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 thePike, 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 itin 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 treathim? 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.’
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’sFreeman. 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. Whentheysmash 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 thePike, will want something that Mr. Darby McKeown, of theConvicted 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.
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 theTimesnewspaper, 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.
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. “InreKearney. 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 asyoudo.’
‘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.’