as I shall in +a few hours be in Ireland, where the question will present itself. There +was some time ago in Ireland a case brought under your lordship’s notice +of a very gallant resistance made by a family against an armed party who +attacked a house, and your lordship was graciously pleased to say that some +recognition should be offered to one of the sons--something to show how the +Government regarded and approved his spirited conduct.’ + +‘I know, I know; but I am no longer the Viceroy.’ + +‘I am aware of that, my lord, nor is your successor appointed; but any +suggestion or wish of your lordship’s would be accepted by the Lords +Justices with great deference, all the more in payment of a debt. If, then, +your lordship would recommend this young man for the first vacancy in the +constabulary, or some place in the Customs, it would satisfy a most natural +expectation, and, at the same time, evidence your lordship’s interest for +the country you so late ruled over.’ + +‘There is nothing more pernicious than forestalling other people’s +patronage, Atlee. Not but if this thing was to be done for yourself--’ + +‘Pardon me, my lord, I do not desire anything for myself.’ + +‘Well, be it so. Take this to the Chancellor or the +Commander-in-Chief’--and he scribbled a few hasty lines as he talked--‘and +say what you can in support of it. If they give you something good, I shall +be heartily glad of it, and I wish you years to enjoy it.’ + +Atlee only smiled at the warmth of interest for him which was linked with +such a shortness of memory; but was too much wounded in his pride to reply. +And now, as he saw that his lordship had replaced his glasses and resumed +his work, he walked noiselessly to the door and withdrew. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXII + +THE SAUNTER IN TOWN + + +As Atlee sauntered along towards Downing Street, whence he purposed to +despatch his telegram to Greece, he thought a good deal of his late +interview with Lord Danesbury. There was much in it that pleased him. He +had so far succeeded in _re_ Kostalergi, that the case was not scouted out +of court; the matter, at least, was to be entertained, and even that was +something. The fascination of a scheme to be developed, an intrigue to be +worked out, had for his peculiar nature a charm little short of ecstasy. +The demand upon his resources for craft and skill, concealment and +duplicity, was only second in his estimation to the delight he felt at +measuring his intellect with some other, and seeing whether, in the game of +subtlety, he had his master. + +Next to this, but not without a long interval, was the pleasure he felt at +the terms in which Lord Danesbury spoke of him. No orator accustomed to +hold an assembly enthralled by his eloquence--no actor habituated to sway +the passions of a crowded theatre--is more susceptible to the promptings of +personal vanity than your ‘practised talker.’ The man who devotes himself +to be a ‘success’ in conversation glories more in his triumphs, and sets a +greater value on his gifts, than any other I know of. + +That men of mark and station desired to meet him--that men whose position +secured to them the advantage of associating with the pleasantest people +and the freshest minds--men who commanded, so to say, the best talking in +society--wished to confer with and to hear _him_, was an intense flattery, +and he actually longed for the occasion of display. He had learned a good +deal since he had left Ireland. He had less of that fluency which Irishmen +cultivate, seldom ventured on an epigram, never on an anecdote, was +guardedly circumspect as to statements of fact, and, on the whole, liked to +understate his case, and affect distrust of his own opinion. Though there +was not one of these which were not more or less restrictions on him, +he could be brilliant and witty when occasion served, and there was an +incisive neatness in his repartee in which he had no equal. Some of those +he was to meet were well known amongst the most agreeable people of +society, and he rejoiced that at least, if he were to be put upon his +trial, he should be judged by his peers. + +With all these flattering prospects, was it not strange that his lordship +never dropped a word, nor even a hint, as to his personal career? He had +told him, indeed, that he could not hope for success at Cradford, and +laughingly said, ‘You have left Odger miles behind you in your Radicalism. +Up to this, we have had no Parliament in England sufficiently advanced +for your opinions.’ On the whole, however, if not followed up--which Lord +Danesbury strongly objected to its being--he said there was no great harm +in a young man making his first advances in political life by something +startling. They are only fireworks, it is true; the great requisite is, +that they be brilliant, and do not go out with a smoke and a bad smell! + +Beyond this, he had told him nothing. Was he minded to take him out to +Turkey, and as what? He had already explained to him that the old days +in which a clever fellow could be drafted at once into a secretaryship +of embassy were gone by; that though a parliamentary title was held to +supersede all others, whether in the case of a man or a landed estate, it +was all-essential to be in the House for _that_, and that a diplomatist, +like a sweep, must begin when he is little. + +‘As his private secretary,’ thought he, ‘the position is at once fatal to +all my hopes with regard to Lady Maude.’ There was not a woman living more +certain to measure a man’s pretensions by his station. ‘Hitherto I have not +been “classed.” I might be anybody, or go anywhere. My wide capabilities +seemed to say that if I descended to do small things, it would be quite as +easy for me to do great ones; and though I copied despatches, they would +have been rather better if I had drafted them also.’ + +Lady Maude knew this. She knew the esteem in which her uncle held him. She +knew how that uncle, shrewd man of the world as he was, valued the sort of +qualities he saw in him, and could, better than most men, decide how far +such gifts were marketable, and what price they brought to their possessor. + +‘And yet,’ cried he, ‘they don’t know one-half of me! What would they say +if they knew that it was I wrote the great paper on Turkish Finance in the +_Mémorial Diplomatique_, and the review of it in the _Quarterly_; that +it was I who exposed the miserable compromise of Thiers with Gambetta in +the _Débuts_, and defended him in the _Daily News_; that the hysterical +scream of the _Kreuz Zeitung_, and the severe article on Bismarck in the +_Fortnightly_, were both mine; and that at this moment I am urging in the +_Pike_ how the Fenian prisoners must be amnestied, and showing in a London +review that if they are liberated, Mr. Gladstone should be attainted for +high treason? I should like well to let them know all this; and I’m not +sure I would not risk all the consequences to do it.’ + +And then he as suddenly bethought him how little account men of letters +were held in by the Lady Maudes of this world; what a humble place they +assigned them socially; and how small they estimated their chances of +worldly success! + +‘It is the unrealism of literature as a career strikes them; and they +cannot see how men are to assure themselves of the _quoi vivre_ by +providing what so few want, and even they could exist without.’ + +It was in a reverie of this fashion he walked the streets, as little +cognisant of the crowd around him as if he were sauntering along some +rippling stream in a mountain gorge. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII + +A DARKENED KOOM + + +The ‘comatose’ state, to use the language of the doctors, into which +Gorman O’Shea had fallen, had continued so long as to excite the greatest +apprehensions of his friends; for although not amounting to complete +insensibility, it left him so apathetic and indifferent to everything and +every one, that the girls Kate and Nina, in pure despair, had given up +reading or talking to him, and passed their hours of ‘watching’ in perfect +silence in the half-darkened room. + +The stern immobility of his pale features, the glassy and meaningless stare +of his large blue eyes, the unvarying rhythm of a long-drawn respiration, +were signs that at length became more painful to contemplate than evidences +of actual suffering; and as day by day went on, and interest grew more and +more eager about the trial, which was fixed for the coming assize, it +was pitiable to see him, whose fate was so deeply pledged on the issue, +unconscious of all that went on around him, and not caring to know any of +those details the very least of which might determine his future lot. + +The instructions drawn up for the defence were sadly in need of the sort of +information which the sick man alone could supply; and Nina and Kate had +both been entreated to watch for the first favourable moment that should +present itself, and ask certain questions, the answers to which would be of +the last importance. + +Though Gill’s affidavit gave many evidences of unscrupulous falsehood, +there was no counter-evidence to set against it, and O’Shea’s counsel +complained strongly of the meagre instructions which were briefed to him in +the case, and his utter inability to construct a defence upon them. + +‘He said he would tell me something this evening, Kate,’ said Nina; ‘so, if +you will let me, I will go in your place and remind him of his promise.’ + +This hopeful sign of returning intelligence was so gratifying to Kate that +she readily consented to the proposition of her cousin taking her ‘watch,’ +and, if possible, learning something of his wishes. + +‘He said it,’ continued Nina, ‘like one talking to himself, and it was not +easy to follow him. The words, as well as I could make out, were, “I will +say it to-day--this evening, if I can. When it is said”--here he muttered +something, but I cannot say whether the words were, “My mind will be at +rest,” or “I shall be at rest for evermore.”’ + +Kate did not utter a word, but her eyes swam, and two large tears stole +slowly down her face. + +‘His own conviction is that he is dying,’ said Nina; but Kate never spoke. + +‘The doctors persist,’ continued Nina, ‘in declaring that this depression +is only a well-known symptom of the attack, and that all affections of the +brain are marked by a certain tone of despondency. They even say more, and +that the cases where this symptom predominates are more frequently followed +by recovery. Are you listening to me, child?’ + +‘No; I was following some thoughts of my own.’ + +‘I was merely telling you why I think he is getting better.’ + +Kate leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and she did not speak. The +heaving motion of her shoulders and her chest betrayed the agitation she +could not subdue. + +‘I wish his aunt were here; I see how her absence frets him. Is she too ill +for the journey?’ asked Nina. + +‘She says not, and she seems in some way to be coerced by others; but a +telegram this morning announces she would try and reach Kilgobbin this +evening.’ + +‘What could coercion mean? Surely this is mere fancy?’ + +‘I am not so certain of that. The convent has great hopes of inheriting her +fortune. She is rich, and she is a devout Catholic; and we have heard of +cases where zeal for the Church has pushed discretion very far.’ + +‘What a worldly creature it is!’ cried Nina; ‘and who would have suspected +it?’ + +‘I do not see the worldliness of my believing that people will do much to +serve the cause they follow. When chemists tell us that there is no +finding such a thing as a glass of pure water, where are we to go for pure +motives?’ + +‘To one’s heart, of course,’ said Nina; but the curl of her perfectly-cut +lip as she said it, scarcely vouched for the sincerity. + +On that same evening, just as the last flickerings of twilight were dying +away, Nina stole into the sick-room, and took her place noiselessly beside +the bed. + +Slowly moving his arm without turning his head, or by any gesture whatever +acknowledging her presence, he took her hand and pressed it to his burning +lips, and then laid it upon his cheek. She made no effort to withdraw her +hand, and sat perfectly still and motionless. + +‘Are we alone?’ whispered he, in a voice hardly audible. + +‘Yes, quite alone.’ + +‘If I should say what--displease you,’ faltered he, his agitation making +speech even more difficult; ‘how shall I tell?’ And once more he pressed +her hand to his lips. + +‘No, no; have no fears of displeasing me. Say what you would like to tell +me.’ + +‘It is this, then,’ said he, with an effort. ‘I am dying with my secret in +my heart. I am dying, to carry away with me the love I am not to tell--my +love for you, Kate.’ + +‘I am _not_ Kate,’ was almost on her lips; but her struggle to keep silent +was aided by that desire so strong in her nature--to follow out a situation +of difficulty to the end. She did not love him, nor did she desire his +love; but a strange sense of injury at hearing his profession of love for +another shot a pang of intense suffering through her heart, and she lay +back in her chair with a cold feeling of sickness like fainting. The +overpowering passion of her nature was jealousy; and to share even the +admiration of a salon, the ‘passing homage,’ as such deference is called, +with another, was a something no effort of her generosity could compass. + +Though she did not speak, she suffered her hand to remain unresistingly +within his own. After a short pause he went on: ‘I thought yesterday that I +was dying; and in my rambling intellect I thought I took leave of you; and +do you know my last words--my last words, Kate?’ + +‘No; what were they?’ + +‘My last words were these: “Beware of the Greek; have no friendship with +the Greek.”’ + +‘And why that warning?’ said she, in a low, faint voice. + +‘She is not of us, Kate; none of her ways or thoughts are ours, nor would +they suit us. She is subtle, and clever, and sly; and these only mislead +those who lead simple lives.’ + +‘May it not be that you wrong her?’ + +‘I have tried to learn her nature.’ + +‘Not to love it?’ + +‘I believe I was beginning to love her--just when you were cold to me. You +remember when?’ + +‘I do; and it was this coldness was the cause? Was it the only cause?’ + +‘No, no. She has wiles and ways which, with her beauty, make her nigh +irresistible.’ + +‘And now you are cured of this passion? There is no trace of it in your +breast?’ + +‘Not a vestige. But why speak of her?’ + +‘Perhaps I am jealous.’ + +Once more he pressed his lips to her hand, and kissed it rapturously. + +‘No, Kate,’ cried he, ‘none but you have the place in my heart. Whenever I +have tried a treason, it has turned against me. Is there light enough in +the room to find a small portfolio of red-brown leather? It is on that +table yonder.’ + +Had the darkness been not almost complete, Nina would scarcely have +ventured to rise and cross the room, so fearful was she of being +recognised. + +‘It is locked,’ said she, as she laid it beside him on the bed; but +touching a secret spring, he opened it, and passed his fingers hurriedly +through the papers within. + +‘I believe it must be this,’ said he. ‘I think I know the feel of the +paper. It is a telegram from my aunt; the doctor gave it to me last night. +We read it over together four or five times. This is it, and these are the +words: “If Kate will be your wife, the estate of O’Shea’s Barn is your own +for ever.”’ + +‘Is she to have no time to think over this offer?’ asked she. + +‘Would you like candles, miss?’ asked a maid-servant, of whose presence +there neither of the others had been aware. + +‘No, nor are you wanted,’ said Nina haughtily, as she arose; while it was +not without some difficulty she withdrew her hand from the sick man’s +grasp. + +‘I know,’ said he falteringly, ‘you would not leave me if you had not left +hope to keep me company in your absence. Is not that so, Kate?’ + +‘Bye-bye,’ said she softly, and stole away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV + +AN ANGRY COLLOQUY + + +It was with passionate eagerness Nina set off in search of Kate. Why she +should have felt herself wronged, outraged, insulted even, is not so easy +to say, nor shall I attempt any analysis of the complex web of sentiments +which, so to say, spread itself over her faculties. The man who had so +wounded her self-love had been at her feet, he had followed her in her +walks, hung over the piano as she sang--shown by a thousand signs that sort +of devotion by which men intimate that their lives have but one solace, one +ecstasy, one joy. By what treachery had he been moved to all this, if he +really loved another? That he was simply amusing himself with the sort +of flirtation she herself could take up as a mere pastime was not to be +believed. That the worshipper should be insincere in his worship was too +dreadful to think of. And yet it was to this very man she had once turned +to avenge herself on Walpole’s treatment of her; she had even said, ‘Could +you not make a quarrel with him?’ Now, no woman of foreign breeding puts +such a question without the perfect consciousness that, in accepting a +man’s championship, she has virtually admitted his devotion. Her own levity +of character, the thoughtless indifference with which she would sport with +any man’s affections, so far from inducing her to palliate such caprices, +made her more severe and unforgiving. ‘How shall I punish him for this? How +shall I make him remember whom it is he has insulted?’ repeated she over +and over to herself as she went. + +The servants passed her on the stairs with trunks and luggage of various +kinds; but she was too much engrossed with her own thoughts to notice them. +Suddenly the words, ‘Mr. Walpole’s room,’ caught her ear, and she asked, +‘Has any one come?’ + +Yes, two gentlemen had just arrived. A third was to come that night, and +Miss O’Shea might be expected at any moment. + +‘Where was Miss Kate?’ she inquired. + +‘In her own room at the top of the house.’ + +Thither she hastened at once. + +‘Be a dear good girl,’ cried Kate as Nina entered, ‘and help me in my many +embarrassments. Here are a flood of visitors all coming unexpectedly. Major +Lockwood and Mr. Walpole have come. Miss Betty will be here for dinner, and +Mr. Atlee, whom we all believed to be in Asia, may arrive to-night. I shall +be able to feed them; but how to lodge them with any pretension to comfort +is more than I can see.’ + +‘I am in little humour to aid any one. I have my own troubles--worse ones, +perhaps, than playing hostess to disconsolate travellers.’ + +‘And what are your troubles, dear Nina?’ + +‘I have half a mind not to tell you. You ask me with that supercilious air +that seems to say, “How can a creature like you be of interest enough to +any one or anything to have a difficulty?”’ + +‘I force no confidences,’ said the other coldly. + +‘For that reason you shall have them--at least this one. What will you +say when I tell you that young O’Shea has made me a declaration, a formal +declaration of love?’ + +‘I should say that you need not speak of it as an insult or an offence.’ + +‘Indeed! and if so, you would say what was perfectly wrong. It was both +insult and offence--yes, both. Do you know that the man mistook me for +_you_, and called me _Kate_?’ + +‘How could this be possible?’ + +‘In a darkened room, with a sick man slowly rallying from a long attack +of stupor; nothing of me to be seen but my hand, which he devoured with +kisses--raptures, indeed, Kate, of which I had no conception till I +experienced them by counterfeit!’ + +‘Oh! Nina, this is not fair!’ + +‘It is true, child. The man caught my hand and declared he would never quit +it till I promised it should be his own. Nor was he content with this; but, +anticipating his right to be lord and master, he bade you to beware of +_me_! “Beware of that Greek girl!” were his words--words strengthened by +what he said of my character and my temperament. I shall spare you, and I +shall spare myself, his acute comments on the nature he dreaded to see in +companionship with his wife. I have had good training in learning these +unbiassed judgments--my early life abounded in such experiences--but this +young gentleman’s cautions were candour itself.’ + +‘I am sincerely sorry for what has pained you.’ + +‘I did not say it was this boy’s foolish words had wounded me so acutely. I +could bear sterner critics than he is--his very blundering misconception of +me would always plead his pardon. How could he, or how could they with whom +he lived and talked, and smoked and swaggered, know of me, or such as me? +What could there be in the monotonous vulgarity of their tiresome lives +that should teach them what we are, or what we wish to be? By what +presumption did he dare to condemn all that he could not understand?’ + +‘You are angry, Nina; and I will not say without some cause.’ + +‘What ineffable generosity! You can really constrain yourself to believe +that I have been insulted!’ + +‘I should not say insulted.’ + +‘You cannot be an honest judge in such a cause. Every outrage offered to +_me_ was an act of homage to _yourself_! If you but knew how I burned to +tell him who it was whose hand he held in his, and to whose ears he had +poured out his raptures! To tell him, too, how the Greek girl would have +resented his presumption, had he but dared to indulge it! One of the +women-servants, it would seem, was a witness to this boy’s declaration. +I think it was Mary was in the room, I do not know for how long, but she +announced her presence by asking some question about candles. In fact, I +shall have become a servants’-hall scandal by this time.’ + +‘There need not be any fear of that, Nina: there are no bad tongues amongst +our people.’ + +‘I know all that. I know we live amidst human perfectabilities--all of +Irish manufacture, and warranted to be genuine.’ + +‘I would hope that some of your impressions of Ireland are not +unfavourable?’ + +‘I scarcely know. I suppose you understand each other, and are tolerant +about capricious moods and ways, which, to strangers, might seem to have a +deeper significance. I believe you are not as hasty, or as violent, or +as rash as you seem, and I am sure you are not as impulsive in your +generosity, or as headlong in your affections. Not exactly that you mean to +be false, but you are hypocrites to yourselves.’ + +‘A very flattering picture of us.’ + +‘I do not mean to flatter you; and it is to this end I say, you are +Italians without the subtlety of the Italian, and Greeks without their +genius.--You need not curtsy so profoundly.--I could say worse than this, +Kate, if I were minded to do so.’ + +‘Pray do not be so minded, then. Pray remember that, even when you wound +me, I cannot return the thrust.’ + +‘I know what you mean,’ cried Nina rapidly. ‘You are veritable Arabs in +your estimate of hospitality, and he who has eaten your salt is sacred.’ + +‘You remind me of what I had nigh forgotten, Nina--of our coming guests.’ + +‘Do you know why Walpole and his friend are coming?’ + +‘They are already come, Nina--they are out walking with papa; but what has +brought them here I cannot guess, and, since I have heard your description +of Ireland, I cannot imagine.’ + +‘Nor can I,’ said she indolently, and moved away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXV + +MATHEW KEARNEY’S REFLECTIONS + + +To have his house full of company, to see his table crowded with guests, +was nearer perfect happiness than anything Kearney knew; and when he set +out, the morning after the arrival of the strangers, to show Major Lockwood +where he would find a brace of woodcocks, the old man was in such spirits +as he had not known for years. + +‘Why don’t your friend Walpole come with us?’ asked he of his companion, as +they trudged across the bog. + +‘I believe I can guess,’ mumbled out the other; ‘but I’m not quite sure I +ought to tell.’ + +‘I see,’ said Kearney, with a knowing leer; ‘he’s afraid I’ll roast him +about that unlucky despatch he wrote. He thinks I’ll give him no peace +about that bit of stupidity; for you see, major, it _was_ stupid, and +nothing less. Of all the things we despise in Ireland, take my word for +it, there is nothing we think so little of as a weak Government. We can +stand up strong and bold against hard usage, and we gain self-respect by +resistance; but when you come down to conciliations and what you call +healing measures, we feel as if you were going to humbug us, and there +is not a devilment comes into our heads we would not do, just to see how +you’ll bear it; and it’s then your London newspapers cry out: “What’s the +use of doing anything for Ireland? We pulled down the Church, and we robbed +the landlords, and we’re now going to back Cardinal Cullen for them, and +there they are murthering away as bad as ever.”’ + +‘Is it not true?’ asked the major. + +‘And whose fault if it _is_ true? Who has broke down the laws in Ireland +but yourselves? We Irish never said that many things _you_ called crimes +were bad in morals, and when it occurs to you now to doubt if they are +crimes, I’d like to ask you, why wouldn’t _we_ do them? You won’t give us +our independence, and so we’ll fight for it; and though, maybe, we can’t +lick you, we’ll make your life so uncomfortable to you, keeping us down, +that you’ll beg a compromise--a healing measure, you’ll call it--just as +when I won’t give Tim Sullivan a lease, he takes a shot at me; and as I +reckon the holes in my hat, I think better of it, and take a pound or two +off his rent.’ + +‘So that, in fact, you court the policy of conciliation?’ + +‘Only because I’m weak, major--because I’m weak, and that I must live +in the neighbourhood. If I could pass my days out of the range of Tim’s +carbine, I wouldn’t reduce him a shilling.’ + +‘I can make nothing of Ireland or Irishmen either.’ + +‘Why would you? God help us! we are poor enough and wretched enough; but +we’re not come down to that yet that a major of dragoons can read us like +big print.’ + +‘So far as I see you wish for a strong despotism.’ + +‘In one way it would suit us well. Do you see, major, what a weak +administration and uncertain laws do? They set every man in Ireland about +righting himself by his own hand. If I know I shall be starved when I am +turned out of my holding, I’m not at all so sure I’ll be hanged if I shoot +my landlord. Make me as certain of the one as the other, and I’ll not shoot +him.’ + +‘I believe I understand you.’ + +‘No, you don’t, nor any Cockney among you.’ + +‘I’m not a Cockney.’ + +‘I don’t care, you’re the same: you’re not one of us; nor if you spent +fifty years among us, would you understand us.’ + +‘Come over and see me in Berkshire, Kearney, and let me see if you can read +our people much better.’ + +‘From all I hear, there’s not much to read. Your chawbacon isn’t as cute a +fellow as Pat.’ + +‘He’s easier to live with.’ + +‘Maybe so; but I wouldn’t care for a life with such people about me. I like +human nature, and human feelings--ay, human passions, if you must call them +so. I want to know--I can make some people love me, though I well know +there must be others will hate me. You’re all for tranquillity all over in +England--a quiet life you call it. I like to live without knowing what’s +coming, and to feel all the time that I know enough of the game to be able +to play it as well as my neighbours. Do you follow me now, major?’ + +‘I’m not quite certain I do.’ + +‘No--but I’m quite certain you don’t; and, indeed, I wonder at myself +talking to you about these things at all.’ + +‘I’m much gratified that you do so. In fact, Kearney, you give me courage +to speak a little about myself and my own affairs; and, if you will allow +me, to ask your advice.’ + +This was an unusually long speech for the major, and he actually seemed +fatigued when he concluded. He was, however, consoled for his exertions by +seeing what pleasure his words had conferred on Kearney; and with what +racy self-satisfaction, that gentleman heard himself mentioned as a ‘wise +opinion.’ + +‘I believe I do know a little of life, major,’ said he sententiously. ‘As +old Giles Dackson used to say, “Get Mathew Kearney to tell you what he +thinks of it.” You knew Giles?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Well, you’ve heard of him? No! not even that. There’s another proof of +what I was saying--we’re two people, the English and the Irish. If it +wasn’t so, you’d be no stranger to the sayings and doings of one of the +cutest men that ever lived.’ + +‘We have witty fellows too.’ + +‘No, you haven’t! Do you call your House of Commons’ jokes wit? Are +the stories you tell at your hustings’ speeches wit? Is there one over +there’--and he pointed in the direction of England--‘that ever made a smart +repartee or a brilliant answer to any one about anything? You now and then +tell an Irish story, and you forget the point; or you quote a French _mot_, +and leave out the epigram. Don’t be angry--it’s truth I’m telling you.’ + +‘I’m not angry, though I must say I don’t think you are fair to us.’ + +The last bit of brilliancy you had in the House was Brinsley Sheridan, and +there wasn’t much English about _him_.’ + +‘I’ve never heard that the famous O’Connell used to convulse the House with +his drollery.’ + +‘Why should he? Didn’t he know where he was? Do you imagine that O’Connell +was going to do like poor Lord Killeen, who shipped a cargo of coalscuttles +to Africa?’ + +‘Will you explain to me then how, if you are so much shrewder and wittier +and cleverer than us, it does not make you richer, more prosperous, and +more contented?’ + +‘I could do that too--but I’m losing the birds. There’s a cock now. Well +done! I see you can shoot a bit.--Look here, major, there’s a deal in +race--in the blood of a people. It’s very hard to make a light-hearted, +joyous people thrifty. It’s your sullen fellow, that never cuts a joke, nor +wants any one to laugh at it, that’s the man who saves. If you’re a wit, +you want an audience, and the best audience is round a dinner-table; and +we know what that costs. Now, Ireland has been very pleasant for the last +hundred and fifty years in that fashion, and you, and scores of other +low-spirited, depressed fellows, come over here to pluck up and rouse +yourselves, and you go home, and you wonder why the people who amused you +were not always as jolly as you saw them. I’ve known this country now nigh +sixty years, and I never knew a turn of prosperity that didn’t make us +stupid; and, upon my conscience, I believe, if we ever begin to grow rich, +we’ll not be a bit better than yourselves.’ + +‘That would be very dreadful,’ said the other, in mock-horror. + +‘So it would, whether you mean it or not.--There’s a hare missed this +time!’ + +‘I was thinking of something I wanted to ask you. The fact is, Kearney, I +have a thing on my mind now.’ + +‘Is it a duel? It’s many a day since I was out, but I used to know every +step of the way as well as most men.’ + +‘No, it’s not a duel!’ + +‘It’s money, then! Bother it for money! What a deal of bad blood it leads +to. Tell me all about it, and I’ll see if I can’t deal with it.’ + +‘No, it’s not money; it has nothing to do with money. I’m not hard up. I +was never less so.’ + +‘Indeed!’ cried Kearney, staring at him. + +‘Why, what do you mean by that?’ + +‘I was curious to see how a man looks, and I’d like to know how he feels, +that didn’t want money. I can no more understand it than if a man told me +he didn’t want air.’ + +‘If he had enough to breathe freely, could he need more?’ + +‘That would depend on the size of his lungs, and I believe mine are pretty +big. But come now, if there’s nobody you want to shoot, and you have a good +balance at the banker’s, what can ail you, except it’s a girl you want to +marry, and she won’t have you?’ + +‘Well, there is a lady in the case.’ + +‘Ay, ay! she’s a married woman,’ cried Kearney, closing one eye, and +looking intensely cunning. ‘Then I may tell you at once, major, I’m no use +to you whatever. If it was a young girl that liked you against the wish +of her family, or that you were in love with though she was below you in +condition, or that was promised to another man but wanted to get out of her +bargain, I’m good for any of these, or scores more of the same kind; but if +it’s mischief, and misery, and lifelong sorrow you have in your head, you +must look out for another adviser.’ + +‘It’s nothing of the kind,’ said the other bluntly. ‘It’s marriage I was +thinking of. I want to settle down and have a wife.’ + +‘Then why couldn’t you, if you think it would be any comfort to you?’ + +The last words were rather uttered than spoken, and sounded like a sad +reflection uttered aloud. + +‘I am not a rich man,’ said the major, with that strain it always cost +him to speak of himself, ‘but I have got enough to live on. A goodish +old house, and a small estate, underlet as it is, bringing me about two +thousand a year, and some expectations, as they call them, from an old +grand-aunt.’ + +‘You have enough, if you marry a prudent girl,’ muttered Kearney, who was +never happier than when advocating moderation and discretion. + +‘Enough, at least, not to look for money with a wife.’ + +‘I’m with you there, heart and soul,’ cried Kearney. ‘Of all the shabby +inventions of our civilisation, I don’t know one as mean as that custom +of giving a marriage-portion with a girl. Is it to induce a man to take +her? Is it to pay for her board and lodging? Is it because marriage is a +partnership, and she must bring her share into the “concern”? or is it to +provide for the day when they are to part company, and each go his own +road? Take it how you like, it’s bad and it’s shabby. If you’re rich enough +to give your daughter twenty or thirty thousand pounds, wait for some +little family festival--her birthday, or her husband’s birthday, or a +Christmas gathering, or maybe a christening--and put the notes in her +hand. Oh, major dear,’ cried he aloud, ‘if you knew how much of life you +lose with lawyers, and what a deal of bad blood comes into the world by +parchments, you’d see the wisdom of trusting more to human kindness and +good feeling, and above all, to the honour of gentlemen--things that +nowadays we always hope to secure by Act of Parliament.’ + +‘I go with a great deal of what you say.’ + +‘Why not with all of it? What do we gain by trying to overreach each other? +What advantage in a system where it’s always the rogue that wins? If I was +a king to-morrow, I’d rather fine a fellow for quoting Blackstone than +for blasphemy, and I’d distribute all the law libraries in the kingdom as +cheap fuel for the poor. We pray for peace and quietness, and we educate a +special class of people to keep us always wrangling. Where’s the sense of +that?’ + +While Kearney poured out these words in a flow of fervid conviction, they +had arrived at a little open space in the wood, from which various alleys +led off in different directions. Along one of these, two figures were +slowly moving side by side, whom Lockwood quickly recognised as Walpole and +Nina Kostalergi. Kearney did not see them, for his attention was suddenly +called off by a shout from a distance, and his son Dick rode hastily up to +the spot. + +‘I have been in search of you all through the plantation,’ cried he. ‘I +have brought back Holmes the lawyer from Tullamore, who wants to talk to +you about this affair of Gorman’s. It’s going to be a bad business, I +fear.’ + +‘Isn’t that more of what I was saying?’ said the old man, turning to the +major. ‘There’s law for you!’ + +‘They’re making what they call a “National” event of it,’ continued Dick. +‘The _Pike_ has opened a column of subscriptions to defray the cost of +proceedings, and they’ve engaged Battersby with a hundred-guinea retainer +already.’ + +It appeared from what tidings Dick brought back from the town, that the +Nationalists--to give them the much unmerited name by which they called +themselves--were determined to show how they could dictate to a jury. + +‘There’s law for you!’ cried the old man again. + +‘You’ll have to take to vigilance committees, like the Yankees,’ said the +major. + +‘We’ve had them for years; but they only shoot their political opponents.’ + +‘They say, too,’ broke in the young man, ‘that Donogan is in the town, and +that it is he who has organised the whole prosecution. In fact, he intends +to make Battersby’s speech for the plaintiff a great declaration of the +wrongs of Ireland; and as Battersby hates the Chief Baron, who will try +the cause, he is determined to insult the Bench, even at the cost of a +commitment.’ + +‘What will he gain by that?’ asked Lockwood. + +‘Every one cannot have a father that was hanged in ‘98; but any one can go +to gaol for blackguarding a Chief-Justice,’ said Kearney. + +For a moment or two the old man seemed ashamed at having been led to make +these confessions to ‘the Saxon,’ and telling Lockwood where he would +be likely to find a brace of cocks, he took his son’s arm and returned +homeward. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVI + +VERY CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION + + +When Lockwood returned, only in time to dress for dinner, Walpole, whose +room adjoined his, threw open the door between them and entered. He had +just accomplished a most careful ‘tie,’ and came in with the air of one +fairly self-satisfied and happy. + +‘You look quite triumphant this evening,’ said the major, half sulkily. + +‘So I am, old fellow; and so I have a right to be. It’s all done and +settled.’ + +‘Already?’ + +‘Ay, already. I asked her to take a stroll with me in the garden; but we +sauntered off into the plantation. A woman always understands the exact +amount of meaning a man has in a request of this kind, and her instinct +reveals to her at once whether he is eager to tell her some bit of fatal +scandal of one of her own friends, or to make her a declaration.’ + +A sort of sulky grunt was Lockwood’s acknowledgment of this piece of +abstract wisdom--a sort of knowledge he never listened to with much +patience. + +‘I am aware,’ said Walpole flippantly, ‘the female nature was an omitted +part in your education, Lockwood, and you take small interest in those nice +distinctive traits which, to a man of the world, are exactly what the stars +are to the mariner.’ + +‘Finding out what a woman means by the stars does seem very poor fun.’ + +‘Perhaps you prefer the moon for your observation,’ replied Walpole; and +the easy impertinence of his manner was almost too much for the other’s +patience. + +‘I don’t care for your speculations--I want to hear what passed between you +and the Greek girl.’ + +‘The Greek girl will in a very few days be Mrs. Walpole, and I shall crave +a little more deference for the mention of her.’ + +‘I forgot her name, or I should not have called her with such freedom! What +is it?’ + +‘Kostalergi. Her father is Kostalergi, Prince of Delos.’ + +‘All right; it will read well in the _Post_.’ + +‘My dear friend, there is that amount of sarcasm in your conversation this +evening, that to a plain man like myself, never ready to reply, and easily +subdued by ridicule, is positively overwhelming. Has any disaster befallen +you that you are become so satirical and severe?’ + +‘Never mind _me_--tell me about yourself,’ was the blunt reply. + +‘I have not the slightest objection. When we had walked a little way +together, and I felt that we were beyond the risk of interruption, I led +her to the subject of my sudden reappearance here, and implied that she, +at least, could not have felt much surprise. “You remember,” said I, “I +promised to return?” + +‘“There is something so conventional,” said she, “in these pledges, that +one comes to read them like the ‘yours sincerely’ at the foot of a letter.” + +‘“I ask for nothing better,” said I, taking her up on her own words, “than +to be ‘yours sincerely.’ It is to ratify that pledge by making you ‘mine +sincerely’ that I am here.” + +‘“Indeed!” said she slowly, and looking down. + +‘“I swear it!” said I, kissing her hand, which, however, had a glove on.’ + +‘Why not her cheek?’ + +‘That is not done, major mine, at such times.’ + +‘Well, go on.’ + +‘I can’t recall the exact words, for I spoke rapidly; but I told her I was +named Minister at a foreign Court, that my future career was assured, and +that I was able to offer her a station, not, indeed, equal to her deserts, +but that, occupied by her, would be only less than royal.’ + +‘At Guatemala!’ exclaimed the other derisively. + +‘Have the kindness to keep your geography to yourself,’ said Walpole. ‘I +merely said in South America, and she had too much delicacy to ask more.’ + +‘But she said Yes? She consented?’ + +‘Yes, sir, she said she would venture to commit her future to my charge.’ + +‘Didn’t she ask you what means you had? what was your income?’ + +‘Not exactly in the categorical way you put it, but she alluded to the +possible style we should live in.’ + +‘I’ll swear she did. That girl asked you, in plain words, how many hundreds +or thousands you had a year?’ + +‘And I told her. I said, “It sounds humbly, dearest, to tell you we shall +not have fully two thousand a year; but the place we are going to is the +cheapest in the universe, and we shall have a small establishment of not +more than forty black and about a dozen white servants, and at first only +keep twenty horses, taking our carriages on job.”’ + +‘What about pin-money?’ + +‘There is not much extravagance in toilet, and so I said she must manage +with a thousand a year.’ + +‘And she didn’t laugh in your face?’ + +‘No, sir! nor was there any strain upon her good-breeding to induce her to +laugh in my face.’ + +‘At all events, you discussed the matter in a fine practical spirit. Did +you go into groceries? I hope you did not forget groceries?’ + +‘My dear Lockwood, let me warn you against being droll. You ask me for a +correct narrative, and when I give it, you will not restrain that subtle +sarcasm the mastery of which makes you unassailable.’ + +‘When is it to be? When is it to come off? Has she to write to His Serene +Highness the Prince of What’s-his-name?’ + +‘No, the Prince of What’s-his-name need not be consulted; Lord Kilgobbin +will stand in the position of father to her.’ + +Lockwood muttered something, in which ‘Give her away!’ were the only words +audible. ‘I must say,’ added he aloud, ‘the wooing did not take long.’ + +‘You forget that there was an actual engagement between us when I left this +for London. My circumstances at that time did not permit me to ask her at +once to be my wife; but our affections were pledged, and--even if more +tender sentiments did not determine--my feeling, as a man of honour, +required I should come back here to make her this offer.’ + +‘All right; I suppose it will do--I hope it will do; and after all, I take +it, you are likely to understand each other better than others would.’ + +‘Such is our impression and belief.’ + +‘How will your own people--how will Danesbury like it?’ + +‘For their sakes I trust they will like it very much; for mine, it is less +than a matter of indifference to me.’ + +‘She, however--she will expect to be properly received amongst them?’ + +‘Yes,’ cried Walpole, speaking for the first time in a perfectly natural +tone, divested of all pomposity. ‘Yes, she stickles for that, Lockwood. It +was the one point she seemed to stand out for. Of course I told her she +would be received with open arms by my relatives--that my family would be +overjoyed to receive her as one of them. I only hinted that my lord’s gout +might prevent him from being at the wedding. I’m not sure Uncle Danesbury +would not come over. “And the charming Lady Maude,” asked she, “would she +honour me so far as to be a bridesmaid?”’ + +‘She didn’t say that?’ + +‘She did. She actually pushed me to promise I should ask her.’ + +‘Which you never would.’ + +‘Of that I will not affirm I am quite positive; but I certainly intend to +press my uncle for some sort of recognition of the marriage--a civil note; +better still, if it could be managed, an invitation to his house in town.’ + +‘You are a bold fellow to think of it.’ + +‘Not so bold as you imagine. Have you not often remarked that when a man of +good connections is about to exile himself by accepting a far-away post, +whether it be out of pure compassion or a feeling that it need never +be done again, and that they are about to see the last of him; but, +somehow--whatever the reason--his friends are marvellously civil and polite +to him, just as some benevolent but eccentric folk send a partridge to the +condemned felon for his last dinner.’ + +‘They do that in France.’ + +‘Here it would be a rumpsteak; but the sentiment is the same. At all +events, the thing is as I told you, and I do not despair of Danesbury.’ + +‘For the letter, perhaps not; but he’ll never ask you to Bruton Street, +nor, if he did, could you accept.’ + +‘You are thinking of Lady Maude.’ + +‘I am.’ + +‘There would be no difficulty in that quarter. When a Whig becomes Tory, or +a Tory Whig, the gentlemen of the party he has deserted never take umbrage +in the same way as the vulgar dogs below the gangway; so it is in the +world. The people who must meet, must dine together, sit side by side +at flower-shows and garden-parties, always manage to do their hatreds +decorously, and only pay off their dislikes by instalments. If Lady Maude +were to receive my wife at all, it would be with a most winning politeness. +All her malevolence would limit itself to making the supposed underbred +woman commit a _gaucherie_, to do or say something that ought not to have +been done or said; and, as I know Nina can stand the test, I have no fears +for the experiment.’ + +A knock at the door apprised them that the dinner was waiting, neither +having heard the bell which had summoned them a quarter of an hour before. +‘And I wanted to hear all about your progress,’ cried Walpole, as they +descended the staircase together. + +‘I have none to report,’ was the gruff reply. + +‘Why, surely you have not passed the whole day in Kearney’s company without +some hint of what you came here for?’ + +But at the same moment they were in the dining-room. + +‘We are a man party to-day, I am sorry to say,’ cried old Kearney, as +they entered. ‘My niece and my daughter are keeping Miss O’Shea company +upstairs. She is not well enough to come down to dinner, and they have +scruples about leaving her in solitude.’ + +‘At least we’ll have a cigar after dinner,’ was Dick’s ungallant reflection +as they moved away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVII + +TWO YOUNG LADIES ON MATRIMONY + + +‘I hope they had a pleasanter dinner downstairs than we have had here,’ +said Nina, as, after wishing Miss O’Shea a good-night, the young girls +slowly mounted the stairs. + +‘Poor old godmother was too sad and too depressed to be cheerful company; +but did she not talk well and sensibly on the condition of the country? was +it not well said, when she showed the danger of all that legislation which, +assuming to establish right, only engenders disunion and class jealousy?’ + +‘I never followed her; I was thinking of something else.’ + +‘She was worth listening to, then. She knows the people well, and she sees +all the mischief of tampering with natures so imbued with distrust. The +Irishman is a gambler, and English law-makers are always exciting him to +play.’ + +‘It seems to me there is very little on the game.’ + +‘There is everything--home, family, subsistence, life itself--all that a +man can care for.’ + +‘Never mind these tiresome themes; come into my room; or I’ll go to yours, +for I’m sure you’ve a better fire; besides, I can walk away if you offend +me: I mean offend beyond endurance, for you are sure to say something +cutting.’ + +‘I hope you wrong me, Nina.’ + +‘Perhaps I do. Indeed, I half suspect I do; but the fact is, it is not your +words that reproach me, it is your whole life of usefulness is my reproach, +and the least syllable you utter comes charged with all the responsibility +of one who has a duty and does it, to a mere good-for-nothing. There, is +not that humility enough?’ + +‘More than enough, for it goes to flattery.’ + +‘I’m not a bit sure all the time that I’m not the more lovable creature of +the two. If you like, I’ll put it to the vote at breakfast.’ + +‘Oh, Nina!’ + +‘Very shocking, that’s the phrase for it, very shocking! Oh dear, what a +nice fire, and what a nice little snug room; how is it, will you tell me, +that though my room is much larger and better furnished in every way, your +room is always brighter and neater, and more like a little home? They fetch +you drier firewood, and they bring you flowers, wherever they get them. I +know well what devices of roguery they practise.’ + +‘Shall I give you tea?’ + +‘Of course I’ll have tea. I expect to be treated like a favoured guest in +all things, and I mean to take this arm-chair, and the nice soft cushion +for my feet, for I warn you, Kate, I’m here for two hours. I’ve an immense +deal to tell you, and I’ll not go till it’s told.’ + +‘I’ll not turn you out.’ + +‘I’ll take care of that; I have not lived in Ireland for nothing. I have +a proper sense of what is meant by possession, and I defy what your great +Minister calls a heartless eviction. Even your tea is nicer, it is more +fragrant than any one else’s. I begin to hate you out of sheer jealousy.’ + +‘That is about the last feeling I ought to inspire.’ + +‘More humility; but I’ll drop rudeness and tell you my story, for I have a +story to tell. Are you listening? Are you attentive? Well, my Mr. Walpole, +as you called him once, is about to become so in real earnest. I could have +made a long narrative of it and held you in weary suspense, but I prefer +to dash at once into the thick of the fray, and tell you that he has this +morning made me a formal proposal, and I have accepted him. Be pleased to +bear in mind that this is no case of a misconception or a mistake. No young +gentleman has been petting and kissing my hand for another’s; no tender +speeches have been uttered to the ears they were not meant for. I have been +wooed this time for myself, and on my own part I have said Yes.’ + +‘You told me you had accepted him already. I mean when he was here last.’ + +‘Yes, after a fashion. Don’t you know, child, that though lawyers maintain +that a promise to do a certain thing, to make a lease or some contract, has +in itself a binding significance, that in Cupid’s Court this is not law? +and the man knew perfectly that all passed between us hitherto had no +serious meaning, and bore no more real relation to marriage than an outpost +encounter to a battle. For all that has taken place up to this, we might +never fight--I mean marry--after all. The sages say that a girl should +never believe a man means marriage till he talks money to her. Now, Kate, +he talked money; and I believed him.’ + +‘I wish you would tell me of these things seriously, and without banter.’ + +‘So I do. Heaven knows I am in no jesting humour. It is in no outburst of +high spirits or gaiety a girl confesses she is going to marry a man who has +neither wealth nor station to offer, and whose fine connections are just +fine enough to be ashamed of him.’ + +‘Are you in love with him?’ + +‘If you mean, do I imagine that this man’s affection and this man’s +companionship are more to me than all the comforts and luxuries of life +with another, I am not in love with him; but if you ask me, am I satisfied +to risk my future with so much as I know of his temper, his tastes, his +breeding, his habits, and his abilities, I incline to say Yes. Married +life, Kate, is a sort of dietary, and one should remember that what he has +to eat of every day ought not to be too appetising.’ + +‘I abhor your theory.’ + +‘Of course you do, child; and you fancy, naturally enough, that you would +like ortolans every day for dinner; but my poor cold Greek temperament has +none of the romantic warmth of your Celtic nature. I am very moderate in my +hopes, very humble in all my ambitions.’ + +‘It is not thus I read you.’ + +‘Very probably. At all events, I have consented to be Mr. Walpole’s wife, +and we are to be Minister Plenipotentiary and Special Envoy somewhere. It +is not Bolivia, nor the Argentine Republic, but some other fabulous region, +where the only fact is yellow fever.’ + +‘And you really like him?’ + +‘I hope so, for evidently it must be on love we shall have to live, one +half of our income being devoted to saddle-horses and the other to my +toilet.’ + +‘How absurd you are!’ + +‘No, not I. It is Mr. Walpole himself, who, not trusting much to my skill +at arithmetic, sketched out this schedule of expenditure; and then I +bethought me how simple this man must deem me. It was a flattery that won +me at once. Oh! Kate dearest, if you could understand the ecstasy of being +thought, not a fool, but one easily duped, easily deceived!’ + +‘I don’t know what you mean.’ + +‘It is this, then, that to have a man’s whole heart--whether it be worth +the having is another and a different question--you must impress him with +his immense superiority in everything--that he is not merely physically +stronger than you, and bolder and more courageous, but that he is mentally +more vigorous and more able, judges better, decides quicker, resolves more +fully than you; and that, struggle how you will, you pass your life in +eternally looking up to this wonderful god, who vouchsafes now and then to +caress you, and even say tender things to you.’ + +‘Is it, Nina, that you have made a study of these things, or is all this +mere imagination?’ + +‘Most innocent young lady! I no more dreamed of these things to apply +to such men as your country furnishes--good, homely, commonplace +creatures--than I should have thought of asking you to adopt French cookery +to feed them. I spoke of such men as one meets in what I may call the real +world: as for the others, if they feel life to be a stage, they are always +going about in slipshod fashion, as if at rehearsal. Men like your brother +and young O’Shea, for instance--tossed here and there by accidents, made +one thing by a chance, and something else by a misfortune. Take my word for +it, the events of life are very vulgar things; the passions and emotions +they evoke, _these_ constitute the high stimulants of existence, they make +the _gross jeu_, which it is so exciting to play.’ + +‘I follow you with some difficulty; but I am rude enough to own I scarcely +regret it.’ + +‘I know, I know all about that sweet innocence that fancies to ignore +anything is to obliterate it; but it’s a fool’s paradise, after all, Kate. +We are in the world, and we must accept it as it is made for us.’ + +‘I’ll not ask, does your theory make you better, but does it make you +happier?’ + +‘If being duped were an element of bliss, I should say certainly not +happier, but I doubt the blissful ignorance of your great moralist. I +incline to believe that the better you play any game--life amongst the +rest--the higher the pleasure it yields. I can afford to marry, without +believing my husband to be a paragon--could _you_ do as much?’ + +‘I should like to know that I preferred him to any one else.’ + +‘So should I, and I would only desire to add “to every one else that asked +me.” Tell the truth, Kate dearest, we are here all alone, and can afford +sincerity. How many of us girls marry the man we should like to marry, +and if the game were reversed, and it were to be _we_ who should make the +choice--the slave pick out his master--how many, think you, would be wedded +to their present mates?’ + +‘So long as we can refuse him we do not like, I cannot think our case a +hard one.’ + +‘Neither should I if I could stand fast at three-and-twenty. The dread +of that change of heart and feeling that will come, must come, ten years +later, drives one to compromise with happiness, and take a part of what you +once aspired to the whole.’ + +‘You used to think very highly of Mr. Walpole; admired, and I suspect you +liked him.’ + +‘All true--my opinion is the same still. He will stand the great test that +one can go into the world with him and not be ashamed of him. I know, +dearest, even without that shake of the head, the small value you attach +to this, but it is a great element in that droll contract, by which one +person agrees to pit his temper against another’s, and which we are told +is made in heaven, with angels as sponsors. Mr. Walpole is sufficiently +good-looking to be prepossessing, he is well bred, very courteous, +converses extremely well, knows his exact place in life, and takes it +quietly but firmly. All these are of value to his wife, and it is not easy +to over-rate them.’ + +‘Is that enough?’ + +‘Enough for what? If you mean for romantic love, for the infatuation that +defies all change of sentiment, all growth of feeling, that revels in the +thought, experience will not make us wiser, nor daily associations less +admiring, it is not enough. I, however, am content to bid for a much +humbler lot. I want a husband who, if he cannot give me a brilliant +station, will at least secure me a good position in life, a reasonable +share of vulgar comforts, some luxuries, and the ordinary routine of what +are called pleasures. If, in affording me these, he will vouchsafe to add +good temper, and not high spirits--which are detestable--but fair spirits, +I think I can promise him, not that I shall make him happy, but that he +will make himself so, and it will afford me much gratification to see it.’ + +‘Is this real, or--’ + +‘Or what? Say what was on your lips.’ + +‘Or are you utterly heartless?’ cried Kate, with an effort that covered her +face with blushes. + +‘I don’t think I am,’ said she oddly and calmly; ‘but all I have seen of +life teaches me that every betrayal of a feeling or a sentiment is like +what gamblers call showing your hand, and is sure to be taken advantage of +by the other players. It’s an ugly illustration, dear Kate, but in the same +round game we call life there is so much cheating that if you cannot afford +to be pillaged, you must be prudent.’ + +‘I am glad to feel that I can believe you to be much better than you make +yourself.’ + +‘Do so, and as long as you can.’ + +There was a pause of several moments after this, each apparently following +out her own thoughts. + +‘By the way,’ cried Nina suddenly, ‘did I tell you that Mary wished me joy +this morning. She had overheard Mr. Gorman’s declaration, and believed he +had asked me to be his wife.’ + +‘How absurd!’ said Kate, and there was anger as well as shame in her look +as she said it. + +‘Of course it was absurd. She evidently never suspected to whom she was +speaking, and then--’ She stopped, for a quick glance at Kate’s face warned +her of the peril she was grazing. ‘I told the girl she was a fool, and +forbade her to speak of the matter to any one.’ + +‘It is a servants’-hall story already,’ said Kate quietly. + +‘Do you care for that?’ + +‘Not much; three days will see the end of it.’ + +‘I declare, in your own homely way, I believe you are the wiser of the two +of us.’ + +‘My common sense is of the very commonest,’ said Kate, laughing; ‘there is +nothing subtle nor even neat about it.’ + +‘Let us see that! Give me a counsel or, rather, say if you agree with me. I +have asked Mr. Walpole to show me how his family accept my entrance amongst +them; with what grace they receive me as a relative. One of his cousins +called me the Greek girl, and in my own hearing. It is not, then, +over-caution on my part to inquire how they mean to regard me. Tell me, +however, Kate, how far you concur with me in this. I should like much to +hear how your good sense regards the question. Should you have done as I +have?’ + +‘Answer me first one question. If you should learn that these great folks +would not welcome you amongst them, would you still consent to marry Mr. +Walpole?’ + +‘I’m not sure, I am not quite certain, but I almost believe I should.’ + +‘I have, then, no counsel to give you,’ said Kate firmly. ‘Two people who +see the same object differently cannot discuss its proportions.’ + +‘I see my blunder,’ cried Nina impetuously. ‘I put my question stupidly. I +should have said, “If a girl has won a man’s affections and given him her +own--if she feels her heart has no other home than in his keeping--that she +lives for him and by him--should she be deterred from joining her fortunes +to his because he has some fine connections who would like to see him marry +more advantageously?”’ It needed not the saucy curl of her lip as she spoke +to declare how every word was uttered in sarcasm. ‘Why will you not answer +me?’ cried she at length; and her eyes shot glances of fiery impatience as +she said it. + +‘Our distinguished friend Mr. Atlee is to arrive to-morrow, Dick tells me,’ +said Kate, with the calm tone of one who would not permit herself to be +ruffled. + +‘Indeed! If your remark has any _apropos_ at all, it must mean that in +marrying such a man as he is, one might escape all the difficulties of +family coldness, and I protest, as I think of it, the matter has its +advantages.’ + +A faint smile was all Kate’s answer. + +‘I cannot make you angry; I have done my best, and it has failed. I am +utterly discomfited, and I’ll go to bed.’ + +‘Good-night,’ said Kate, as she held out her hand. + +‘I wonder is it nice to have this angelic temperament---to be always right +in one’s judgments, and never carried away by passion? I half suspect +perfection does not mean perfect happiness.’ + +‘You shall tell me when you are married,’ said Kate, with a laugh; and Nina +darted a flashing glance towards her, and swept out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVIII + +A MISERABLE MORNING + + +It was not without considerable heart-sinking and misgiving that old +Kearney heard it was Miss Betty O’Shea’s desire to have some conversation +with him after breakfast. He was, indeed, reassured, to a certain extent, +by his daughter telling him that the old lady was excessively weak, and +that her cough was almost incessant, and that she spoke with extreme +difficulty. All the comfort that these assurances gave him was dashed by a +settled conviction of Miss Betty’s subtlety. ‘She’s like one of the wild +foxes they have in Crim Tartary; and when you think they are dead, they’re +up and at you before you can look round.’ He affirmed no more than the +truth when he said that ‘he’d rather walk barefoot to Kilbeggan than go up +that stair to see her.’ + +There was a strange conflict in his mind all this time between these +ignoble fears and the efforts he was making to seem considerate and gentle +by Kate’s assurance that a cruel word, or even a harsh tone, would be sure +to kill her. ‘You’ll have to be very careful, papa dearest,’ she said. ‘Her +nerves are completely shattered, and every respiration seems as if it would +be the last.’ + +Mistrust was, however, so strong in him, that he would have employed any +subterfuge to avoid the interview; but the Rev. Luke Delany, who had +arrived to give her ‘the consolations,’ as he briefly phrased it, insisted +on Kearney’s attending to receive the old lady’s forgiveness before she +died. + +‘Upon my conscience,’ muttered Kearney, ‘I was always under the belief it +was I was injured; but, as the priest says, “it’s only on one’s death-bed +he sees things clearly.”’ + +As Kearney groped his way through the darkened room, shocked at his own +creaking shoes, and painfully convinced that he was somehow deficient in +delicacy, a low, faint cough guided him to the sofa where Miss O’Shea lay. +‘Is that Mathew Kearney?’ said she feebly. ‘I think I know his foot.’ + +‘Yes indeed, bad luck to them for shoes. Wherever Davy Morris gets the +leather I don’t know, but it’s as loud as a barrel-organ.’ + +‘Maybe they re cheap, Mathew. One puts up with many a thing for a little +cheapness.’ + +‘That’s the first shot!’ muttered Kearney to himself, while he gave a +little cough to avoid reply. + +‘Father Luke has been telling me, Mathew, that before I go this long +journey I ought to take care to settle any little matter here that’s on my +mind. “If there’s anybody you bear an ill will to,” says he; “if there’s +any one has wronged you,” says he, “told lies of you, or done you any +bodily harm, send for him,” says he, “and let him hear your forgiveness +out of your own mouth. I’ll take care afterwards,” says Father Luke, “that +he’ll have to settle the account with _me_; but _you_ mustn’t mind that. +You must be able to tell St. Joseph that you come with a clean breast and a +good conscience “: and that’s’--here she sighed heavily several times--‘and +that’s the reason I sent for you, Mathew Kearney!’ + +Poor Kearney sighed heavily over that category of misdoers with whom he +found himself classed, but he said nothing. + +‘I don’t want to say anything harsh to you, Mathew, nor have I strength to +listen, if you’d try to defend yourself; time is short with me now, but +this I must say, if I’m here now sick and sore, and if the poor boy in the +other room is lying down with his fractured head, it is you, and you alone, +have the blame.’ + +‘May the blessed Virgin give me patience!’ muttered he, as he wrung his +hands despairingly. + +‘I hope she will; and give you more, Mathew Kearney. I hope she’ll give you +a hearty repentance. I hope she’ll teach you that the few days that remain +to you in this life are short enough for contrition--ay--contrition and +castigation.’ + +‘Ain’t I getting it now,’ muttered he; but low as he spoke the words her +quick hearing had caught them. + +‘I hope you are; it is the last bit of friendship I can do you. You have +a hard, worldly, selfish nature, Mathew; you had it as a boy, and it grew +worse as you grew older. What many believed high spirits in you was nothing +else than the reckless devilment of a man that only thought of himself. +You could afford to be--at least to look--light-hearted, for you cared +for nobody. You squandered your little property, and you’d have made away +with the few acres that belonged to your ancestors, if the law would +have let you. As for the way you brought up your children, that lazy boy +below-stairs, that never did a hand’s turn, is proof enough, and poor +Kitty, just because she wasn’t like the rest of you, how she’s treated!’ + +‘How is that: what is my cruelty there?’ cried he. + +‘Don’t try to make yourself out worse than you are,’ said she sternly, ‘and +pretend that you don’t know the wrong you done her.’ + +‘May I never--if I understand what you mean.’ + +‘Maybe you thought it was no business of yours to provide for your own +child. Maybe you had a notion that it was enough that she had her food and +a roof over her while you were here, and that somehow--anyhow--she’d get +on, as they call it, when you were in the other place. Mathew Kearney, I’ll +say nothing so cruel to you as your own conscience is saying this minute; +or maybe, with that light heart that makes your friends so fond of you, +you never bothered yourself about her at all, and that’s the way it come +about.’ + +‘What came about? I want to know _that_.’ + +‘First and foremost, I don’t think the law will let you. I don’t believe +you can charge your estate against the entail. I have a note there to ask +McKeown’s opinion, and if I’m right, I’ll set apart a sum in my will to +contest it in the Queen’s Bench. I tell you this to your face, Mathew +Kearney, and I’m going where I can tell it to somebody better than a +hard-hearted, cruel old man.’ + +‘What is it that I want to do, and that the law won’t let me?’ asked he, in +the most imploring accents. + +‘At least twelve honest men will decide it.’ + +‘Decide what! in the name of the saints?’ cried he. + +‘Don’t be profane; don’t parade your unbelieving notions to a poor old +woman on her death-bed. You may want to leave your daughter a beggar, and +your son little better, but you have no right to disturb my last moments +with your terrible blasphemies.’ + +‘I’m fairly bothered now,’ cried he, as his two arms dropped powerlessly to +his sides. ‘So help me, if I know whether I’m awake or in a dream.’ + +‘It’s an excuse won’t serve you where you’ll be soon going, and I warn you, +don’t trust it.’ + +‘Have a little pity on me, Miss Betty, darling,’ said he, in his most +coaxing tone; ‘and tell me what it is I have done?’ + +‘You mean what you are trying to do; but what, please the Virgin, we’ll not +let you!’ + +‘What is _that_?’ + +‘And what, weak and ill, and dying as I am, I’ve strength enough left in me +to prevent, Mathew Kearney--and if you’ll give me that Bible there, I’ll +kiss it, and take my oath that, if he marries her, he’ll never put foot in +a house of mine, nor inherit an acre that belongs to me; and all that I’ll +leave in my will shall be my--well, I won’t say what, only it’s something +he’ll not have to pay a legacy duty on. Do you understand me now, or ain’t +I plain enough yet?’ + +‘No, not yet. You’ll have to make it clearer still.’ + +‘Faith, I must say you did not pick up much cuteness from your adopted +daughter.’ + +‘Who is she?’ + +‘The Greek hussy that you want to marry my nephew, and give a dowry to out +of the estate that belongs to your son. I know it all, Mathew. I wasn’t two +hours in the house before my old woman brought me the story from Mary. Ay, +stare if you like, but they all know it below-stairs, and a nice way you +are discussed in your own house! Getting a promise out of a poor boy in a +brain fever, making him give a pledge in his ravings! Won’t it tell well +in a court of justice, of a magistrate, a county gentleman, a Kearney of +Kilgobbin? Oh! Mathew, Mathew, I’m ashamed of you!’ + +‘Upon my oath, you’re making me ashamed of myself that I sit here and +listen to you,’ cried he, carried beyond all endurance. ‘Abusing, ay, +blackguarding me this last hour about a lying story that came from the +kitchen. It’s you that ought to be ashamed, old lady. Not, indeed, for +believing ill of an old friend--for that’s nature in you--but for not +having common sense, just common sense to guide you, and a little common +decency to warn you. Look now, there is not a word--there is not a syllable +of truth in the whole story. Nobody ever thought of your nephew asking +my niece to marry him; and if _he_ did, she wouldn’t have him. She looks +higher, and she has a right to look higher than to be the wife of an Irish +squireen.’ + +‘Go on, Mathew, go on. You waited for me to be as I am now before you had +courage for words like these.’ + +‘Well, I ask your pardon, and ask it in all humiliation and sorrow. My +temper--bad luck to it!--gets the better, or, maybe, it’s the worse, of me +at times, and I say fifty things that I know I don’t feel--just the way +sailors load a gun with anything in the heat of an action.’ + +‘I’m not in a condition to talk of sea-fights, Mr. Kearney, though I’m +obliged to you all the same for trying to amuse me. You’ll not think me +rude if I ask you to send Kate to me? And please to tell Father Luke that +I’ll not see him this morning. My nerves have been sorely tried. One word +before you go, Mathew Kearney; and have compassion enough not to answer me. +You may be a just man and an honest man, you may be fair in your dealings, +and all that your tenants say of you may be lies and calumnies, but to +insult a poor old woman on her death-bed is cruel and unfeeling; and I’ll +tell you more, Mathew, it’s cowardly and it’s--’ + +Kearney did not wait to hear what more it might be, for he was already at +the door, and rushed out as if he was escaping from a fire. + +‘I’m glad he’s better than they made him out,’ said Miss Betty to herself, +in a tone of calm soliloquy; ‘and he’ll not be worse for some of the +home truths I told him.’ And with this she drew on her silk mittens, and +arranged her cap composedly, while she waited for Kate’s arrival. + +As for poor Kearney, other troubles were awaiting him in his study, where +he found his son and Mr. Holmes, the lawyer, sitting before a table covered +with papers. ‘I have no head for business now,’ cried Kearney. ‘I don’t +feel over well to-day, and if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to put it +off till to-morrow.’ + +‘Mr. Holmes must leave for town, my lord,’ interposed Dick, in his most +insinuating tone, ‘and he only wants a few minutes with you before he +goes.’ + +‘And it’s just what he won’t get. I would not see the Lord-Lieutenant if he +was here now.’ + +‘The trial is fixed for Tuesday the 19th, my lord,’ cried Holmes,’ and +the National press has taken it up in such a way that we have no chance +whatever. The verdict will be “Guilty,” without leaving the box; and the +whole voice of public opinion will demand the very heaviest sentence the +law can pronounce.’ + +‘Think of that poor fellow O’Shea, just rising from a sick-bed,’ said Dick, +as his voice shook with agitation. + +‘They can’t hang him.’ + +‘No, for the scoundrel Gill is alive, and will be the chief witness on the +trial; but they may give him two years with prison labour, and if they do, +it will kill him.’ + +‘I don’t know that. I’ve seen more than one fellow come out fresh and +hearty after a spell. In fact, the plain diet, and the regular work, and +the steady habits, are wonderful things for a young man that has been +knocking about in a town life.’ + +‘Oh, father, don’t speak that way. I know Gorman well, and I can swear he’d +not survive it.’ + +Kearney shook his head doubtingly, and muttered, ‘There’s a great deal said +about wounded pride and injured feelings, but the truth is, these things +are like a bad colic, mighty hard to bear, if you like, but nobody ever +dies of it.’ + +‘From all I hear about young Mr. O’Shea,’ said Holmes, ‘I am led to believe +he will scarcely live through an imprisonment.’ + +‘To be sure! Why not? At three or four-and-twenty we’re all of us +high-spirited and sensitive and noble-hearted, and we die on the spot if +there’s a word against our honour. It is only after we cross the line in +life, wherever that be, that we become thick-skinned and hardened, and mind +nothing that does not touch our account at the bank. Sure I know the theory +well! Ay, and the only bit of truth in it all is, that we cry out louder +when we’re young, for we are not so well used to bad treatment.’ + +‘Right or wrong, no man likes to have the whole press of a nation assailing +him and all the sympathies of a people against him,’ said Holmes. + +‘And what can you and your brothers in wigs do against that? Will all your +little beguiling ways and insinuating tricks turn the _Pike_ and the _Irish +Cry_ from what sells their papers? Here it is now, Mr. Holmes, and I can’t +put it shorter. Every man that lives in Ireland knows in his heart he must +live in hot water; but somehow, though he may not like it, he gets used to +it, and he finds it does him no harm in the end. There was an uncle of my +own was in a passion for forty years, and he died at eighty-six.’ + +‘I wish I could only secure your attention, my lord, for ten minutes.’ + +‘And what would you do, counsellor, if you had it?’ + +‘You see, my lord, there are some very grave questions here. First of all, +you and your brother magistrates had no right to accept bail. The injury +was too grave: Gill’s life, as the doctor’s certificate will prove, was +in danger. It was for a judge in Chambers to decide whether bail could be +taken. They will move, therefore, in the Queen’s Bench, for a mandamus--’ + +‘May I never, if you won’t drive me mad!’ cried Kearney passionately; ‘and +I’d rather be picking oakum this minute than listening to all the possible +misfortunes briefs and lawyers could bring on me.’ + +‘Just listen to Holmes, father,’ whispered Dick. ‘He thinks that Gill might +be got over--that if done by _you_ with three or four hundred pounds, he’d +either make his evidence so light, or he’d contradict himself, or, better +than all, he’d not make an appearance at the trial--’ + +‘Compounding a felony! Catch me at it!’ cried the old man, with a yell. + +‘Well, Joe Atlee will be here to-night,’ continued Dick. ‘He’s a clever +fellow at all rogueries. Will you let him see if it can’t be arranged.’ + +‘I don’t care who does it, so it isn’t Mathew Kearney,’ said he angrily, +for his patience could endure no more. ‘If you won’t leave me alone now, I +won’t say but that I’ll go out and throw myself into a bog-hole!’ + +There was a tone of such perfect sincerity in his speech, that, without +another word, Dick took the lawyer’s arm, and led him from the room. + +A third voice was heard outside as they issued forth, and Kearney could +just make out that it was Major Lockwood, who was asking Dick if he might +have a few minutes’ conversation with his father. + +‘I don’t suspect you’ll find my father much disposed for conversation just +now. I think if you would not mind making your visit to him at another +time--’ + +‘Just so!’ broke in the old man, ‘if you’re not coming with a +strait-waistcoat, or a coil of rope to hold me down, I’d say it’s better to +leave me to myself.’ + +Whether it was that the major was undeterred by these forbidding evidences, +or that what he deemed the importance of his communication warranted some +risk, certain it is he lingered at the door, and stood there where Dick and +the lawyer had gone and left him. + +A faint tap at the door at last apprised Kearney that some one was without, +and he hastily, half angrily, cried, ‘Come in!’ Old Kearney almost started +with surprise as the major walked in. + +‘I’m not going to make any apology for intruding on you,’ cried he. ‘What I +want to say shall be said in three words, and I cannot endure the suspense +of not having them said and answered. I’ve had a whole night of feverish +anxiety, and a worse morning, thinking and turning over the thing in my +mind, and settled it must be at once, one way or other, for my head will +not stand it.’ + +‘My own is tried pretty hard, and I can feel for you,’ said Kearney, with a +grim humour. + +‘I’ve come to ask if you’ll give me your daughter?’ said Lockwood, and his +face became blood-red with the effort the words had cost him. + +‘Give you my daughter?’ cried Kearney. + +‘I want to make her my wife, and as I know little about courtship, and have +nobody here that could settle this affair for me--for Walpole is thinking +of his own concerns--I’ve thought the best way, as it was the shortest, was +to come at once to yourself: I have got a few documents here that will show +you I have enough to live on, and to make a tidy settlement, and do all +that ought to be done.’ + +‘I’m sure you are an excellent fellow, and I like you myself; but you see, +major, a man doesn’t dispose of his daughter like his horse, and I’d like +to hear what she would say to the bargain.’ + +‘I suppose you could ask her?’ + +‘Well, indeed, that’s true, I could ask her; but on the whole, major, don’t +you think the question would come better from yourself?’ + +‘That means courtship?’ + +‘Yes, I admit it is liable to that objection, but somehow it’s the usual +course.’ + +‘No, no,’ said the other slowly, ‘I could not manage that. I’m sick of +bachelor life, and I’m ready to send in my papers and have done with it, +but I don’t know how to go about the other. Not to say, Kearney,’ added he, +more boldly, ‘that I think there is something confoundedly mean in that +daily pursuit of a woman, till by dint of importunity, and one thing or +another, you get her to like you! What can she know of her own mind after +three or four months of what these snobs call attentions? How is she to say +how much is mere habit, how much is gratified vanity of having a fellow +dangling after her, how much the necessity of showing the world she is not +compromised by the cad’s solicitations? Take my word for it, Kearney, my +way is the best. Be able to go up like a man and tell the girl, “It’s all +arranged. I’ve shown the old cove that I can take care of you, he has seen +that I’ve no debts or mortgages; I’m ready to behave handsomely, what do +you say yourself?”’ + +‘She might say, “I know nothing about you. I may possibly not see much to +dislike, but how do I know I should like you.”’ + +‘And I’d say, “I’m one of those fellows that are the same all through, +to-day as I was yesterday, and to-morrow the same. When I’m in a bad temper +I go out on the moors and walk it off, and I’m not hard to live with.”’ + +‘There’s many a bad fellow a woman might like better.’ + +‘All the luckier for me, then, that I don’t get her.’ + +‘I might say, too,’ said Kearney, with a smile, ‘how much do you know of +my daughter--of her temper, her tastes, her habits, and her likings? What +assurance have you that you would suit each other, and that you are not as +wide apart in character as in country?’ + +‘I’ll answer for that. She’s always good-tempered, cheerful, and +light-hearted. She’s always nicely dressed and polite to every one. She +manages this old house, and these stupid bog-trotters, till one fancies it +a fine establishment and a first-rate household. She rides like a lion, and +I’d rather hear her laugh than I’d listen to Patti.’ + +‘I’ll call all that mighty like being in love.’ + +‘Do if you like--but answer me my question.’ + +‘That is more than I’m able; but I’ll consult my daughter. I’ll tell her +pretty much in your own words all you have said to me, and she shall +herself give the answer.’ + +‘All right, and how soon?’ + +‘Well, in the course of the day. Should she say that she does not +understand being wooed in this manner, that she would like more time to +learn something more about yourself, that, in fact, there is something too +peremptory in this mode of proceeding, I would not say she was wrong.’ + +‘But if she says Yes frankly, you’ll let me know at once.’ + +‘I will--on the spot.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIX + +PLEASANT CONGRATULATIONS + + +The news of Nina’s engagement to Walpole soon spread through the castle at +Kilgobbin, and gave great satisfaction; even the humbler members of the +household were delighted to think there would be a wedding and all its +appropriate festivity. + +When the tidings at length arrived at Miss O’Shea’s room, so reviving were +the effects upon her spirits, that the old lady insisted she should be +dressed and carried down to the drawing-room that the bridegroom might be +presented to her in all form. + +Though Nina herself chafed at such a proceeding, and called it a most +‘insufferable pretension,’ she was perhaps not sorry secretly at the +opportunity afforded herself to let the tiresome old woman guess how she +regarded her, and what might be their future relations towards each other. +‘Not indeed,’ added she, ‘that we are likely ever to meet again, or that I +should recognise her beyond a bow if we should.’ + +As for Kearney, the announcement that Miss Betty was about to appear in +public filled him with unmixed terror, and he muttered drearily as he went, +‘There’ll be wigs on the green for this.’ Nor was Walpole himself pleased +at the arrangement. Like most men in his position, he could not be brought +to see the delicacy or the propriety of being paraded as an object of +public inspection, nor did he perceive the fitness of that display of +trinkets which he had brought with him as presents, and the sight of which +had become a sort of public necessity. + +Not the least strange part of the whole procedure was that no one could +tell where or how or with whom it originated. It was like one of those +movements which are occasionally seen in political life, where, without the +direct intervention of any precise agent, a sort of diffused atmosphere of +public opinion suffices to produce results and effect changes that all are +ready to disavow but to accept. + +The mere fact of the pleasure the prospect afforded to Miss Betty prevented +Kate from offering opposition to what she felt to be both bad in taste and +ridiculous. + +‘That old lady imagines, I believe, that I am to come down like a +_prétendu_ in a French vaudeville--dressed in a tail-coat, with a white +tie and white gloves, and perhaps receive her benediction. She mistakes +herself, she mistakes us. If there was a casket of uncouth old diamonds, +or some marvellous old point lace to grace the occasion, we might play our +parts with a certain decorous hypocrisy; but to be stared at through a +double eye-glass by a snuffy old woman in black mittens, is more than one +is called on to endure--eh, Lockwood?’ + +‘I don’t know. I think I’d go through it all gladly to have the occasion.’ + +‘Have a little patience, old fellow, it will all come right. My worthy +relatives--for I suppose I can call them so now--are too shrewd people to +refuse the offer of such a fellow as you. They have that native pride that +demands a certain amount of etiquette and deference. They must not seem +to rise too eagerly to the fly; but only give them time--give them time, +Lockwood.’ + +‘Ay, but the waiting in this uncertainty is terrible to me.’ + +‘Let it be certainty, then, and for very little I’ll ensure you! Bear +this in mind, my dear fellow, and you’ll see how little need there is for +apprehension. You--and the men like you--snug fellows with comfortable +estates and no mortgages, unhampered by ties and uninfluenced by +connections, are a species of plant that is rare everywhere, but actually +never grew at all in Ireland, where every one spent double his income, and +seldom dared to move a step without a committee of relations. Old Kearney +has gone through that fat volume of the gentry and squirearchy of England +last night, and from Sir Simon de Lockwood, who was killed at Creçy, down +to a certain major in the Carbineers, he knows you all.’ + +‘I’ll bet you a thousand they say No.’ + +‘I’ve not got a thousand to pay if I should lose, but I’ll lay a pony--two, +if you like--that you are an accepted man this day--ay, before dinner.’ + +‘If I only thought so!’ + +‘Confound it--you don’t pretend you are in love!’ + +‘I don’t know whether I am or not, but I do know how I should like to bring +that nice girl back to Hampshire, and install her at the Dingle. I’ve a +tidy stable, some nice shooting, a good trout-stream, and then I should +have the prettiest wife in the county.’ + +‘Happy dog! Yours is the real philosophy of life. The fellows who are +realistic enough to reckon up the material elements of their happiness--who +have little to speculate on and less to unbelieve--they are right.’ + +‘If you mean that I’ll never break my heart because I don’t get in for the +county, that’s true--I don’t deny it. But come, tell me, is it all settled +about your business? Has the uncle been asked?--has he spoken?’ + +‘He has been asked and given his consent. My distinguished father-in-law, +the prince, has been telegraphed to this morning, and his reply may be here +to-night or to-morrow. At all events, we are determined that even should he +prove adverse, we shall not be deterred from our wishes by the caprice of a +parent who has abandoned us.’ + +‘It’s what people would call a love-match.’ + +‘I sincerely trust it is. If her affections were not inextricably engaged, +it is not possible that such a girl could pledge her future to a man as +humble as myself?’ + +‘That is, she is very much in love with _you_?’ + +‘I hope the astonishment of your question does not arise from its seeming +difficulty of belief?’ + +‘No, not so much that, but I thought there might have been a little +heroics, or whatever it is, on your side.’ + +‘Most dull dragoon, do you not know that, so long as a man spoons, he can +talk of his affection for a woman; but that, once she is about to be his +wife, or is actually his wife, he limits his avowals to _her_ love for +_him_?’ + +‘I never heard that before. I say, what a swell you are this morning. The +cock-pheasants will mistake you for one of them.’ + +‘Nothing can be simpler, nothing quieter, I trust, than a suit of dark +purple knickerbockers; and you may see that my thread stockings and my +coarse shoes presuppose a stroll in the plantations, where, indeed, I mean +to smoke my morning cigar.’ + +‘She’ll make you give up tobacco, I suppose?’ + +‘Nothing of the kind--a thorough woman of the world enforces no such +penalties as these. True free-trade is the great matrimonial maxim, and +for people of small means it is inestimable. The formula may be stated +thus--‘Dine at the best houses, and give tea at your own.’ + +What other precepts of equal wisdom Walpole was prepared to enunciate were +lost to the world by a message informing him that Miss Betty was in the +drawing-room, and the family assembled, to see him. + +Cecil Walpole possessed a very fair stock of that useful quality called +assurance; but he had no more than he needed to enter that large room, +where the assembled family sat in a half-circle, and stand to be surveyed +by Miss O’Shea’s eye-glass, unabashed. Nor was the ordeal the less trying +as he overheard the old lady ask her neighbour, ‘if he wasn’t the image of +the Knave of Diamonds.’ + +‘I thought you were the other man!’ said she curtly, as he made his bow. + +‘I deplore the disappointment, madam--even though I do not comprehend it.’ + +‘It was the picture, the photograph, of the other man I saw--a fine, tall, +dark man, with long moustaches.’ + +‘The fine, tall, dark man, with the long moustaches, is in the house, and +will be charmed to be presented to you.’ + +‘Ay, ay! presented is all very fine; but that won’t make him the +bridegroom,’ said she, with a laugh. + +‘I sincerely trust it will not, madam.’ + +‘And it is you, then, are Major Walpole?’ + +‘Mr. Walpole, madam--my friend Lockwood is the major.’ + +‘To be sure. I have it right now. You are the young man that got into that +unhappy scrape, and got the Lord-Lieutenant turned away--’ + +‘I wonder how you endure this,’ burst out Nina, as she arose and walked +angrily towards a window. + +‘I don’t think I caught what the young lady said; but if it was, that what +cannot be cured must be endured, it is true enough; and I suppose that +they’ll get over your blunder as they have done many another.’ + +‘I live in that hope, madam.’ + +‘Not but it’s a bad beginning in public life; and a stupid mistake hangs +long on a man’s memory. You’re young, however, and people are generous +enough to believe it might be a youthful indiscretion.’ + +‘You give me great comfort, madam.’ + +‘And now you are going to risk another venture?’ + +‘I sincerely trust on safer grounds.’ + +‘That’s what they all think. I never knew a man that didn’t believe he drew +the prize in matrimony. Ask him, however, six months after he’s tied. Say, +“What do you think of your ticket now?” Eh, Mat Kearney? It doesn’t take +twenty or thirty years quarrelling and disputing to show one that a lottery +with so many blanks is just a swindle.’ + +A loud bang of the door, as Nina flounced out in indignation, almost shook +the room. + +‘There’s a temper you’ll know more of yet, young gentleman; and, take my +word for it, it’s only in stage-plays that a shrew is ever tamed.’ + +‘I declare,’ cried Dick, losing all patience, ‘I think Miss O’Shea is too +unsparing of us all. We have our faults, I’m sure; but public correction +will not make us more comfortable.’ + +‘It wasn’t _your_ comfort I was thinking of, young man; and if I thought +of your poor father’s, I’d have advised him to put you out an apprentice. +There’s many a light business--like stationery, or figs, or children’s +toys--and they want just as little capital as capacity.’ + +‘Miss Betty,’ said Kearney stiffly, ‘this is not the time nor the place for +these discussions. Mr. Walpole was polite enough to present himself here +to-day to have the honour of making your acquaintance, and to announce his +future marriage.’ + +‘A great event for us all--and we’re proud of it! It’s what the newspapers +will call a great day for the Bog of Allen. Eh, Mat? The princess--God +forgive me, but I’m always calling her Costigan--but the princess will +be set down niece to Lord Kilgobbin; and if you’--and she addressed +Walpole--‘haven’t a mock-title and a mock-estate, you’ll be the only one +without them!’ + +‘I don’t think any one will deny us our tempers,’ cried Kearney. + +‘Here’s Lockwood,’ cried Walpole, delighted to see his friend enter, though +he as quickly endeavoured to retreat. + +‘Come in, major,’ said Kearney. ‘We’re all friends here. Miss O’Shea, this +is Major Lockwood, of the Carbineers--Miss O’Shea.’ + +Lockwood bowed stiffly, but did not speak. + +‘Be attentive to the old woman,’ whispered Walpole. ‘A word from her will +make your affair all right.’ + +‘I have been very desirous to have had the honour of this introduction, +madam,’ said Lockwood, as he seated himself at her side. + +‘Was not that a clever diversion I accomplished with “the Heavy “?’ said +Walpole, as he drew away Kearney and his son into a window. + +‘I never heard her much worse than to-day,’ said Dick. + +‘I don’t know,’ hesitated Kilgobbin. ‘I suspect she is breaking. There is +none of the sustained virulence I used to remember of old. She lapses into +half-mildness at moments.’ + +‘I own I did not catch them, nor, I’m afraid, did Nina,’ said Dick. ‘Look +there! I’ll be shot if she’s not giving your friend the major a lesson! +When she performs in that way with her hands, you may swear she is +didactic.’ + +‘I think I’ll go to his relief,’ said Walpole; ‘but I own it’s a case for +the V.C.’ + +As Walpole drew nigh, he heard her saying: ‘Marry one of your own race, and +you will jog on well enough. Marry a Frenchwoman or a Spaniard, and she’ll +lead her own life, and be very well satisfied; but a poor Irish girl, with +a fresh heart and a joyous temper--what is to become of her, with your dull +habits and your dreary intercourse, your county society and your Chinese +manners!’ + +‘Miss O’Shea is telling me that I must not look for a wife among her +countrywomen,’ said Lockwood, with a touching attempt to smile. + +‘What I overheard was not encouraging,’ said Walpole; ‘but I think Miss +O’Shea takes a low estimate of our social temperament.’ + +‘Nothing of the kind! All I say is, you’ll do mighty well for each other, +or, for aught I know, you might intermarry with the Dutch or the Germans; +but it’s a downright shame to unite your slow sluggish spirits with the +sparkling brilliancy and impetuous joy of an Irish girl. That’s a union I’d +never consent to.’ + +‘I hope this is no settled resolution,’ said Walpole, speaking in a low +whisper; ‘for I want to bespeak your especial influence in my friend’s +behalf. Major Lockwood is a most impassioned admirer of Miss Kearney, and +has already declared as much to her father.’ + +‘Come over here, Mat Kearney! come over here this moment!’ cried she, half +wild with excitement. ‘What new piece of roguery, what fresh intrigue is +this? Will you dare to tell me you had a proposal for Kate, for my own +god-daughter, without even so much as telling me?’ + +‘My dear Miss Betty, be calm, be cool for one minute, and I’ll tell you +everything.’ + +‘Ay, when I’ve found it out, Mat!’ + +‘I profess I don’t think my friend’s pretensions are discussed with much +delicacy, time and place considered,’ said Walpole. + +‘We have something to think of as well as delicacy, young man: there’s a +woman’s happiness to be remembered.’ + +‘Here it is, now, the whole business,’ said Kearney. ‘The major there asked +me yesterday to get my daughter’s consent to his addresses.’ + +‘And you never told me,’ cried Miss Betty. + +‘No, indeed, nor herself neither; for after I turned it over in my mind, I +began to see it wouldn’t do--’ + +‘How do you mean not do?’ asked Lockwood. + +‘Just let me finish. What I mean is this--if a man wants to marry an Irish +girl, he mustn’t begin by asking leave to make love to her--’ + +‘Mat’s right!’ cried the old lady stoutly. + +‘And above all, he oughtn’t to think that the short cut to her heart is +through his broad acres.’ + +‘Mat’s right--quite right!’ + +‘And besides this, that the more a man dwells on his belongings, and the +settlements, and such like, the more he seems to say, “I may not catch your +fancy in everything, I may not ride as boldly or dance as well as somebody +else, but never mind--you’re making a very prudent match, and there is a +deal of pure affection in the Three per Cents.”’ + +‘And I’ll give you another reason,’ said Miss Betty resolutely. ‘Kate +Kearney cannot have two husbands, and I’ve made her promise to marry my +nephew this morning.’ + +‘What, without any leave of mine?’ exclaimed Kearney. + +‘Just so, Mat. She’ll marry him if you give your consent; but whether you +will or not, she’ll never marry another.’ + +‘Is there, then, a real engagement?’ whispered Walpole to Kearney. ‘Has my +friend here got his answer?’ + +‘He’ll not wait for another,’ said Lockwood haughtily, as he arose. ‘I’m +for town, Cecil,’ whispered he. + +‘So shall I be this evening,’ replied Walpole, in the same tone. ‘I must +hurry over to London and see Lord Danesbury. I’ve my troubles too.’ And so +saying, he drew his arm within the major’s, and led him away; while Miss +Betty, with Kearney on one side of her and Dick on the other, proceeded to +recount the arrangement she had made to make over the Barn and the estate +to Gorman, it being her own intention to retire altogether from the world +and finish her days in the ‘Retreat.’ + +‘And a very good thing to do, too,’ said Kearney, who was too much +impressed with the advantages of the project to remember his politeness. + +‘I have had enough of it, Mat,’ added she, in a lugubrious tone; ‘and it’s +all backbiting, and lying, and mischief-making, and what’s worse, by the +people who might live quietly and let others do the same!’ + +‘What you say is true as the Bible.’ + +‘It may be hard to do it, Mat Kearney, but I’ll pray for them in my hours +of solitude, and in that blessed Retreat I’ll ask for a blessing on +yourself, and that your heart, hard and cruel and worldly as it is now, may +be changed; and that in your last days--maybe on the bed of sickness--when +you are writhing and twisting with pain, with a bad heart and a worse +conscience--when you’ll have nobody but hirelings near you--hirelings that +will be robbing you before your eyes, and not waiting till the breath +leaves you--when even the drop of drink to cool your lips--’ + +‘Don’t--don’t go on that way, Miss Betty. I’ve a cold shivering down the +spine of my back this minute, and a sickness creeping all over me.’ + +‘I’m glad of it. I’m glad that my words have power over your wicked old +nature--if it’s not too late.’ + +‘If it’s miserable and wretched you wanted to make me, don’t fret about +your want of success; though whether it all comes too late, I cannot tell +you.’ + +‘We’ll leave that to St. Joseph.’ + +‘Do so! do so!’ cried he eagerly, for he had a shrewd suspicion he would +have better chances of mercy at any hands than her own. + +‘As for Gorman, if I find that he has any notions about claiming an acre +of the property, I’ll put it all into Chancery, and the suit will outlive +_him_; but if he owns he is entirely dependent on my bounty, I’ll settle +the Barn and the land on him, and the deed shall be signed the day he +marries your daughter. People tell you that you can’t take your money with +you into the next world, Mat Kearney, and a greater lie was never uttered. +Thanks to the laws of England, and the Court of Equity in particular, it’s +the very thing you can do! Ay, and you can provide, besides, that everybody +but the people that had a right to it shall have a share. So I say to +Gorman O’Shea, beware what you are at, and don’t go on repeating that +stupid falsehood about not carrying your debentures into the next world.’ + +‘You are a wise woman, and you know life well,’ said he solemnly. + +‘And if I am, it’s nothing to sigh over, Mr. Kearney. One is grateful for +mercies, but does not groan over them like rheumatism or the lumbago.’ + +‘Maybe I ‘in a little out of spirits to-day.’ + +‘I shouldn’t wonder if you were. They tell me you sat over your wine, with +that tall man, last night, till nigh one o’clock, and it’s not at your time +of life that you can do these sort of excesses with impunity; you had a +good constitution once, and there’s not much left of it.’ + +‘My patience, I’m grateful to see, has not quite deserted me.’ + +‘I hope there’s other of your virtues you can be more sure of,’ said +she, rising, ‘for if I was asked your worst failing, I’d say it was your +irritability.’ And with a stern frown, as though to confirm the judicial +severity of her words, she nodded her head to him and walked away. + +It was only then that Kearney discovered he was left alone, and that Dick +had stolen away, though when or how he could not say. + +‘I’m glad the boy was not listening to her, for I’m downright ashamed that +I bore it,’ was his final reflection as he strolled out to take a walk in +the plantation. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXX + +A NEW ARRIVAL + + +Though the dinner-party that day at Kilgobbin Castle was deficient in the +persons of Lockwood and Walpole, the accession of Joe Atlee to the company +made up in a great measure for the loss. He arrived shortly before dinner +was announced, and even in the few minutes in the drawing-room, his gay and +lively manner, his pleasant flow of small talk, dashed with the lightest +of epigrams, and that marvellous variety he possessed, made every one +delighted with him. + +‘I met Walpole and Lockwood at the station, and did my utmost to make them +turn back with me. You may laugh, Lord Kilgobbin, but in doing the honours +of another man’s house, as I was at that moment, I deem myself without a +rival.’ + +‘I wish with all my heart you had succeeded; there is nothing I like as +much as a well-filled table,’ said Kearney. + +‘Not that their air and manner,’ resumed Joe, ‘impressed me strongly with +the exuberance of their spirits; a pair of drearier dogs I have not seen +for some time, and I believe I told them so.’ + +‘Did they explain their gloom, or even excuse it?’ asked Dick. + +‘Except on the general grounds of coming away from such fascinating +society. Lockwood played sulky, and scarcely vouchsafed a word, and as for +Walpole, he made some high-flown speeches about his regrets and his torn +sensibilities--so like what one reads in a French novel, that the very +sound of them betrays unreality.’ + +‘But was it, then, so very impossible to be sorry for leaving this?’ asked +Nina calmly. + +‘Certainly not for any man but Walpole.’ + +‘And why not Walpole?’ + +‘Can you ask me? You who know people so well, and read them so clearly; you +to whom the secret anatomy of the “heart” is no mystery, and who understand +how to trace the fibre of intense selfishness through every tissue of his +small nature. He might be miserable at being separated from himself--there +could be no other estrangement would affect _him_.’ + +‘This was not always your estimate of your _friend_,’ said Nina, with a +marked emphasis of the last word. + +‘Pardon me, it was my unspoken opinion from the first hour I met him. Since +then, some space of time has intervened, and though it has made no change +in him, I hope it has dealt otherwise with me. I have at least reached the +point in life where men not only have convictions but avow them.’ + +‘Come, come; I can remember what precious good-luck you called it to make +his acquaintance,’ cried Dick, half angrily. + +‘I don’t deny it. I was very nigh drowning at the time, and it was the +first plank I caught hold of. I am very grateful to him for the rescue; but +I owe him more gratitude for the opportunity the incident gave me to see +these men in their intimacy--to know, and know thoroughly, what is the +range, what the stamp of those minds by which states are ruled and masses +are governed. Through Walpole I knew his master; and through the master I +have come to know the slipshod intelligences which, composed of official +detail, House of Commons’ gossip, and _Times_’ leaders, are accepted by us +as statesmen. And if--’ A very supercilious smile on Nina’s mouth arrested +him in the current of his speech, and he said, ‘I know, of course, I know +the question you are too polite to ask, but which quivers on your lip: “Who +is the gifted creature that sees all this incompetence and insufficiency +around him?” And I am quite ready to tell you. It is Joseph Atlee--Joseph +Atlee, who knows that when he and others like him--for we are a strong +coterie--stop the supply of ammunition, these gentlemen must cease firing. +Let the _Débats_ and the _Times_, the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and the +_Saturday_, and a few more that I need not stop to enumerate, strike work, +and let us see how much of original thought you will obtain from your +Cabinet sages! It is in the clash and collision of the thinkers outside of +responsibility that these world-revered leaders catch the fire that lights +up their policy. The _Times_ made the Crimean blunder. The _Siècle_ created +the Mexican fiasco. The _Kreuz Zeitung_ gave the first impulse to the +Schleswig-Holstein imbroglio; and if I mistake not, the “review” in the +last _Diplomatic Chronicle_ will bear results of which he who now speaks to +you will not disown the parentage.’ + +‘The saints be praised! here’s dinner,’ exclaimed Kearney, ‘or this fellow +would talk us into a brain-fever. Kate is dining with Miss Betty again--God +bless her for it,’ muttered he as he gave his arm to Nina, and led the way. + +‘I’ve got you a commission as a “peeler,” Dick,’ said Joe, as they moved +along. ‘You’ll have to prove that you can read and write, which is more +than they would ask of you if you were going into the Cabinet; but we live +in an intellectual age, and we test all the cabin-boys, and it is only the +steersman we take on trust.’ + +Though Nina was eager to resent Atlee’s impertinence on Walpole, she could +not help feeling interested and amused by his sketches of his travels. + +If, in speaking of Greece, he only gave the substance of the article he had +written for the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, as the paper was yet unpublished +all the remarks were novel, and the anecdotes fresh and sparkling. The tone +of light banter and raillery in which he described public life in Greece +and Greek statesmen, might have lost some of its authority had any one +remembered to count the hours the speaker had spent in Athens; and Nina +was certainly indignant at the hazardous effrontery of the criticisms. It +was not, then, without intention that she arose to retire while Atlee was +relating an interesting story of brigandage, and he--determined to repay +the impertinence in kind--continued to recount his history as he arose to +open the door for her to pass out. Her insolent look as she swept by was +met by a smile of admiration on his part that actually made her cheek +tingle with anger. + +Old Kearney dozed off gently, under the influence of names of places and +persons that did not interest him, and the two young men drew their chairs +to the fire, and grew confidential at once. + +‘I think you have sent my cousin away in bad humour,’ said Dick. + +‘I see it,’ said Joe, as he slowly puffed his cigar. ‘That young lady’s +head has been so cruelly turned by flattery of late, that the man who does +not swing incense before her affronts her.’ + +‘Yes; but you went out of your way to provoke her. It is true she knows +little of Greece or Greeks, but it offends her to hear them slighted or +ridiculed; and you took pains to do both.’ + +‘Contemptible little country! with a mock-army, a mock-treasury, and a +mock-chamber. The only thing real is the debt and the brigandage.’ + +‘But why tell her so? You actually seemed bent on irritating her.’ + +‘Quite true--so I was. My dear Dick, you have some lessons to learn in +life, and one of them is that, just as it is bad heraldry to put colour +on colour, it is an egregious blunder to follow flattery by flattery. The +woman who has been spoiled by over-admiration must be approached with +something else as unlike it as may be--pique--annoy--irritate--outrage, +but take care that you interest her Let her only come to feel what a very +tiresome thing mere adulation is, and she will one day value your two or +three civil speeches as gems of priceless worth. It is exactly because I +deeply desire to gain her affections, I have begun in this way.’ + +‘You have come too late.’ + +‘How do you mean too late--she is not engaged?’ + +‘She is engaged--she is to be married to Walpole.’ + +‘To Walpole!’ + +‘Yes; he came over a few days ago to ask her. There is some question +now--I don’t well understand it--about some family consent, or an +invitation--something, I believe, that Nina insists on, to show the world +how his family welcome her amongst them; and it is for this he has gone to +London, but to be back in eight or nine days, the wedding to take place +towards the end of the month.’ + +‘Is he very much in love?’ + +‘I should say he is.’ + +‘And she? Of course she could not possibly care for a fellow like Walpole?’ + +‘I don’t see why not. He is very much the stamp of man girls admire.’ + +‘Not girls like Nina; not girls who aspire to a position in life, and who +know that the little talents of the salon no more make a man of the world +than the tricks of the circus will make a foxhunter. These ambitious +women--she is one of them--will marry a hopeless idiot if he can bring +wealth and rank and a great name; but they will not take a brainless +creature who has to work his way up in the world. If she has accepted +Walpole, there is pique in it, or ennui, or that uneasy desire of change +that girls suffer from like a malady.’ + +‘I cannot tell you why, but I know she has accepted him.’ + +‘Women are not insensible to the value of second thoughts.’ + +‘You mean she might throw him over--might jilt him?’ + +‘I’ll not employ the ugly word that makes the wrong it is only meant to +indicate; but there are few of our resolves in life to which we might not +move amendment, and the changed opinion a woman forms of a man before +marriage would become a grievous injury if it happened after.’ + +‘But must she of necessity change?’ + +‘If she marry Walpole, I should say certainly. If a girl has fair abilities +and a strong temper--and Nina has a good share of each--she will endure +faults, actual vices, in a man, but she’ll not stand littleness. Walpole +has nothing else; and so I hope to prove to her to-morrow and the day +after--in fact, during those eight or ten days you tell me he will be +absent.’ + +‘Will she let you? Will she listen to you?’ + +‘Not at first--at least, not willingly, or very easily; but I will show +her, by numerous little illustrations and even fables, where these small +people not only spoil their fortunes in life, but spoil life itself; and +what an irreparable blunder it is to link companionship with one of them. I +will sometimes make her laugh, and I may have to make her cry--it will not +be easy, but I shall do it--I shall certainly make her thoughtful; and if +you can do this day by day, so that a woman will recur to the same theme +pretty much in the same spirit, you must be a sorry steersman, Master Dick, +but you will know how to guide these thoughts and trace the channel they +shall follow.’ + +‘And supposing, which I do not believe, that you could get her to break +with Walpole, what could _you_ offer her?’ + +‘Myself!’ + +‘Inestimable boon, doubtless; but what of fortune--position or place in +life?’ + +‘The first Napoleon used to say that the “power of the unknown number was +incommensurable”; and so I don’t despair of showing her that a man like +myself may be anything.’ + +Dick shook his head doubtingly, and the other went on: ‘In this round game +we call life it is all “brag.” The fellow with the worst card in the pack, +if he’ll only risk his head on it, keep a bold face to the world and his +own counsel, will be sure to win. Bear in mind, Dick, that for some time +back I have been keeping the company of these great swells who sit highest +in the Synagogue, and dictate to us small Publicans. I have listened +to their hesitating counsels and their uncertain resolves; I have seen +the blotted despatches and equivocal messages given, to be disavowed if +needful; I have assisted at those dress rehearsals where speech was to +follow speech, and what seemed an incautious avowal by one was to be +“improved” into a bold declaration by another “in another place”; in fact, +my good friend, I have been near enough to measure the mighty intelligences +that direct us, and if I were not a believer in Darwin, I should be very +much shocked for what humanity was coming to. It is no exaggeration that +I say, if you were to be in the Home Office, and I at the Foreign Office, +without our names being divulged, there is not a man or woman in England +would be the wiser or the worse; though if either of us were to take charge +of the engine of the Holyhead line, there would be a smash or an explosion +before we reached Rugby.’ + +‘All that will not enable you to make a settlement on Nina Kostalergi.’ + +‘No; but I’ll marry her all the same.’ + +‘I don’t think so.’ + +‘Will you have a bet on it, Dick? What will you wager?’ + +‘A thousand--ten, if I had it; but I’ll give you ten pounds on it, which is +about as much as either of us could pay.’ + +‘Speak for yourself, Master Dick. As Robert Macaire says, “_Je viens de +toucher mes dividendes_,” and I am in no want of money. The fact is, so +long as a man can pay for certain luxuries in life, he is well off: the +strictly necessary takes care of itself.’ + +‘Does it? I should like to know how.’ + +‘With your present limited knowledge of life, I doubt if I could explain it +to you, but I will try one of these mornings. Meanwhile, let us go into the +drawing-room and get mademoiselle to sing for us. She will sing, I take +it?’ + +‘Of course--if asked by you.’ And there was the very faintest tone of sneer +in the words. + +And they did go, and mademoiselle did sing all that Atlee could ask her +for, and she was charming in every way that grace and beauty and the +wish to please could make her. Indeed, to such extent did she carry her +fascinations that Joe grew thoughtful at last, and muttered to himself, +‘There is vendetta in this. It is only a woman knows how to make a +vengeance out of her attractions.’ + +‘Why are you so serious, Mr. Atlee?’ asked she at last. + +‘I was thinking--I mean, I was trying to think--yes, I remember it now,’ +muttered he. ‘I have had a letter for you all this time in my pocket.’ + +‘A letter from Greece?’ asked she impatiently. + +‘No--at least I suspect not. It was given me as I drove through the bog by +a barefooted boy, who had trotted after the car for miles, and at length +overtook us by the accident of the horse picking up a stone in his hoof. +He said it was for “some one at the castle,” and I offered to take charge +of it--here it is,’ and he produced a square-shaped envelope of common +coarse-looking paper, sealed with red wax, and a shamrock for impress. + +‘A begging-letter, I should say, from the outside,’ said Dick. + +‘Except that there is not one so poor as to ask aid from me,’ added Nina, +as she took the document, glanced at the writing, and placed it in her +pocket. + +As they separated for the night, and Dick trotted up the stairs at Atlee’s +side, he said, ‘I don’t think, after all, my ten pounds is so safe as I +fancied.’ + +‘Don’t you?’ replied Joe. ‘My impressions are all the other way, Dick. It +is her courtesy that alarms me. The effort to captivate where there is no +stake to win, means mischief. She’ll make me in love with her whether I +will or not.’ The bitterness of his tone, and the impatient bang he gave +his door as he passed in, betrayed more of temper than was usual for him to +display, and as Dick sought his room, he muttered to himself, ‘I’m glad to +see that these over-cunning fellows are sure to meet their match, and get +beaten even at the game of their own invention.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXI + +AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT + + +It was no uncommon thing for the tenants to address petitions and +complaints in writing to Kate, and it occurred to Nina as not impossible +that some one might have bethought him of entreating her intercession in +their favour. The look of the letter, and the coarse wax, and the writing, +all in a measure strengthened this impression, and it was in the most +careless of moods she broke the envelope, scarcely caring to look for the +name of the writer, whom she was convinced must be unknown to her. + +She had just let her hair fall freely down on her neck and shoulders, and +was seated in a deep chair before her fire, as she opened the paper and +read, ‘Mademoiselle Kostalergi.’ This beginning, so unlikely for a peasant, +made her turn for the name, and she read, in a large full hand, the words +‘DANIEL DONOGAN.’ So complete was her surprise, that to satisfy herself +there was no trick or deception, she examined the envelope and the seal, +and reflected for some minutes over the mode in which the document had come +to her hands. Atlee’s story was a very credible one: nothing more likely +than that the boy was charged to deliver the letter at the castle, and +simply sought to spare himself so many miles of way, or it might be that +he was enjoined to give it to the first traveller he met on his road to +Kilgobbin. Nina had little doubt that if Atlee guessed or had reason to +know the writer, he would have treated the letter as a secret missive which +would give him a certain power over her. + +These thoughts did not take her long, and she turned once more to the +letter. ‘Poor fellow,’ said she aloud, ‘why does he write to _me_?’ And +her own voice sent back its surmises to her; and as she thought over him +standing on the lonely road, his clasped hands before him, and his hair +wafted wildly back from his uncovered head, two heavy tears rolled slowly +down her cheeks and dropped upon her neck. ‘I am sure he loved me--I know +he loved me,’ muttered she, half aloud. ‘I have never seen in any eye the +same expression that his wore as he lay that morning in the grass. It was +not veneration, it was genuine adoration. Had I been a saint and wanted +worship, there was the very offering that I craved--a look of painful +meaning, made up of wonder and devotion, a something that said: take what +course you may, be wilful, be wayward, be even cruel, I am your slave. +You may not think me worthy of a thought, you may be so indifferent as to +forget me utterly, but my life from this hour has but one spell to charm, +one memory to sustain it. It needed not his last words to me to say that my +image would lay on his heart for ever. Poor fellow, _I_ need not have been +added to his sorrows, he has had his share of trouble without _me_!’ + +It was some time ere she could return to the letter, which ran thus:-- + +‘MADEMOISELLE KOSTALERGI,--You once rendered me a great service--not alone +at some hazard to yourself, but by doing what must have cost you sorely. It +is now _my_ turn; and if the act of repayment is not equal to the original +debt, let me ask you to believe that it taxes _my_ strength even more than +_your_ generosity once taxed your own. + +‘I came here a few days since in the hope that I might see you before I +leave Ireland for ever; and while waiting for some fortunate chance, I +learned that you were betrothed and to be married to the young gentleman +who lies ill at Kilgobbin, and whose approaching trial at the assizes is +now the subject of so much discussion. I will not tell you--I have no right +to tell you--the deep misery with which these tidings filled me. It was no +use to teach my heart how vain and impossible were all my hopes with regard +to you. It was to no purpose that I could repeat over aloud to myself how +hopeless my pretensions must be. My love for you had become a religion, and +what I could deny to a hope, I could still believe. Take that hope away, +and I could not imagine how I should face my daily life, how interest +myself in its ambitions, and even care to live on. + +‘These sad confessions cannot offend you, coming from one even as humble as +I am. They are all that are left me for consolation--they will soon be all +I shall have for memory. The little lamp in the lowly shrine comforts the +kneeling worshipper far more than it honours the saint; and the love I +bear you is such as this. Forgive me if I have dared these utterances. To +save him with whose fortunes your own are to be bound up became at once +my object; and as I knew with what ingenuity and craft his ruin had been +compassed, it required all my efforts to baffle his enemies. The National +press and the National party have made a great cause of this trial, and +determined that tenant-right should be vindicated in the person of this man +Gill. + +‘I have seen enough of what is intended here to be aware what mischief may +be worked by hard swearing, a violent press, and a jury not insensible to +public opinion--evils, if you like, but evils that are less of our own +growing than the curse ill-government has brought upon us. It has been +decided in certain councils--whose decrees are seldom gainsaid--that an +example shall be made of Captain Gorman O’Shea, and that no effort shall +be spared to make his case a terror and a warning to Irish landowners; how +they attempt by ancient process of law to subvert the concessions we have +wrung from our tyrants. + +‘A jury to find him guilty will be sworn; and let us see the judge--in +defiance of a verdict given from the jury-box, without a moment’s +hesitation or the shadow of dissent--let us see the judge who will dare to +diminish the severity of the sentence. This is the language, these are the +very words of those who have more of the rule of Ireland in their hands +than the haughty gentlemen, honourable and right honourable, who sit at +Whitehall. + +‘I have heard this opinion too often of late to doubt how much it is a +fixed determination of the party; and until now--until I came here, and +learned what interest his fate could have for me--I offered no opposition +to these reasonings. Since then I have bestirred myself actively. I have +addressed the committee here who have taken charge of the prosecution; I +have written to the editors of the chief newspapers; I have even made a +direct appeal to the leading counsel for the prosecution, and tried to +persuade them that a victory here might cost us more than a defeat, and +that the country at large, who submit with difficulty to the verdict of +absolving juries, will rise with indignation at this evidence of a jury +prepared to exercise a vindictive power, and actually make the law the +agent of reprisal. I have failed in all--utterly failed. Some reproach me +as faint-hearted and craven; some condescend to treat me as merely mistaken +and misguided; and some are bold enough to hint that, though as a military +authority I stand without rivalry, as a purely political adviser, my +counsels are open to dispute. + +‘I have still a power, however, through the organisation of which I am a +chief; and by this power I have ordered Gill to appear before me, and in +obedience to my commands, he will sail this night for America. With him +will also leave the two other important witnesses in this cause; so that +the only evidence against Captain O’Shea will be some of those against whom +he has himself instituted a cross charge for assault. That the prosecution +can be carried on with such testimony need not be feared. Our press will +denounce the infamous arts by which these witnesses have been tampered +with, and justice has been defeated. The insults they may hurl at our +oppressors--for once unjustly--will furnish matter for the Opposition +journals to inveigh against our present Government, and some good may come +even of this. At all events, I shall have accomplished what I sought. I +shall have saved from a prison the man I hate most on earth, the man who, +robbing me of what never could be mine, robs me of every hope, of every +ambition, making my love as worthless as my life! Have I not repaid you? +Ask your heart which of us has done more for the other? + +‘The contract on which Gill based his right as a tenant, and which would +have sustained his action, is now in my hands; and I will--if you permit +me--place it in yours. This may appear an ingenious device to secure a +meeting with you; but though I long to see you once more, were it but a +minute, I would not compass it by a fraud. If, then, you will not see me, I +shall address the packet to you through the post. + +‘I have finished. I have told you what it most concerns you to know, +and what chiefly regards your happiness. I have done this as coldly and +impassively, I hope, as though I had no other part in the narrative than +that of the friend whose friendship had a blessed office. I have not told +you of the beating heart that hangs over this paper, nor will I darken one +bright moment of your fortune by the gloom of mine. If you will write me +one line--a farewell if it must be--send it to the care of Adam Cobb, +“Cross Keys,” Moate, where I shall find it up to Thursday next. If--and oh! +how shall I bless you for it--if you will consent to see me, to say one +word, to let me look on you once more, I shall go into my banishment with a +bolder heart, as men go into battle with an amulet. DANIEL DONOGAN.’ + +‘Shall I show this to Kate?’ was the first thought of Nina as she laid the +letter down. ‘Is it a breach of confidence to let another than myself read +these lines? Assuredly they were meant for my eyes alone. Poor fellow!’ +said she, once more aloud. ‘It was very noble in him to do this for one he +could not but regard as a rival.’ And then she asked herself how far it +might consist with honour to derive benefit from his mistake--since mistake +it was--in believing O’Shea was her lover, and to be her future husband. + +‘There can be little doubt Donogan would never have made the sacrifice had +he known that I am about to marry Walpole.’ From this she rambled on to +speculate on how far might Donogan’s conduct compromise or endanger him +with his own party, and if--which she thought well probable--there was a +distinct peril in what he was doing, whether he would have incurred that +peril if he really knew the truth, and that it was not herself he was +serving. + +The more she canvassed these doubts, the more she found the difficulty of +resolving them, nor indeed was there any other way than one--distinctly to +ask Donogan if he would persist in his kind intentions when he knew that +the benefit was to revert to her cousin and not to herself. So far as the +evidence of Gill at the trial was concerned, the man’s withdrawal was +already accomplished, but would Donogan be as ready to restore the lease, +and would he, in fact, be as ready to confront the danger of all this +interference, as at first? She could scarcely satisfy her mind how she +would wish him to act in the contingency! She was sincerely fond of Kate, +she knew all the traits of honesty and truth in that simple character, and +she valued the very qualities of straightforwardness and direct purpose +in which she knew she was herself deficient. She would have liked well to +secure that dear girl’s happiness, and it would have been an exquisite +delight to her to feel that she had been an aid to her welfare; and yet, +with all this, there was a subtle jealousy that tortured her in thinking, +‘What will this man have done to prove his love for _me_? Where am I, and +what are my interests in all this?’ There was a poison in this doubt that +actually extended to a state of fever. ‘I must see him,’ she said at last, +speaking aloud to herself. ‘I must let him know the truth. If what he +proposes shall lead him to break with his party or his friends, it is well +he should see for what and for whom he is doing it.’ + +And then she persuaded herself she would like to hear Donogan talk, as once +before she had heard him talk, of his hopes and his ambitions. There was +something in the high-sounding inspirations of the man, a lofty heroism in +all he said, that struck a chord in her Greek nature. The cause that was +so intensely associated with danger that life was always on the issue, +was exactly the thing to excite her heart, and, like the trumpet-blast to +the charger, she felt stirred to her inmost soul by whatever appealed to +reckless daring and peril. ‘He shall tell me what he intends to do--his +plans, his projects, and his troubles. He shall tell me of his hopes, what +he desires in the future, and where he himself will stand when his efforts +have succeeded; and oh!’ thought she, ‘are not the wild extravagances of +these men better a thousand times than the well-turned nothings of the fine +gentlemen who surround us? Are not their very risks and vicissitudes more +manly teachings than the small casualties of the polished world? If life +were all “salon,” taste perhaps might decide against them; but it is not +all “salon,” or, if it were, it would be a poorer thing even than I think +it!’ She turned to her desk as she said this, and wrote:-- + +‘DEAR MR. DONOGAN,--I wish to thank you in person for the great kindness +you have shown me, though there is some mistake on your part in the matter. +I cannot suppose you are able to come here openly, but if you will be in +the garden on Saturday evening at 9 o’clock, I shall be there to meet you. +I am, very truly yours, + +‘NINA KOSTALERGI.’ + +‘Very imprudent--scarcely delicate--perhaps, all this, and for a girl who +is to be married to another man in some three weeks hence, but I will +tell Cecil Walpole all when he returns, and if he desires to be off his +engagement, he shall have the liberty. I have one-half at least of the +Bayard Legend, and if I cannot say I am “without reproach,” I am certainly +without fear.’ + +The letter-bag lay in the hall, and Nina went down at once and deposited +her letter in it; this done, she lay down on her bed, not to sleep, but to +think over Donogan and his letter till daybreak. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXII + +THE BREAKFAST-ROOM + + +‘Strange house this,’ said Joseph Atlee, as Nina entered the room the next +morning where he sat alone at breakfast. ‘Lord Kilgobbin and Dick were here +a moment ago, and disappeared suddenly; Miss Kearney for an instant, and +also left as abruptly; and now you have come, I most earnestly hope not to +fly away in the same fashion.’ + +‘No; I mean to eat my breakfast, and so far to keep you company.’ + +‘I thank the tea-urn for my good fortune,’ said he solemnly. + +‘A _tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Atlee is a piece of good-luck,’ said Nina, as she +sat down. ‘Has anything occurred to call our hosts away?’ + +‘In a house like this,’ said he jocularly, ‘where people are marrying or +giving in marriage at every turn, what may not happen? It may be a question +of the settlement, or the bridecake, or white satin “slip”--if that’s the +name for it--the orange-flowers, or the choice of the best man--who knows?’ + +‘You seem to know the whole bead-roll of wedding incidents.’ + +‘It is a dull _répertoire_ after all, for whether the piece be melodrama, +farce, genteel comedy, or harrowing tragedy, it has to be played by the +same actors.’ + +‘What would you have--marriages cannot be all alike. There must be many +marriages for things besides love: for ambition, for interest, for money, +for convenience.’ + +‘Convenience is exactly the phrase I wanted and could not catch.’ + +‘It is not the word _I_ wanted, nor do I think we mean the same thing by +it.’ + +‘What I mean is this,’ said Atlee, with a firm voice, ‘that when a young +girl has decided in her own mind that she has had enough of that social +bondage of the daughter, and cannot marry the man she would like, she will +marry the man that she can.’ + +‘And like him too,’ added Nina, with a strange, dubious sort of smile. + +‘Yes, and like him too; for there is a curious feature in the woman’s +nature that, without any falsehood or disloyalty, permits her to like +different people in different ways, so that the quiet, gentle, almost +impassive woman might, if differently mated, have been a being of fervid +temper, headstrong and passionate. If it were not for this species of +accommodation, marriage would be a worse thing than it is.’ + +‘I never suspected you of having made a study of the subject. Since when +have you devoted your attention to the theme?’ + +‘I could answer in the words of Wilkes--since I have had the honour to +know your Royal Highness; but perhaps you might be displeased with the +flippancy.’ + +‘I should think that very probable,’ said she gravely. + +‘Don’t look so serious. Remember that I did not commit myself after all.’ + +‘I thought it was possible to discuss this problem without a personality.’ + +‘Don’t you know that, let one deal in abstractions as long as he will, he +is only skirmishing around special instances. It is out of what I glean +from individuals I make up my generalities.’ + +‘Am I to understand by this that I have supplied you with the material of +one of these reflections?’ + +‘You have given me the subject of many. If I were to tell you how often I +have thought of you, I could not answer for the words in which I might tell +it.’ + +‘Do not tell it, then.’ + +‘I know--I am aware--I have heard since I came here that there is a special +reason why you could not listen to me.’ + +‘And being so, why do you propose that I should hear you?’ + +‘I will tell you,’ said he, with an earnestness that almost startled +her: ‘I will tell you, because there are things on which a doubt or an +equivocation are actually maddening; and I will not, I cannot, believe that +you have accepted Cecil Walpole.’ + +‘Will you please to say why it should seem so incredible?’ + +‘Because I have seen you not merely in admiration, and that admiration +would be better conveyed by a stronger word; and because I have measured +you with others infinitely beneath you in every way, and who are yet +soaring into very high regions indeed; because I have learned enough of the +world to know that alongside of--often above--the influence that men are +wielding in life by their genius and their capacity, there is another power +exercised by women of marvellous beauty, of infinite attractions, and +exquisite grace, which sways and moulds the fate of mankind far more than +Cabinets and Councils. There are not above half a dozen of these in Europe, +and you might be one added to the number.’ + +‘Even admitting all this--and I don’t see that I should go so far--it is no +answer to my question.’ + +‘Must I then say there can be no--not companionship, that’s not the word; +no, I must take the French expression, and call it _solidarité_--there can +be no _solidarité_ of interests, of objects, of passions, or of hopes, +between people so widely dissevered as you and Walpole. I am so convinced +of this, that still I can dare to declare I cannot believe you could marry +him.’ + +‘And if I were to tell you it were true?’ + +‘I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the mere mention of +to-morrow would offend you. It is no disparagement of Walpole to say he is +unworthy of you, for who would be worthy? but the presumption of his daring +is enough to excite indignation--at least, I feel it such. How he could +dare to link his supreme littleness with consummate perfection; to freight +the miserable barque of his fortunes with so precious a cargo; to encounter +the feeling--and there is no escape for it--“I must drag that woman down, +not alone into obscurity, but into all the sordid meanness of a small +condition, that never can emerge into anything better.” He cannot disguise +from himself that it is not within his reach to attain power, or place, +or high consideration. Such men make no name in life; they leave no +mark on their time. They are heaven-born subordinates, and never refute +their destiny. Does a woman with ambition--does a woman conscious of +her own great merits--condescend to ally herself, not alone with small +fortune--that might be borne--but with the smaller associations that make +up these men’s lives? with the peddling efforts to mount even one rung +higher of that crazy little ladder of their ambition--to be a clerk of +another grade--a creature of some fifty pounds more--a being in an upper +office?’ + +‘And the prince--for he ought to be at least a prince who should make me +the offer of his name--whence is he to come, Mr. Atlee?’ + +‘There are men who are not born to princely station, who by their genius +and their determination are just as sure to become famous, and who need but +the glorious prize of such a woman’s love--No, no, don’t treat what I say +as rant and rodomontade; these are words of sober sense and seriousness.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said she, with a faint sigh. ‘So that it really amounts to +this--that I shall actually have missed my whole fortune in life--thrown +myself away--all because I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.’ + +Nothing less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self-possession could +have sustained this speech unabashed. + +‘You have only said what my heart has told me many a day since.’ + +‘But you seem to forget,’ added she, with a very faint curl of scorn on +her lip, ‘that I had no more to guide me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s +affection than that of his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily +believe in the latter than the former.’ + +‘Believe in both,’ cried he warmly. ‘If I have conquered difficulties in +life, if I have achieved some successes--now for a passing triumph, now +for a moment of gratified vanity, now for a mere caprice--try me by a mere +hope--I only plead for a hope--try me by hope of being one day worthy of +calling that hand my own.’ + +As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand; but she withdrew it coldly and +slowly, saying, ‘I have no fancy to make myself the prize of any success in +life, political or literary; nor can I believe that the man who reasons +in this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,’ added she, more +gravely, ‘your memory may not be as good as mine, and you will pardon me +if I remind you that, almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of +friendship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. We agreed +that each of us claimed for their native land the mythical Bohemia, and we +agreed, besides, that the natives of that country are admirable colleagues, +but not good partners.’ + +‘You are not quite fair in this,’ he began; but before he could say more +Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and cried out, ‘It’s all true. The people +are in wild excitement, and all declare that they will not let him be +taken. Oh! I forgot,’ added he. ‘You were not here when my father and I +were called away by the despatch from the police-station, to say that +Donogan has been seen at Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog. +Of course, this is mere rumour; but the constabulary are determined to +capture him, and Curtis has written to inform my father that a party of +police will patrol the grounds here this evening.’ + +‘And if they should take him, what would happen--to him, I mean?’ asked +Nina coldly. + +‘An escaped convict is usually condemned to death; but I suppose they would +not hang him,’ said Dick. + +‘Hang him!’ cried Atlee; ‘nothing of the kind. Mr. Gladstone would present +him with a suit of clothes, a ten-pound note, and a first-class passage to +America. He would make a “healing measure” of him.’ + +‘I must say, gentlemen,’ said Nina scornfully, ‘you can discuss your +friend’s fate with a marvellous equanimity.’ + +‘So we do,’ rejoined Atlee. ‘He is another Bohemian.’ + +‘Don’t say so, sir,’ said she passionately. ‘The men who put their lives on +a venture--and that venture not a mere gain to themselves--are in nowise +the associates of those poor adventurers who are gambling for their daily +living. He is a rebel, if you like; but he believes in rebellion. How much +do you believe in, Mr. Atlee?’ + +‘I say, Joe, you are getting the worst of this discussion. Seriously, +however, I hope they’ll not catch poor Donogan; and my father has asked +Curtis to come over and dine here, and I trust to a good fire and some old +claret to keep him quiet for this evening, at least. We must not molest the +police; but there’s no great harm done if we mislead them.’ + +‘Once in the drawing-room, if Mademoiselle Kostalergi will only condescend +to aid us,’ added Atlee, ‘I think Curtis will be more than a chief +constable if he will bethink him of his duty.’ + +‘You are a strange set of people, you Irish,’ said Nina, as she walked +away. ‘Even such of you as don’t want to overthrow the Government are +always ready to impede its march and contribute to its difficulties.’ + +‘She only meant that for an impertinence,’ said Atlee, after she left +the room; ‘but she was wonderfully near the truth, though not truthfully +expressed.’ + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIII + +THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT + + +There was but one heavy heart at the dinner-table that day; but Nina’s +pride was proof against any disclosure of suffering, and though she was +tortured by anxiety and fevered with doubt, none--not even Kate--suspected +that any care weighed on her. + +As for Kate herself, her happiness beamed in every line and lineament +of her handsome face. The captain--to give him the name by which he was +known--had been up that day, and partaken of an afternoon tea with his aunt +and Kate. Her spirits were excellent, and all the promise of the future was +rose-coloured and bright. The little cloud of what trouble the trial might +bring was not suffered to darken the cheerful meeting, and it was the one +only bitter in their cup. + +To divert Curtis from this theme, on which, with the accustomed _mal à +propos_ of an awkward man, he wished to talk, the young men led him to the +subject of Donogan and his party. + +‘I believe we’ll take him this time,’ said Curtis. ‘He must have some close +relations with some one about Moate or Kilbeggan, for it is remarked he +cannot keep away from the neighbourhood; but who are his friends, or what +they are meditating, we cannot guess.’ + +‘If what Mademoiselle Kostalergi said this morning be correct,’ remarked +Atlee, ‘conjecture is unnecessary. She told Dick and myself that every +Irishman is at heart a rebel.’ + +‘I said more or less of one, Mr. Atlee, since there are some who have not +the courage of their opinions.’ + +‘I hope you are gratified by the emendation,’ whispered Dick; and then +added aloud, ‘Donogan is not one of these.’ + +‘He’s a consummate fool,’ cried Curtis bluntly. ‘He thinks the attack of +a police-barrack or the capture of a few firelocks will revolutionise +Ireland.’ + +‘He forgets that there are twelve thousand police, officered by such men as +yourself, captain,’ said Nina gravely. + +‘Well, there might be worse,’ rejoined Curtis doggedly, for he was not +quite sure of the sincerity of the speaker. + +‘What will you be the better of taking him?’ said Kilgobbin. ‘If the whole +tree be pernicious, where’s the use of plucking one leaf off it?’ + +‘The captain has nothing to do with that,’ said Atlee, ‘any more than +a hound has to discuss the morality of foxhunting--his business is the +pursuit.’ + +‘I don’t like your simile, Mr. Atlee,’ said Nina, while she whispered some +words to the captain, and drew him in this way into a confidential talk. + +‘I don’t mind him at all, Miss Nina,’ said Curtis; ‘he’s one of those +fellows on the press, and they are always saying impertinent things to keep +their talents in wind. I’ll tell you, in confidence, how wrong he is. I +have just had a meeting with the Chief Secretary, who told me that the +popish bishops are not at all pleased with the leniency of the Government; +that whatever “healing measures” Mr. Gladstone contemplates, ought to be +for the Church and the Catholics; that the Fenians or the Nationalists +are the enemies of the Holy Father; and that the time has come for the +Government to hunt them down, and give over the rule of Ireland to the +Cardinal and his party.’ + +‘That seems to me very reasonable, and very logical,’ said Nina. + +‘Well, it is and it is not. If you want peace in the rabbit-warren, you +must banish either the rats or the rabbits; and I suppose either the +Protestants or the Papists must have it their own way here.’ + +‘Then you mean to capture this man?’ + +‘We do--we are determined on that. And, what’s more, I’d hang him if I had +the power.’ + +‘And why?’ + +‘Just because he isn’t a bad fellow! There’s no use in hanging a bad fellow +in Ireland--it frightens nobody; but if you hang a respectable man, a man +that has done generous and fine things, it produces a great effect on +society, and is a terrible example.’ + +‘There may be a deep wisdom in what you say.’ + +‘Not that they’ll mind me for all that. It’s the men like myself, Miss +Nina, who know Ireland well, who know every assize town in the country, and +what the juries will do in each, are never consulted in England. They say, +“Let Curtis catch him--that’s his business.”’ + +‘And how will you do it?’ + +‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t men enough to watch all the roads; but I’ll take +care to have my people where he’s least likely to go, that is, to the +north. He’s a cunning fellow is Dan, and he’d make for the Shannon if he +could; but now that he knows we ‘re after him, he’ll turn to Antrim or +Derry. He’ll cut across Westmeath, and make north, if he gets away from +this.’ + +‘That is a very acute calculation of yours; and where do you suspect he may +be now--I mean, at this moment we’re talking?’ + +‘He’s not three miles from where we’re sitting,’ said he, in a low whisper, +and a cautious glance round the table. ‘He’s hid in the bog outside. +There’s scores of places there a man could hide in, and never be tracked; +and there’s few fellows would like to meet Donogan single-handed. He’s as +active as a rope-dancer, and he’s as courageous as the devil.’ + +‘It would be a pity to hang such a fellow.’ + +‘There’s plenty more of the same sort--not exactly as good as him, perhaps, +for Dan was a gentleman once.’ + +‘And is, probably, still?’ + +‘It would be hard for him, with the rapscallions he has to live with, and +not five shillings in his pocket, besides.’ + +‘I don’t know, after all, if you’ll be happier for giving him up to the +law. He may have a mother, a sister, a wife, or a sweetheart.’ + +‘He may have a sweetheart, but I know he has none of the others. He said, +in the dock, that no man could quit life at less cost--that there wasn’t +one to grieve after him.’ + +‘Poor fellow! that was a sad confession.’ + +‘We’re not all to turn Fenians, Miss Nina, because we’re only children and +unmarried.’ + +‘You are too clever for me to dispute with,’ said she, in affected +humility; ‘but I like greatly to hear you talk of Ireland. Now, what number +of people have you here?’ + +‘I have my orderly, and two men to patrol the demesne; but to-morrow we’ll +draw the net tighter. We’ll call in all the party from Moate, and from +information I have got, we’re sure to track him.’ + +‘What confidences is Curtis making with Mademoiselle Nina?’ said Atlee, +who, though affecting to join the general conversation, had never ceased to +watch them. + +‘The captain is telling me how he put down the Fenians in the rising of +‘61,’ said Nina calmly. + +‘And did he? I say, Curtis, have you really suppressed rebellion in +Ireland?’ + +‘No; nor won’t, Mr. Joe Atlee, till we put down the rascally press--the +unprincipled penny-a-liners, that write treason to pay for their dinner.’ + +‘Poor fellows!’ replied Atlee. ‘Let us hope it does not interfere with +their digestion. But seriously, mademoiselle, does it not give you a great +notion of our insecurity here in Ireland when you see to what we trust, law +and order. + +‘Never mind him, Curtis,’ said Kilgobbin. ‘When these fellows are not +saying sharp things, they have to be silent.’ + +While the conversation went briskly on, Nina contrived to glance unnoticed +at her watch, and saw that it wanted only a quarter of an hour to nine. +Nine was the hour she had named to Donogan to be in the garden, and she +already trembled at the danger to which she had exposed him. She reasoned +thus: so reckless and fearless is this man, that, if he should have come +determined to see me, and I do not go to meet him, he is quite capable of +entering the house boldly, even at the cost of being captured. The very +price he would have to pay for his rashness would be its temptation.’ + +A sudden cast of seriousness overcame her as she thus thought, and Kate, +perceiving it, rose at once to retire. + +‘You were not ill, dearest Nina? I saw you grow pale, and I fancied for a +moment you seemed faint.’ + +‘No; a mere passing weakness. I shall lie down and be better presently.’ + +‘And then you’ll come up to aunt’s room--I call godmother aunt now--and +take tea with Gorman and us all.’ + +‘Yes, I’ll do that after a little rest. I’ll take half an hour or so of +quiet,’ said she, in broken utterances. ‘I suppose the gentlemen will sit +over their wine; there’s no fear of their breaking-up.’ + +‘Very little _fear_, indeed,’ said Kate, laughing at the word. ‘Papa made +me give out some of his rare old ‘41 wine to-day, and they’re not likely to +leave it.’ + +‘Bye-bye, then, for a little while,’ said Nina dreamily, for her thoughts +had gone off on another track. ‘I shall join you later on.’ + +Kate tripped gaily up the stairs, singing pleasantly as she went, for hers +was a happy heart and a hopeful. + +Nina lingered for a moment with her hand on the banister, and then hurried +to her room. + +It was a still cold night of deep winter, a very faint crescent of a new +moon was low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, slightly crisped with frost, +covered the ground. Nina opened her window and looked out. All was still +and quiet without--not a twig moved. She bent her ear to listen, thinking +that on the frozen ground a step might perhaps be heard, and it was a +relief to her anxiety when she heard nothing. The chill cold air that came +in through the window warned her to muffle herself well, and she drew the +hood of her scarlet cloak over her head. Strong-booted, and with warm +gloves, she stood for a moment at her door to listen, and finding all +quiet, she slowly descended the stairs and gained the hall. She started +affrighted as she entered, thinking there was some one seated at the table, +but she rallied in an instant, as she saw it was only the loose horseman’s +coat or cloak of the chief constable, which, lined with red, and with the +gold-laced cap beside it, made up the delusion that alarmed her. + +It was not an easy task to withdraw the heavy bolts and bars that secured +the massive door, and even to turn the heavy key in the lock required an +effort; but she succeeded at length, and issued forth into the open. + +‘How I hope he has not come! how I pray he has not ventured!’ said she to +herself as she walked along. ‘Leave-takings are sad things, and why incur +one so full of peril and misery too? When I wrote to him, of course I knew +nothing of his danger, and it is exactly his danger will make him come!’ +She knew of others to whom such reasonings would not have applied, and a +scornful shake of the head showed that she would not think of them at such +a moment. The sound of her own footsteps on the crisp ground made her once +or twice believe she heard some one coming, and as she stopped to listen, +the strong beating of her heart could be counted. It was not fear--at least +not fear in the sense of a personal danger--it was that high tension which +great anxiety lends to the nerves, exalting vitality to a state in which a +sensation is as powerful as a material influence. + +She ascended the steps of the little terraced mound of the rendezvous one +by one, overwhelmed almost to fainting by some imagined analogy with the +scaffold, which might be the fate of him she was going to meet. + +He was standing under a tree, his arms crossed on his breast, as she came +up. The moment she appeared, he rushed to meet her, and throwing himself on +one knee, he seized her hand and kissed it. + +‘Do you know your danger in being here?’ she asked, as she surrendered her +hand to his grasp. + +‘I know it all, and this moment repays it tenfold.’ + +‘You cannot know the full extent of the peril; you cannot know that Captain +Curtis and his people are in the castle at this moment, that they are in +full cry after you, and that every avenue to this spot is watched and +guarded.’ + +‘What care I! Have I not this?’ And he covered her hand with kisses. + +‘Every moment that you are here increases your danger, and if my absence +should become known, there will be a search after me. I shall never forgive +myself if my folly should lead to your being captured.’ + +‘If I could but feel my fate was linked with yours, I’d give my life for it +willingly.’ + +‘It was not to listen to such words as these I came here.’ + +‘Remember, dearest, they are the last confessions of one you shall never +see more. They are the last cry of a heart that will soon be still for +ever.’ + +‘No, no, no!’ cried she passionately. ‘There is life enough left for you to +win a worthy name. Listen to me calmly now: I have heard from Curtis within +the last hour all his plans for your capture; I know where his patrols are +stationed, and the roads they are to watch.’ + +‘And did you care to do this?’ said he tenderly. + +‘I would do more than that to save you.’ + +‘Oh, do not say so!’ cried he wildly, ‘or you will give me such a desire to +live as will make a coward of me.’ + +‘Curtis suspects you will go northward; either he has had information, or +computes it from what you have done already.’ + +‘He is wrong, then. When I go hence, it shall be to the court-house at +Tullamore, where I mean to give myself up.’ + +‘As what?’ + +‘As what I am--a rebel, convicted, sentenced, and escaped, and still a +rebel.’ + +‘You do not, then, care for life?’ + +‘Do I not, for such moments of life as this!’ cried he, as, with a wild +rapture, he kissed her hand again and again. + +‘And were I to ask you, you would not try to save your life?’ + +‘To share that life with you there is not anything I would not dare. To +live and know you were another’s is more than I can face. Tell me, Nina, is +it true you are to be the wife of this soldier? I cannot utter his name.’ + +‘I am to be married to Mr. Walpole.’ + +‘What! to that contemptuous young man you have already told me so much of. +How have they brought you down to this?’ + +‘There is no thought of bringing down; his rank and place are above my +own--he is by family and connection superior to us all.’ + +‘And what is he, or how does he aspire to you? Is the vulgar security +of competence to live on--is that enough for one like you? is the +well-balanced good-breeding of common politeness enough to fill a heart +that should be fed on passionate devotion? You may link yourself to +mediocrity, but can you humble your nature to resemble it. Do you believe +you can plod on the dreary road of life without an impulse or an ambition, +or blend your thoughts with those of a man who has neither?’ + +She stood still and did not utter a word. + +‘There are some--I do not know if you are one of them--who have an almost +shrinking dread of poverty.’ + +‘I am not afraid of poverty.’ + +‘It has but one antidote, I know--intense love! The all-powerful sense of +living for another begets indifference to the little straits and trials of +narrow fortune, till the mind at last comes to feel how much there is to +live for beyond the indulgence of vulgar enjoyments; and if, to crown all, +a high ambition be present, there will be an ecstasy of bliss no words can +measure.’ + +‘Have you failed in Ireland?’ asked she suddenly. + +‘Failed, so far as to know that a rebellion will only ratify the subjection +of the country to England; a reconquest would be slavery. The chronic +discontent that burns in every peasant heart will do more than the appeal +to arms. It is slow, but it is certain.’ + +‘And where is your part?’ + +‘My part is in another land; my fortune is linked with America--that is, if +I care to have a fortune.’ + +‘Come, come, Donogan,’ cried she, calling him inadvertently by his name, +‘men like you do not give up the battle of life so easily. It is the very +essence of their natures to resist pressure and defy defeat.’ + +‘So I could; so I am ready to show myself. Give me but hope. There are high +paths to be trodden in more than one region of the globe. There are great +prizes to be wrestled for, but it must be by him who would share them with +another. Tell me, Nina,’ said he suddenly, lowering his voice to a tone +of exquisite tenderness, ‘have you never, as a little child, played at +that game of what is called seeking your fortune, wandered out into some +thick wood or along a winding rivulet, to meet whatever little incident +imagination might dignify into adventure; and in the chance heroism of your +situation have you not found an intense delight? And if so in childhood, +why not see if adult years cannot renew the experience? Why not see if the +great world be not as dramatic as the small one? I should say it is still +more so. I know you have courage.’ + +‘And what will courage do for me?’ asked she, after a pause. + +‘For you, not much; for me, everything.’ + +‘I do not understand you.’ + +‘I mean this--that if that stout heart could dare the venture and trust its +fate to me--to me, poor, outlawed, and doomed--there would be a grander +heroism in a girl’s nature than ever found home in a man’s.’ + +‘And what should I be?’ + +‘My wife within an hour; my idol while I live.’ + +‘There are some who would give this another name than courage,’ said she +thoughtfully. + +‘Let them call it what they will, Nina. Is it not to the unbounded trust of +a nature that is above all others that I, poor, unknown, ignoble as I +am, appeal when I ask, Will you be mine? One word--only one--or, better +still--’ + +He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and drawing her head towards his, +kissed her cheek rapturously. + +With wild and fervent words, he now told her rapidly that he had come +prepared to make her the declaration, and had provided everything, in the +event of her compliance, for their flight. By an unused path through the +bog they could gain the main road to Maryborough, where a priest, well +known in the Fenian interest, would join them in marriage. The officials +of the railroad were largely imbued with the Nationalist sentiment, and +Donogan could be sure of safe crossing to Kilkenny, where the members of +the party were in great force. + +In a very few words he told her how, by the mere utterance of his name, he +could secure the faithful services and the devotion of the people in every +town or village of the kingdom. ‘The English have done this for us,’ cried +he, ‘and we thank them for it. They have popularised rebellion in a way +that all our attempts could never have accomplished. How could I, for +instance, gain access to those little gatherings at fair or market, in the +yard before the chapel, or the square before the court-house--how could +I be able to explain to those groups of country-people what we mean by a +rising in Ireland? what we purpose by a revolt against England? how it is +to be carried on, or for whose benefit? what the prizes of success, what +the cost of failure? Yet the English have contrived to embody all these in +one word, and that word _my_ name!’ + +There was a certain artifice, there is no doubt, in the way in which this +poorly-clad and not distinguished-looking man contrived to surround himself +with attributes of power and influence; and his self-reliance imparted to +his voice as he spoke a tone of confidence that was actually dignified. And +besides this, there was personal daring--for his life was on the hazard, +and it was the very contingency of which he seemed to take the least heed. + +Not less adroit, too, was the way in which he showed what a shock +and amazement her conduct would occasion in that world of her +acquaintances--that world which had hitherto regarded her as essentially a +pleasure-seeker, self-indulgent and capricious. ‘“Which of us all,” will +they say, “could have done what that girl has done? Which of us, having the +world at her feet, her destiny at her very bidding, would go off and brave +the storms of life out of the heroism of her own nature? How we all misread +her nature! how wrongfully and unfairly we judged her! In what utter +ignorance of her real character was every interpretation we made! How +scornfully has she, by one act, replied to all our misconstruction of her! +What a sarcasm on all our worldliness is her devotion!”’ + +He was eloquent, after a fashion, and he had, above most men, the charm of +a voice of singular sweetness and melody. It was clear as a bell, and he +could modulate its tones till, like the drip, drip of water on a rock, they +fell one by one upon the ear. Masses had often been moved by the power of +his words, and the mesmeric influence of persuasiveness was a gift to do +him good service now. + +There was much in the man that she liked. She liked his rugged boldness and +determination; she liked his contempt for danger and his self-reliance; +and, essentially, she liked how totally different he was to all other men. +He had not their objects, their hopes, their fears, and their ways. To +share the destiny of such a man was to ensure a life that could not pass +unrecorded. There might be storm, and even shipwreck, but there was +notoriety--perhaps even fame! + +And how mean and vulgar did all the others she had known seem by comparison +with him--how contemptible the polished insipidity of Walpole, how +artificial the neatly-turned epigrams of Atlee. How would either of these +have behaved in such a moment of danger as this man’s? Every minute he +passed there was another peril to his life, and yet he had no thought for +himself--his whole anxiety was to gain time to appeal to her. He told her +she was more to him than his ambition--she saw herself she was more to +him than life. The whirlwind rapidity of his eloquence also moved her, +and the varied arguments he addressed--now to her heroism, now to her +self-sacrifice, now to the power of her beauty, now to the contempt she +felt for the inglorious lives of commonplace people--the ignoble herd who +passed unnoticed. All these swayed her; and after a long interval, in which +she heard him without a word, she said, in a low murmur to herself, ‘I will +do it.’ + +Donogan clasped her to his heart as she said it, and held her some seconds +in a fast embrace. ‘At last I know what it is to love,’ cried he, with +rapture. + +‘Look there!’ cried she, suddenly disengaging herself from his arm. ‘They +are in the drawing-room already. I can see them as they pass the windows. I +must go back, if it be for a moment, as I should be missed.’ + +‘Can I let you leave me now?’ he said, and the tears were in his eyes as he +spoke. + +‘I have given you my word, and you may trust me,’ said she, as she held out +her hand. + +‘I was forgetting this document: this is the lease or the agreement I told +you of.’ She took it, and hurried away. + +In less than five minutes afterwards she was among the company in the +drawing-room. + +‘Here have I been singing a rebel ballad, Nina,’ said Kate, ‘and not +knowing the while it was Mr. Atlee who wrote it.’ + +‘What, Mr. Atlee,’ cried Nina, ‘is the “Time to begin” yours?’ And then, +without waiting for an answer, she seated herself at the piano, and +striking the chords of the accompaniment with a wild and vigorous hand, she +sang-- + + ‘If the moment is come and the hour to need us, + If we stand man to man, like kindred and kin; + If we know we have one who is ready to lead us, + What want we for more than the word to begin?’ + +The wild ring of defiance in which her clear, full voice gave out these +words, seemed to electrify all present, and to a second or two of perfect +silence a burst of applause followed, that even Curtis, with all his +loyalty, could not refrain from joining. + +‘Thank God, you’re not a man, Miss Nina!’ cried he fervently. + +‘I’m not sure she’s not more dangerous as she is,’ said Lord Kilgobbin. +‘There’s people out there in the bog, starving and half-naked, would face +the Queen’s Guards if they only heard her voice to cheer them on. Take my +word for it, rebellion would have died out long ago in Ireland if there +wasn’t the woman’s heart to warm it.’ + +‘If it were not too great a liberty, Mademoiselle Kostalergi,’ said Joe,’ +I should tell you that you have not caught the true expression of my song. +The brilliant bravura in which you gave the last line, immensely exciting +as it was, is not correct. The whole force consists in the concentrated +power of a fixed resolve--the passage should be subdued.’ + +An insolent toss of the head was all Nina’s reply, and there was a +stillness in the room, as, exchanging looks with each other, the different +persons there expressed their amazement at Atlee’s daring. + +‘Who’s for a rubber of whist?’ said Lord Kilgobbin, to relieve the awkward +pause. ‘Are you, Curtis? Atlee, I know, is ready.’ + +‘Here is all prepared,’ said Dick. ‘Captain Curtis told me before dinner +that he would not like to go to bed till he had his sergeant’s report, and +so I have ordered a broiled bone to be ready at one o’clock, and we’ll sit +up as late as he likes after.’ + +‘Make the stake pounds and fives,’ cried Joe, ‘and I should pronounce your +arrangements perfection.’ + +‘With this amendment,’ interposed my lord, ‘that nobody is expected to +pay!’ + +‘I say, Joe,’ whispered Dick, as they drew nigh the table, ‘my cousin is +angry with you; why have you not asked her to sing?’ + +‘Because she expects it; because she’s tossing over the music yonder to +provoke it; because she’s in a furious rage with me: that will be nine +points of the game in my favour,’ hissed he out between his teeth. + +‘You are utterly wrong--you mistake her altogether.’ + +‘Mistake a woman! Dick, will you tell me what I _do_ know, if I do not read +every turn and trick of their tortuous nature? They are occasionally hard +to decipher when they’re displeased. It’s very big print indeed when +they’re angry.’ + +‘You’re off, are you?’ asked Nina, as Kate was about to leave. + +‘Yes; I’m going to read to him.’ + +‘To read to him!’ said Nina, laughing. ‘How nice it sounds, when one sums +up all existence in a pronoun. Good-night, dearest--good-night,’ and she +kissed her twice. And then, as Kate reached the door, she ran towards her, +and said, ‘Kiss me again, my dearest Kate!’ + +‘I declare you have left a tear upon my cheek,’ said Kate. + +‘It was about all I could give you as a wedding-present,’ muttered Nina, as +she turned away. + +‘Are you come to study whist, Nina?’ said Lord Kilgobbin, as she drew nigh +the table. + +[Illustration: ‘I declare you have left a tear upon my cheek,’ said Kate] + +‘No, my lord; I have no talent for games, but I like to look at the +players.’ + +Joe touched Dick with his foot, and shot a cunning glance towards him, as +though to say, ‘Was I not correct in all I said?’ + +‘Couldn’t you sing us something, my dear? we’re not such infatuated +gamblers that we’ll not like to hear you--eh, Atlee?’ + +‘Well, my lord, I don’t know, I’m not sure--that is, I don’t see how a +memory for trumps is to be maintained through the fascinating charm of +mademoiselle’s voice. And as for cards, it’s enough for Miss Kostalergi to +be in the room to make one forget not only the cards, but the Fenians.’ + +‘If it was only out of loyalty, then, I should leave you!’ said she, and +walked proudly away. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIV + +NEXT MORNING + + +The whist-party did not break up till nigh morning. The sergeant had once +appeared at the drawing-room to announce that all was quiet without. There +had been no sign of any rising of the people, nor any disposition to molest +the police. Indeed, so peaceful did everything look, and such an air of +easy indifference pervaded the country, the police were half disposed +to believe that the report of Donogan being in the neighbourhood was +unfounded, and not impossibly circulated to draw off attention from some +other part of the country. + +This was also Lord Kilgobbin’s belief. ‘The man has no friends, or even +warm followers, down here. It was the merest accident first led him to this +part of the country, where, besides, we are all too poor to be rebels. It’s +only down in Meath, where the people are well off, and rents are not too +high, that people can afford to be Fenians.’ + +While he was enunciating this fact to Curtis, they were walking up and down +the breakfast-room, waiting for the appearance of the ladies to make tea. + +‘I declare it’s nigh eleven o’clock,’ said Curtis, ‘and I meant to have +been over two baronies before this hour.’ + +‘Don’t distress yourself, captain. The man was never within fifty miles of +where we are. And why would he? It is not the Bog of Allen is the place for +a revolution.’ + +‘It’s always the way with the people at the Castle,’ grumbled out Curtis. +‘They know more of what’s going on down the country than we that live here! +It’s one despatch after another. Head-centre Such-a-one is at the “Three +Cripples.” He slept there two nights; he swore in fifteen men last +Saturday, and they’ll tell you where he bought a pair of corduroy breeches, +and what he ate for his breakfast--’ + +‘I wish we had ours,’ broke in Kilgobbin. ‘Where’s Kate all this time?’ + +‘Papa, papa, I want you for a moment; come here to me quickly,’ cried +Kate, whose head appeared for a moment at the door. ‘Here’s very terrible +tidings, papa dearest,’ said she, as she drew him along towards his study. +‘Nina is gone! Nina has run away!’ + +‘Run away for what?’ + +‘Run away to be married; and she is married. Read this, or I’ll read it for +you. A country boy has just brought it from Maryborough.’ + +Like a man stunned almost to insensibility, Kearney crossed his hands +before him, and sat gazing out vacantly before him. + +‘Can you listen to me? can you attend to me, dear papa?’ + +‘Go on,’ said he, in a faint voice. + +‘It is written in a great hurry, and very hard to read. It runs thus: +“Dearest,--I have no time for explainings nor excuses, if I were disposed +to make either, and I will confine myself to a few facts. I was married +this morning to Donogan--the rebel: I know you have added the word, and I +write it to show how our sentiments are united. As people are prone to put +into the lottery the number they have dreamed of, I have taken my ticket +in this greatest of all lotteries on the same wise grounds. I have been +dreaming adventures ever since I was a little child, and it is but natural +that I marry an adventurer.”’ + +A deep groan from the old man made her stop; but as she saw that he was not +changed in colour or feature, she went on-- + +‘“He says he loves me very dearly, and that he will treat me well. I like +to believe both, and I do believe them. He says we shall be very poor for +the present, but that he means to become something or somebody later on. I +do not much care for the poverty, if there is hope; and he is a man to hope +with and to hope from. + +‘“You are, in a measure, the cause of all, since it was to tell me he would +send away all the witnesses against your husband, that is to be, that I +agreed to meet him, and to give me the lease which Miss O’Shea was so rash +as to place in Gill’s hands. This I now send you.”’ + +‘And this she has sent you, Kate?’ asked Kilgobbin. + +‘Yes, papa, it is here, and the master of the _Swallow’s_ receipt for Gill +as a passenger to Quebec.’ + +‘Read on.’ + +‘There is little more, papa, except what I am to say to you--to forgive +her.’ + +‘I can’t forgive her. It was deceit--cruel deceit.’ + +‘It was not, papa. I could swear there was no forethought. If there had +been, she would have told me. She told me everything. She never loved +Walpole; she could not love him. She was marrying him with a broken heart. +It was not that she loved another, but she knew she could have loved +another.’ + +‘Don’t talk such muddle to _me_,’ said he angrily. ‘You fancy life is to +be all courting, but it isn’t. It’s house-rent, and butchers’ bills, and +apothecaries, and the pipe water--it’s shoes, and schooling, and arrears +of rent, and rheumatism, and flannel waistcoats, and toothache have a +considerable space in Paradise!’ And there was a grim comicality in his +utterance of the word. + +‘She said no more than the truth of herself,’ broke in Kate. ‘With all her +queenly ways, she could face poverty bravely--I know it.’ + +‘So you can--any of you, if a man’s making love to you. You care little +enough what you eat, and not much more what you wear, if he tells you it +becomes you; but that’s not the poverty that grinds and crushes. It’s what +comes home in sickness; it’s what meets you in insolent letters, in threats +of this or menaces of that. But what do you know about it, or why do I +speak of it? She’s married a man that could be hanged if the law caught +him, and for no other reason, that I see, than because he’s a felon.’ + +‘I don’t think you are fair to her, papa.’ + +‘Of course I’m not. Is it likely that at sixty I can be as great a fool as +I was at sixteen?’ + +‘So that means that you once thought in the same way that she does?’ + +‘I didn’t say any such thing, miss,’ said he angrily. ‘Did you tell Miss +Betty what’s happened us?’ + +‘I just broke it to her, papa, and she made me run away and read the note +to you. Perhaps you’ll come and speak to her?’ + +‘I will,’ said he, rising and preparing to leave the room. ‘I’d rather hear +I was a bankrupt this morning than that news!’ And he mounted the stairs, +sighing heavily as he went. + +‘Isn’t this fine news the morning has brought us, Miss Betty!’ cried he, as +he entered the room with a haggard look, and hands clasped before him. ‘Did +you ever dream there was such disgrace in store for us?’ + +‘This marriage, you mean,’ said the old lady dryly. + +‘Of course I do--if you call it a marriage at all.’ + +‘I do call it a marriage--here’s Father Tierney’s certificate, a copy made +in his own handwriting: “Daniel Donogan, M.P., of Killamoyle and Innismul, +County Kilkenny, to Virginia Kostalergi, of no place in particular, +daughter of Prince Kostalergi, of the same localities, contracted in holy +matrimony this morning at six o’clock, and witnessed likewise by Morris +McCabe, vestry clerk--Mary Kestinogue, her mark.” Do you want more than +that?’ + +‘Do I want more? Do I want a respectable wedding? Do I want a decent man--a +gentleman--a man fit to maintain her? Is this the way she ought to have +behaved? Is this what we thought of her?’ + +‘It is not, Mat Kearney--you say truth. I never believed so well of her +till now. I never believed before that she had anything in her head but to +catch one of those English puppies, with their soft voices and their sneers +about Ireland. I never saw her that she wasn’t trying to flatter them, and +to please them, and to sing them down, as she called it herself--the very +name fit for it! And that she had the high heart to take a man not only +poor, but with a rope round his neck, shows me how I wronged her. I could +give her five thousand this morning to make her a dowry, and to prove how I +honour her.’ + +‘Can any one tell who he is? What do we know of him?’ + +‘All Ireland knows of him; and, after all, Mat Kearney, she has only done +what her mother did before her.’ + +‘Poor Matty!’ said Kearney, as he drew his hand across his eyes. + +‘Ay, ay! Poor Matty, if you like; but Matty was a beauty run to seed, and, +like the rest of them, she married the first good-looking vagabond she saw. +Now, this girl was in the very height and bloom of her beauty, and she took +a fellow for other qualities than his whiskers or his legs. They tell me he +isn’t even well-looking--so that I have hopes of her.’ + +‘Well, well,’ said Kearney, ‘he has done you a good turn, anyhow--he has +got Peter Gill out of the country.’ + +‘And it’s the one thing that I can’t forgive him, Mat, just the one thing +that’s fretting me now. I was living in hopes to see that scoundrel Peter +on the table, and Counsellor Holmes baiting him in a cross-examination. I +wanted to see how the lawyer wouldn’t leave him a rag of character or a +strip of truth to cover himself with. How he’d tear off his evasions, and +confront him with his own lies, till he wouldn’t know what he was saying or +where he was sitting! I wanted to hear the description he would give of him +to the jury; and I’d go home to my dinner after that, and not wait for the +verdict.’ + +‘All the same, I’m glad we’re rid of Peter.’ + +‘Of course you are. You’re a man, and well pleased when your enemy runs +away; but if you were a woman, Mat Kearney, you’d rather he’d stand out +boldly and meet you, and fight his battle to the end. But they haven’t done +with me yet. I’ll put that little blackguard attorney, that said my letter +was a lease, into Chancery; and it will go hard with me if I don’t have him +struck off the rolls. There’s a small legacy of five hundred pounds left me +the other day, and, with the blessing of Providence, the Common Pleas shall +have it. Don’t shake your head, Mat Kearney. I’m not robbing any one. Your +daughter will have enough and to spare--’ + +‘Oh, godmother,’ cried Kate imploringly. + +‘It wasn’t I, my darling, that said the five hundred would be better spent +on wedding-clothes or house-linen. That delicate and refined suggestion was +your father’s. It was his lordship made the remark.’ + +It was a fortunate accident at that conjuncture that a servant should +announce the arrival of Mr. Flood, the Tory J.P., who, hearing of Donogan’s +escape, had driven over to confer with his brother magistrate. Lord +Kilgobbin was not sorry to quit the field, where he’d certainly earned few +laurels, and hastened down to meet his colleague. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXV + +THE END + + +While the two justices and Curtis discussed the unhappy condition of +Ireland, and deplored the fact that the law-breaker never appealed in vain +to the sympathies of a people whose instincts were adverse to discipline, +Flood’s estimate of Donogan went very far to reconcile Kilgobbin to Nina’s +marriage. + +‘Out of Ireland, you’ll see that man has stuff in him to rise to eminence +and station. All the qualities of which home manufacture would only make +a rebel will combine to form a man of infinite resource and energy in +America. Have you never imagined, Mr. Kearney, that if a man were to employ +the muscular energy to make his way through a drawing-room that he would +use to force his passage through a mob, the effort would be misplaced, and +the man himself a nuisance? Our old institutions, with all their faults, +have certain ordinary characteristics that answer to good-breeding and +good manners--reverence for authority, respect for the gradations of rank, +dislike to civil convulsion, and such like. We do not sit tamely by when +all these are threatened with overthrow; but there are countries where +there are fewer of these traditions, and men like Donogan find their place +there.’ + +While they debated such points as these within-doors, Dick Kearney and +Atlee sat on the steps of the hall door and smoked their cigars. + +‘I must say, Joe,’ said Dick, ‘that your accustomed acuteness cuts but a +very poor figure in the present case. It was no later than last night you +told me that Nina was madly in love with you. Do you remember, as we went +upstairs to bed, what you said on the landing? “That girl is my own. I may +marry her to-morrow, or this day three months.”’ + +‘And I was right.’ + +‘So right were you that she is at this moment the wife of another.’ + +‘And cannot you see why?’ + +‘I suppose I can: she preferred him to you, and I scarcely blame her.’ + +‘No such thing; there was no thought of preference in the matter. If +you were not one of those fellows who mistake an illustration, and see +everything in a figure but the parallel, I should say that I had trained +too finely. Now had she been thoroughbred, I was all right; as a cocktail, +I was all wrong.’ + +‘I own I cannot follow you.’ + +‘Well, the woman was angry, and she married that fellow out of pique.’ + +‘Out of pique?’ + +‘I repeat it. It was a pure case of temper. I would not ask her to sing. I +even found fault with the way she gave the rebel ballad. I told her there +was an old lady--Americanly speaking--at the corner of College Green, who +enunciated the words better, and then I sat down to whist, and would not +even vouchsafe a glance in return for those looks of alternate rage or +languishment she threw across the table. She was frantic. I saw it. There +was nothing she wouldn’t have done. I vow she’d have married even _you_ +at that moment. And with all that, she’d not have done it if she’d been +“clean-bred.” Come, come, don’t flare up, and look as if you’d strike me. +On the mother’s side she was a Kearney, and all the blood of loyalty in her +veins; but there must have been something wrong with the Prince of Delos. +Dido was very angry, but her breeding saved her; _she_ didn’t take a +head-centre because she quarrelled with Æneas.’ + +‘You are, without exception, the most conceited--’ + +‘No, not ass--don’t say ass, for I’m nothing of the kind. Conceited, if you +like, or rather if your natural politeness insists on saying it, and cannot +distinguish between the vanity of a puppy and the self-consciousness +of real power; but come, tell me of something pleasanter than all this +personal discussion--how did mademoiselle convey her tidings? have you seen +her note? was it “transport”? was it high-pitched, or apologetic?’ + +‘Kate read it to me, and I thought it reasonable enough. She had done a +daring thing, and she knew it; she hoped the best, and in any case she was +not faint-hearted.’ + +‘Any mention of me?’ + +‘Not a word--your name does not occur.’ + +‘I thought not; she had not pluck for that. Poor girl, the blow is heavier +than I meant it.’ + +‘She speaks of Walpole; she incloses a few lines to him, and tells my +sister where she will find a small packet of trinkets and such like he had +given her.’ + +‘Natural enough all that. There was no earthly reason why she shouldn’t be +able to talk of Walpole as easily as of Colenso or the cattle plague; but +you see she could not trust herself to approach _my_ name.’ + +‘You’ll provoke me to kick you, Atlee.’ + +‘In that case I shall sit where I am. But I was going to remark that as I +shall start for town by the next train, and intend to meet Walpole, if your +sister desires it, I shall have much pleasure in taking charge of that note +to his address.’ + +‘All right, I’ll tell her. I see that she and Miss Betty are about to drive +over to O’Shea’s Barn, and I’ll give your message at once.’ + +While Dick hastened away on his errand, Joe Atlee sat alone, musing +and thoughtful. I have no reason to presume my reader cares for his +reflections, nor to know the meaning of a strange smile, half scornful and +half sad, that played upon his face. At last he rose slowly, and stood +looking up at the grim old castle, and its quaint blending of ancient +strength and modern deformity. ‘Life here, I take it, will go on pretty +much as before. All the acts of this drama will resemble each other, but my +own little melodrama must open soon. I wonder what sort of house there will +be for Joe Atlee’s benefit.’ + +Atlee was right. Kilgobbin Castle fell back to the ways in which our +first chapter found it, and other interests--especially those of Kate’s +approaching marriage--soon effaced the memory of Nina’s flight and runaway +match. By that happy law by which the waves of events follow and obliterate +each other, the present glided back into the past, and the past faded till +its colours grew uncertain. + +On the second evening after Nina’s departure, Atlee stood on the pier of +Kingstown as the packet drew up at the jetty. Walpole saw him, and waved +his hand in friendly greeting. ‘What news from Kilgobbin?’ cried he, as he +landed. + +‘Nothing very rose-coloured,’ said Atlee, as he handed the note. + +‘Is this true?’ said Walpole, as a slight tremor shook his voice. + +‘All true.’ + +‘Isn’t it Irish?--Irish the whole of it.’ + +‘So they said down there, and, stranger than all, they seemed rather proud +of it.’ + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lord Kilgobbin, by Charles Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD KILGOBBIN *** + +***** This file should be named 8941-0.txt or 8941-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/8/9/4/8941/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders. 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