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, itwashard.’
‘Sohesaid, and sotheybelieved 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?’
‘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!
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 whattheymean.’
‘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, exceptTristram ShandyandTom Jones, and maybeRobinson Crusoe—if that be a novel—my experience goes a short way. When I am not reading what’s useful—as in theFarmer’s Chronicleor 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.
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 satdos à dosto 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, thesouffletthat 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 isyourproject?’
‘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 cantheytell you anything that would be likely to interestyou?’
‘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 thoughtthat.’
‘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 involvedyou, 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 thatmyreasons for avoiding him were exactly as strong asyours, but they sufficed forme.’
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.Wehad 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 neverhis—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.
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 theTimescommissioner 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 sayyouowe 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—