‘‘Tis our fun they can’t forgive us,Nor our wit so sharp and keen;But there’s nothing that provokes themLike 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 usIs 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.
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 ofyouI 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 questionyou, 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.’
‘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.
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 theConvicted 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 theCroppyon 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 inHafiz. I believe you never readHafiz!’
‘No, nor you either.’
‘That’s true; but I can make my ownHafiz, and just as good as the real article. By the way, are you aware that the water-carriers at Tehran singLalla Rookh, and believe it a national poem?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’
‘I’ll bring down anAnacreonwith 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!’