‘I took her hand within my own,I drew her gently nearer,And whispered almost on her cheek,“Oh, would that I were dearer.”Dearer! No, that’s not my prayer:A stranger, e’en the merest,Might chance to have some value there;But I would be the dearest.’
‘True, There is No Tender Light There,’ Muttered He, Gazing At Her Eyes
‘What had he done to merit such a hope?’ said she haughtily.
‘Loved her—only loved her!’
‘What value you men must attach to this gift of your affection, when it can nourish such thoughts as these! Your very wilfulness is to win us—is not that your theory? I expect from the man who offers me his heart that he means to share with me his own power and his own ambition—to make me the partner of a station that is to give me some pre-eminence I had not known before, nor could gain unaided.’
‘And you would call that marrying for love?’
‘Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he who makes the life worth living for? Did you hear that shout?’
‘I heard it,’ said he, standing still to listen.
‘It came from the village. What can it mean?’
‘It’s the old war-cry of the houseless,’ said he mournfully. ‘It’s a note we are well used to here. I must go down to learn. I’ll be back presently.’
‘You are not going into danger?’ said she; and her cheek grew paler as she spoke.
‘And if I were, who is to care for it?’
‘Have you no mother, sister, sweetheart?’
‘No, not one of the three. Good-bye.’
‘But if I were to say—stay?’
‘I should still go. To have your love, I’d sacrifice even my honour. Without it—’ he threw up his arms despairingly and rushed away.
‘These are the men whose tempers compromise us,’ said she thoughtfully. ‘We come to accept their violence as a reason, and take mere impetuosity for an argument. I am glad that he did not shake my resolution. There, that was another shout, but it seemed in joy. There was a ring of gladness in it. Now for my sketch.’ And she reseated herself before her easel. ‘He shall see when he comes back how diligently I have worked, and how small a share anxiety has had in my thoughts. The one thing men are not proof against is our independence of them.’ And thus talking in broken sentences to herself, she went on rapidly with her drawing, occasionally stopping to gaze on it, and humming some old Italian ballad to herself. ‘His Greek air was pretty. Not that it was Greek; these fragments of melody were left behind them by the Venetians, who, in all lust of power, made songs about contented poverty and humble joys. I feel intensely hungry, and if my dangerous guest does not return soon, I shall have to breakfast alone—another way of showing him how little his fate has interested me. My foreground here does want that bit of colour. Why does he not come back?’ As she rose to look at her drawing, the sound of somebody running attracted her attention, and turning, she saw it was her foot-page Larry coming at full speed.
‘What is it, Larry? What has happened?’ asked she.
‘You are to go—as fast as you can,’ said he; which being for him a longer speech than usual, seemed to have exhausted him.
‘Go where? and why?’
‘Yes,’ said he, with a stolid look, ‘you are.’
‘I am to do what? Speak out, boy! Who sent you here?’
‘Yes,’ said he again.
‘Are they in trouble yonder? Is there fighting at the village?’
‘No.’ And he shook his head, as though he said so regretfully.
‘Will you tell me what you mean, boy?’
‘The pony is ready?’ said he, as he stooped down to pack away the things in the basket.
‘Is that gentleman coming back here—that gentleman whom you saw with me?’
‘He is gone; he got away.’ And here he laughed in a malicious way, that was more puzzling even than his words.
‘And am I to go back home at once?’
‘Yes,’ replied he resolutely.
‘Do you know why—for what reason?’
‘I do.’
‘Come, like a good boy, tell me, and you shall have this.’ And she drew a piece of silver from her purse, and held it temptingly before him. ‘Why should I go back, now?’
‘Because,’ muttered he, ‘because—’ and it was plain, from the glance in his eyes, that the bribe had engaged all his faculties.
‘So, then, you will not tell me?’ said she, replacing the money in her purse.
‘Yes,’ said he, in a despondent tone.
‘You can have it still, Larry, if you will but say who sent you here.’
‘Hesent me,’ was the answer.
‘Who was he? Do you mean the gentleman who came here with me?’ A nod assented to this. ‘And what did he tell you to say to me?’
‘Yes,’ said he, with a puzzled look, as though once more the confusion of his thoughts was mastering him.
‘So, then, it is that you will not tell me?’ said she angrily. He made no answer, but went on packing the plates in the basket. ‘Leave those there, and go and fetch me some water from the spring yonder.’ And she gave him a jug as she spoke, and now she reseated herself on the grass. He obeyed at once, and returned speedily with water.
‘Come now, Larry,’ said she kindly to him. ‘I’m sure you mean to be a good boy. You shall breakfast with me. Get me a cup, and I’ll give you some milk; here is bread and cold meat.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Larry, whose mouth was already too much engaged for speech.
‘You will tell me by-and-by what they were doing at the village, and what that shouting meant—won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said he, with a nod. Then suddenly bending his head to listen, he motioned with his hand to keep silence, and after a long breath said, ‘They’re coming.’
‘Who are coming?’ asked she eagerly; but at the same instant a man emerged from the copse below the hill, followed by several others, whom she saw by their dress and equipment to belong to the constabulary.
Approaching with his hat in his hand, and with that air of servile civility which marked him, old Gill addressed her. ‘If it’s not displazin’ to ye, miss, we want to ax you a few questions,’ said he.
‘You have no right, sir, to make any such request,’ said she, with a haughty air.
‘There was a man with you, my lady,’ he went on, ‘as you drove through Cruhan, and we want to know where he is now.’
‘That concerns you, sir, and not me.’
‘Maybe it does, my lady,’ said he, with a grin; ‘but I suppose you know who you were travelling with?’
‘You evidently don’t remember, sir, whom you are talking to.’
‘The law is the law, miss, and there’s none of us above it,’ said he, half defiantly; ‘and when there’s some hundred pounds on a man’s head, there’s few of us such fools as to let him slip through our fingers.’
‘I don’t understand you, sir, nor do I care to do so.’
‘The sergeant there has a warrant against him,’ said he, in a whisper he intended to be confidential; ‘and it’s not to do anything that your ladyship would think rude that I came up myself. There’s how it is now,’ muttered he, still lower. ‘They want to search the luggage, and examine the baskets there, and maybe, if you don’t object, they’d look through the carriage.’
‘And if I should object to this insult?’ broke she in.
‘Faix, I believe,’ said he, laughing, ‘they’d do it all the same. Eight hundred—I think it’s eight—isn’t to be made any day of the year!’
‘My uncle is a justice of the peace, Mr. Gill; and you know if he will suffer such an outrage to go unpunished.’
‘There’s the more reason that a justice shouldn’t harbour a Fenian, miss,’ said he boldly; ‘as he’ll know when he sees the search-warrant.’
‘Get ready the carriage, Larry,’ said she, turning contemptuously away, ‘and follow me towards the village.’
‘The sergeant, miss, would like to say a word or two,’ said Gill, in his accustomed voice of servility.
‘I will not speak with him,’ said she proudly, and swept past him.
The constables stood to one side, and saluted in military fashion as she passed down the hill. There was that in her queenlike gesture and carriage that so impressed them, the men stood as though on parade.
Slowly and thoughtfully as she sauntered along, her thoughts turned to Donogan. Had he escaped? was the idea that never left her. The presence of these men here seemed to favour that impression; but there might be others on his track, and if so, how in that wild bleak space was he to conceal himself? A single man moving miles away on the bog could be seen. There was no covert, no shelter anywhere! What an interest did his fate now suggest, and yet a moment back she believed herself indifferent to him. ‘Was he aware of his danger,’ thought she,’ when he lay there talking carelessly to me? was that recklessness the bravery of a bold man who despised peril?’ And if so, what stuff these souls were made of! These were not of the Kearney stamp, that needed to be stimulated and goaded to any effort in life; nor like Atlee, the fellow who relied on trick and knavery for success; still less such as Walpole, self-worshippers and triflers. ‘Yes,’ said she aloud,’ a woman might feel that with such a man at her side the battle of life need not affright her. He might venture too far—he might aspire to much that was beyond his reach, and strive for the impossible; but that grand bold spirit would sustain him, and carry him through all the smaller storms of life: and such a man might be a hero, even to her who saw him daily. These are the dreamers, as we call them,’ said she. ‘How strange it would be iftheyshould prove the realists, and that it wasweshould be the mere shadows! If these be the men who move empires and make history, how doubly ignoble are we in our contempt of them.’ And then she bethought her what a different faculty was that great faith that these men had in themselves from common vanity; and in this way she was led again to compare Donogan and Walpole.
She reached the village before her little carriage had overtaken her, and saw that the people stood about in groups and knots. A depressing silence prevailed over them, and they rarely spoke above a whisper. The same respectful greeting, however, which welcomed her before, met her again; and as they lifted their hats, she saw, or thought she saw, that they looked on her with a more tender interest. Several policemen moved about through the crowd, who, though they saluted her respectfully, could not refrain from scrutinising her appearance and watching her as she went. With that air of haughty self-possession which well became her—for it was no affectation—she swept proudly along, resolutely determined not to utter a word, or even risk a question as to the way.
Twice she turned to see if her pony were coming, and then resumed her road. From the excited air and rapid gestures of the police, as they hurried from place to place, she could guess that up to this Donogan had not been captured. Still, it seemed hopeless that concealment in such a place could be accomplished.
As she gained the little stream that divided the village, she stood for a moment uncertain, when a countrywoman, as it were divining her difficulty, said, ‘If you’ll cross over the bridge, my lady, the path will bring you out on the highroad.’
As Nina turned to thank her, the woman looked up from her task of washing in the river, and made a gesture with her hand towards the bog. Slight as the action was, it appealed to that Southern intelligence that reads a sign even faster than a word. Nina saw that the woman meant to say Donogan had escaped, and once more she said, ‘Thank you—from my heart I thank you!’
Just as she emerged upon the highroad, her pony and carriage came up. A sergeant of police was, however, in waiting beside it, who, saluting her respectfully, said, ‘There was no disrespect meant to you, miss, by our search of the carriage—our duty obliged us to do it. We have a warrant to apprehend the man that was seen with you this morning, and it’s only that we know who you are, and where you come from, prevents us from asking you to come before our chief.’
He presented his arm to assist her to her place as he spoke; but she declined the help, and, without even noticing him in any way, arranged her rugs and wraps around her, took the reins, and motioning Larry to his place, drove on.
‘Is my drawing safe?—have all my brushes and pencils been put in?’ asked she, after a while. But already Larry had taken his leave, and she could see him as he flitted across the bog to catch her by some short cut.
That strange contradiction by which a woman can journey alone and in safety through the midst of a country only short of open insurrection, filled her mind as she went, and thinking of it in every shape and fashion occupied her for miles of the way. The desolation, far as the eye could reach, was complete—there was not a habitation, not a human thing to be seen. The dark-brown desert faded away in the distance into low-lying clouds, the only break to the dull uniformity being some stray ‘clamp,’ as it is called, of turf, left by the owners from some accident of season or bad weather, and which loomed out now against the sky like a vast fortress.
This long, long day—for so without any weariness she felt it—was now in the afternoon, and already long shadows of these turf-mounds stretched their giant limbs across the waste. Nina, who had eaten nothing since early morning, felt faint and hungry. She halted her pony, and taking out some bread and a bottle of milk, proceeded to make a frugal luncheon. The complete loneliness, the perfect silence, in which even the rattling of the harness as the pony shook himself made itself felt, gave something of solemnity to the moment, as the young girl sat there and gazed half terrified around her.
As she looked, she thought she saw something pass from one turf-clamp to the other, and, watching closely, she could distinctly detect a figure crouching near the ground, and, after some minutes, emerging into the open space, again to be hidden by some vast turf-mound. There, now—there could not be a doubt—it was a man, and he was waving his handkerchief as a signal. It was Donogan himself—she could recognise him well. Clearing the long drains at a bound, and with a speed that vouched for perfect training, he came rapidly forward, and, leaping the wide trench, alighted at last on the road beside her.
‘I have watched you for an hour, and but for this lucky halt, I should not have overtaken you after all,’ cried he, as he wiped his brow and stood panting beside her.
‘Do you know that they are in pursuit of you?’ cried she hastily.
‘I know it all. I learned it before I reached the village, and in time—only in time—to make a circuit and reach the bog. Once there, I defy the best of them.’
‘They have what they call a warrant to search for you.’
‘I know that too,’ cried he. ‘No, no!’ said he passionately, as she offered him a drink, ‘let me have it from the cup you have drank from. It may be the last favour I shall ever ask you—don’t refuse me this!’
She touched the glass slightly with her lips, and handed it to him with a smile.
‘What peril would I not brave for this!’ cried he, with a wild ecstasy.
‘Can you not venture to return with me?’ said she, in some confusion, for the bold gleam of his gaze now half abashed her.
‘No. That would be to compromise others as well as myself. I must gain Dublin how I can. There I shall be safe against all pursuit. I have come back for nothing but disappointment,’ added he sorrowfully. ‘This country is not ready to rise—they are too many-minded for a common effort. The men like Wolfe Tone are not to be found amongst us now, and to win freedom you must dare the felony.’
‘Is it not dangerous to delay so long here?’ asked she, looking around her with anxiety.
‘So it is—and I will go. Will you keep this for me?’ said he, placing a thick and much-worn pocket-book in her hands. ‘There are papers there would risk far better heads than mine; and if I should be taken, these must not be discovered. It may be, Nina—oh, forgive me if I say your name! but it is such joy to me to utter it once—it may be that you should chance to hear some word whose warning might save me. If so, and if you would deign to write to me, you’ll find three, if not four, addresses, under any of which you could safely write to me.’
‘I shall not forget. Good fortune be with you. Adieu!’
She held out her hand; but he bent over it, and kissed it rapturously; and when he raised his head, his eyes were streaming, and his cheeks deadly pale. ‘Adieu!’ said she again.
He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips; and when, after she had driven some distance away, she turned to look after him, he was standing on the same spot in the road, his hat at his foot, where it had fallen when he stooped to kiss her hand.
Kate Kearney was in the act of sending out scouts and messengers to look out for Nina, whose long absence had begun to alarm her, when she heard that she had returned and was in her room.
‘What a fright you have given me, darling!’ said Kate, as she threw her arms about her, and kissed her affectionately. ‘Do you know how late you are?’
‘No; I only know how tired I am.’
‘What a long day of fatigue you must have gone through. Tell me of it all.’
‘Tell me rather of yours. You have had the great Mr. Walpole here: is it not so?’
‘Yes; he is still here—he has graciously given us another day, and will not leave till to-morrow night.’
‘By what good fortune have you been so favoured as this?’
‘Ostensibly to finish a long conversation or conference with papa, but really and truthfully, I suspect, to meet Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whose absence has piqued him.’
‘Yes, piqued is the word. It is the extreme of the pain he is capable of feeling. What has he said of it?’
‘Nothing beyond the polite regrets that courtesy could express, and then adverted to something else.’
‘With an abruptness that betrayed preparation?’
‘Perhaps so.’
‘Not perhaps, but certainly so. Vanity such as his has no variety. It repeats its moods over and over; but why do we talk of him? I have other things to tell you of. You know that man who came here with Dick. That Mr. ——’
‘I know—I know,’ cried the other hurriedly, ‘what of him?’
‘He joined me this morning, on my way through the bog, and drove with me to Cruhan.’
‘Indeed!’ muttered Kate thoughtfully.
‘A strange, wayward, impulsive sort of creature—unlike any one—interesting from his strong convictions—’
‘Did he convert you to any of his opinions, Nina?’
‘You mean, make a rebel of me. No; for the simple reason that I had none to surrender. I do not know what is wrong here, nor what people would say was right.’
‘You are aware, then, who he is?’
‘Of course I am. I was on the terrace that night when your brother told you he was Donogan—the famous Fenian Donogan. The secret was not intended for me, but I kept it all the same, and I took an interest in the man from the time I heard it.’
‘You told him, then, that you knew who he was.’
‘To be sure I did, and we are fast friends already; but let me go on with my narrative. Some excitement, some show of disturbance at Cruhan, persuaded him that what he called—I don’t know why—the Crowbar Brigade was at work and that the people were about to be turned adrift on the world by the landlord, and hearing a wild shout from the village, he insisted on going back to learn what it might mean. He had not left me long, when your late steward, Gill, came up with several policemen, to search for the convict Donogan. They had a warrant to apprehend him, and some information as to where he had been housed and sheltered.’
‘Here—with us?’
‘Here—with you! Gill knew it all. This, then, was the reason for that excitement we had seen in the village—the people had heard the police were coming, but for what they knew not; of course the only thought was for their own trouble.’
‘Has he escaped? Is he safe?’
‘Safe so far, that I last saw him on the wide bog, some eight miles away from any human habitation; but where he is to turn to, or who is to shelter him, I cannot say.’
‘He told you there was a price upon his head?’
‘Yes, a few hundred pounds, I forget how much, but he asked me this morning if I did not feel tempted to give him up and earn the reward.’
Kate leaned her head upon her hand, and seemed lost in thought.
‘They will scarcely dare to come and search for him here,’ said she; and, after a pause, added, ‘And yet I suspect that the chief constable, Mr. Curtis, owes, or thinks he owes, us a grudge: he might not be sorry to pass this slight upon papa.’ And she pondered for some time over the thought.
‘Do you think he can escape?’ asked Nina eagerly.
‘Who, Donogan?’
‘Of course—Donogan.’
‘Yes, I suspect he will: these men have popular feeling with them, even amongst many who do not share their opinions. Have you lived long enough amongst us, Nina, to know that we all hate the law? In some shape or other it represents to the Irish mind a tyranny.’
‘You are Greeks without their acuteness,’ said Nina.
‘I’ll not say that,’ said Kate hastily. ‘It is true I know nothing of your people, but I think I could aver that for a shrewd calculation of the cost of a venture, for knowing when caution and when daring will best succeed, the Irish peasant has scarcely a superior anywhere.’
‘I have heard much of his caution this very morning,’ said Nina superciliously.
‘You might have heard far more of his recklessness, if Donogan cared to tell of it,’ said Kate, with irritation. ‘It is not English squadrons and batteries he is called alone to face, he has to meet English gold, that tempts poverty, and English corruption, that begets treachery and betrayal. The one stronghold of the Saxon here is the informer, and mind, I, who tell you this, am no rebel. I would rather live under English law, if English law would not ignore Irish feeling, than I’d accept that Heaven knows what of a government Fenianism could give us.’
‘I care nothing for all this, I don’t well know if I can follow it; but I do know that I’d like this man to escape. He gave me this pocket-book, and told me to keep it safely. It contains some secrets that would compromise people that none suspect, and it has, besides, some three or four addresses to which I could write with safety if I saw cause to warn him of any coming danger.’
‘And you mean to do this?’
‘Of course I do; I feel an interest in this man. I like him. I like his adventurous spirit. I like that ambitious daring to do or to be something beyond the herd around him. I like that readiness he shows to stake his life on an issue. His enthusiasm inflames his whole nature. He vulgarises such fine gentlemen as Mr. Walpole, and such poor pretenders as Joe Atlee, and, indeed, your brother, Kate.’
‘I will suffer no detraction of Dick Kearney,’ said Kate resolutely.
‘Give me a cup of tea, then, and I shall be more mannerly, for I am quite exhausted, and I am afraid my temper is not proof against starvation.’
‘But you will come down to the drawing-room, they are all so eager to see you,’ said Kate caressingly.
‘No; I’ll have my tea and go to bed, and I’ll dream that Mr. Donogan has been made King of Ireland, and made an offer to share the throne with me.’
‘Your Majesty’s tea shall be served at once,’ said Kate, as she curtsied deeply and withdrew.
There were many more pretentious houses than O’Shea’s Barn. It would have been easy enough to discover larger rooms and finer furniture, more numerous servants and more of display in all the details of life; but for an air of quiet comfort, for the certainty of meeting with every material enjoyment that people of moderate fortune aspire to, it stood unrivalled.
The rooms were airy and cheerful, with flowers in summer, as they were well heated and well lighted in winter. The most massive-looking but luxurious old arm-chairs, that modern taste would have repudiated for ugliness, abounded everywhere; and the four cumbrous but comfortable seats that stood around the circular dinner-table—and it was a matter of principle with Miss Betty that the company should never be more numerous—only needed speech to have told of traditions of conviviality for very nigh two centuries back.
As for a dinner at the Barn, the whole countyside confessed that they never knew how it was that Miss Betty’s salmon was ‘curdier’ and her mountain mutton more tender, and her woodcocks racier and of higher flavour, than any one else’s. Her brown sherry you might have equalled—she liked the colour and the heavy taste—but I defy you to match that marvellous port which came in with the cheese, and as little, in these days of light Bordeaux, that stout-hearted Sneyd’s claret, in its ancient decanter, whose delicately fine neck seemed fashioned to retain the bouquet.
The most exquisite compliment that a courtier ever uttered could not have given Miss Betty the same pleasure as to hear one of her guests request a second slice off ‘the haunch.’ This was, indeed, a flattery that appealed to her finest sensibilities, and as she herself carved, she knew how to reward that appreciative man with fat.
Never was the virtue of hospitality more self-rewarding than in her case; and the discriminating individual who ate with gusto, and who never associated the wrong condiment with his food, found favour in her eyes, and was sure of re-invitation.
Fortune had rewarded her with one man of correct taste and exquisite palate as a diner-out. This was the parish priest, the Rev. Luke Delany, who had been educated abroad, and whose natural gifts had been improved by French and Italian experiences. He was a small little meek man, with closely-cut black hair and eyes of the darkest, scrupulously neat in dress, and, by his ruffles and buckled shoes at dinner, affecting something of the abbé in his appearance. To such as associated the Catholic priest with coarse manners, vulgar expressions, or violent sentiments, Father Luke, with his low voice, his well-chosen words, and his universal moderation, was a standing rebuke; and many an English tourist who met him came away with the impression of the gross calumny that associated this man’s order with underbred habits and disloyal ambitions. He spoke little, but he was an admirable listener, and there was a sweet encouragement in the bland nod of his head, and a racy appreciation in the bright twinkle of his humorous eye, that the prosiest talker found irresistible.
There were times, indeed—stirring intervals of political excitement—when Miss Betty would have liked more hardihood and daring in her ghostly counsellor; but Heaven help the man who would have ventured on the open avowal of such opinion or uttered a word in disparagement of Father Luke.
It was in that snug dinner-room I have glanced at that a party of four sat over their wine. They had dined admirably, a bright wood fire blazed on the hearth, and the scene was the emblem of comfort and quiet conviviality. Opposite Miss O’Shea sat Father Delany, and on either side of her her nephew Gorman and Mr. Ralph Miller, in whose honour the present dinner was given.
The Catholic bishop of the diocese had vouchsafed a guarded and cautious approval of Mr. Miller’s views, and secretly instructed Father Delany to learn as much more as he conveniently could of the learned gentleman’s intentions before committing himself to a pledge of hearty support.
‘I will give him a good dinner,’ said Miss O’Shea, ‘and some of the ‘45 claret, and if you cannot get his sentiments out of him after that, I wash my hands of him.’
Father Delany accepted his share of the task, and assuredly Miss Betty did not fail on her part.
The conversation had turned principally on the coming election, and Mr. Miller gave a flourishing account of his success as a canvasser, and even went the length of doubting if any opposition would be offered to him.
‘Ain’t you and young Kearney going on the same ticket?’ asked Gorman, who was too new to Ireland to understand the nice distinctions of party.
‘Pardon me,’ said Miller, ‘we differ essentially.Wewant a government in Ireland—the Nationalists want none.Wedesire order by means of timely concessions and judicious boons to the people. They want disorder—the display of gross injustice—content to wait for a scramble, and see what can come of it.’
‘Mr. Miller’s friends, besides,’ interposed Father Luke, ‘would defend the Church and protect the Holy See’—and this was said with a half-interrogation.
Miller coughed twice, and said, ‘Unquestionably. We have shown our hand already—look what we have done with the Established Church.’
‘You need not be proud of it,’ cried Miss Betty. ‘If you wanted to get rid of the crows, why didn’t you pull down the rookery?’
‘At least they don’t caw so loud as they used,’ said the priest, smiling; and Miller exchanged delighted glances with him for his opinion.
‘I want to be rid of them, root and branch,’ said Miss Betty.
‘If you will vouchsafe us, ma’am, a little patience. Rome was not built in a day. The next victory of our Church must be won by the downfall of the English establishment. Ain’t I right, Father Luke?’
‘I am not quite clear about that,’ said the priest cautiously. ‘Equality is not the safe road to supremacy.’
‘What was that row over towards Croghan Castle this morning?’ asked Gorman, who was getting wearied with a discussion he could not follow. ‘I saw the constabulary going in force there this afternoon.’
‘They were in pursuit of the celebrated Dan Donogan,’ said Father Luke. ‘They say he was seen at Moate.’
‘They say more than that,’ said Miss Betty. ‘They say that he is stopping at Kilgobbin Castle!’
‘I suppose to conduct young Kearney’s election,’ said Miller, laughing.
‘And why should they hunt him down?’ asked Gorman. ‘What has he done?’
‘He’s a Fenian—a head-centre—a man who wants to revolutionise Ireland,’ replied Miller.
‘And destroy the Church,’ chimed in the priest.
‘Humph!’ muttered Gorman, who seemed to imply, Is this all you can lay to his charge? ‘Has he escaped? asked he suddenly.
‘Up to this he has,’ said Miller. ‘I was talking to the constabulary chief this afternoon, and he told me that the fellow is sure to be apprehended. He has taken to the open bog, and there are eighteen in full cry after him. There is a search-warrant, too, arrived, and they mean to look him up at Kilgobbin Castle.’
‘To search Kilgobbin Castle, do you mean?’ asked Gorman.
‘Just so. It will be, as I perceive you think it, a great offence to Mr. Kearney, and it is not impossible that his temper may provoke him to resist it.’
‘The mere rumour may materially assist his son’s election,’ said the priest slyly.
‘Only with the party who have no votes, Father Luke,’ rejoined Miller. ‘That precarious popularity of the mob is about the most dangerous enemy a man can have in Ireland.’
‘You are right, sir,’ said the priest blandly. ‘The real favour of this people is only bestowed on him who has gained the confidence of the clergy.’
‘If that be true,’ cried Gorman, ‘upon my oath I think you are worse off here than in Austria. There, at least, we are beginning to think without the permission of the Church.’
‘Let us have none of your atheism here, young man,’ broke in his aunt angrily. ‘Such sentiments have never been heard in this room before.’
‘If I apprehend Lieutenant Gorman aright,’ interposed Father Luke, ‘he only refers to the late movement of the Austrian Empire with reference to the Concordat, on which, amongst religious men, there are two opinions.’
‘No, no, you mistake me altogether,’ rejoined Gorman. ‘What I mean was, that a man can read, and talk, and think in Austria without the leave of the priest; that he can marry, and if he like, he can die without his assistance.’
‘Gorman, you are a beast,’ said the old lady, ‘and if you lived here, you would be a Fenian.’
‘You’re wrong too, aunt,’ replied he. ‘I’d crush those fellows to-morrow if I was in power here.’
‘Mayhap the game is not so easy as you deem it,’ interposed Miller.
‘Certainly it is not so easy when played as you do it here. You deal with your law-breakers only by the rule of legality: that is to say, you respect all the regulations of the game towards the men who play false. You have your cumbrous details, and your lawyers, and judges, and juries, and you cannot even proclaim a county in a state of siege without a bill in your blessed Parliament, and a basketful of balderdash about the liberty of the subject. Is it any wonder rebellion is a regular trade with you, and that men who don’t like work, or business habits, take to it as a livelihood?’
‘But have you never heard Curran’s saying, young gentleman? “You cannot bring an indictment against a nation,’” said Miller.
‘I’d trouble myself little with indictments,’ replied Gorman. ‘I’d break down the confederacy by spies; I’d seize the fellows I knew to be guilty, and hang them.’
‘Without evidence, without trial?’
‘Very little of a trial, when I had once satisfied myself of the guilt.’
‘Are you so certain that no innocent men might be brought to the scaffold?’ asked the priest mildly.
‘No, I am not. I take it, as the world goes, very few of us go through life without some injustice or another. I’d do my best not to hang the fellows who didn’t deserve it, but I own I’d be much more concerned about the millions who wanted to live peaceably than the few hundred rapscallions that were bent on troubling them.’
‘I must say, sir,’ said the priest, ‘I am much more gratified to know that you are a Lieutenant of Lancers in Austria than a British Minister in Downing Street.’
‘I have little doubt myself,’ said the other, laughing, ‘that I am more in my place; but of this I am sure, that if we were as mealy-mouthed with our Croats and Slovacks as you are with your Fenians, Austria would soon go to pieces.’
‘There is, however, a higher price on that man Donogan’s head than Austria ever offered for a traitor,’ said Miller.
‘I know how you esteem money here,’ said Gorman, laughing. ‘When all else fails you, you fall back upon it.’
‘Why did I know nothing of these sentiments, young man, before I asked you under my roof?’ said Miss Betty, in anger.
‘You need never to have known them now, aunt, if these gentlemen had not provoked them, nor indeed are they solely mine. I am only telling you what you would hear from any intelligent foreigner, even though he chanced to be a liberal in his own country.’
‘Ah, yes,’ sighed the priest: ‘what the young gentleman says is too true. The Continent is alarmingly infected with such opinions as these.’
‘Have you talked on politics with young Kearney?’ asked Miller.
‘He has had no opportunity,’ interposed Miss O’Shea. ‘My nephew will be three weeks here on Thursday next, and neither Mathew nor his son have called on him.’
‘Scarcely neighbourlike that, I must say,’ cried Miller.
‘I suspect the fault lies on my side,’ said Gorman boldly. ‘When I was little more than a boy, I was never out of that house. The old man treated me like a son. All the more, perhaps, as his own son was seldom at home, and the little girl Kitty certainly regarded me as a brother; and though we had our fights and squabbles, we cried very bitterly at parting, and each of us vowed we should never like any one so much again. And now, after all, here am I three weeks, within two hours’ ride of them, and my aunt insists that my dignity requires I should be first called on. Confound such dignity! say I, if it lose me the best and the pleasantest friends I ever had in my life.’
‘I scarcely thought ofyourdignity, Gorman O’Shea,’ said the old lady, bridling, ‘though I did bestow some consideration on my own.’
‘I’m very sorry for it, aunt, and I tell you fairly—and there’s no unpoliteness in the confession—that when I asked for my leave, Kilgobbin Castle had its place in my thoughts as well as O’Shea’s Barn.’
‘Why not say it out, young gentleman, and tell me that the real charm of coming here was to be within twelve miles of the Kearneys.’
‘The merits of this house are very independent of contiguity,’ said the priest; and as he eyed the claret in his glass, it was plain that the sentiment was an honest one.
‘Fifty-six wine, I should say,’ said Miller, as he laid down his glass.
‘Forty-five, if Mr. Barton be a man of his word,’ said the old lady reprovingly.
‘Ah,’ sighed the priest plaintively, ‘how rarely one meets these old full-bodied clarets nowadays. The free admission of French wines has corrupted taste and impaired palate. Our cheap Gladstones have come upon us like universal suffrage.’
‘The masses, however, benefit,’ remarked Miller.
‘Only in the first moment of acquisition, and in the novelty of the gain,’ continued Father Luke; ‘and then they suffer irreparably in the loss of that old guidance, which once directed appreciation when there was something to appreciate.’
‘We want the priest again, in fact,’ broke in Gorman.
‘You must admit they understand wine to perfection, though I would humbly hope, young gentleman,’ said the Father modestly, ‘to engage your good opinion of them on higher grounds.’
‘Give yourself no trouble in the matter, Father Luke,’ broke in Miss Betty. ‘Gorman’s Austrian lessons have placed him beyondyourteaching.’
‘My dear aunt, you are giving the Imperial Government a credit it never deserved. They taught me as a cadet to groom my horse and pipeclay my uniform, to be respectful to my corporal, and to keep my thumb on the seam of my trousers when the captain’s eye was on me; but as to what passed inside my mind, if I had a mind at all, or what I thought of Pope, Kaiser, or Cardinal, they no more cared to know it than the name of my sweetheart.’
‘What a blessing to that benighted country would be one liberal statesman!’ exclaimed Miller: ‘one man of the mind and capacity of our present Premier!’
‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Gorman. ‘We have confusion enough, without the reflection of being governed by what you call here “healing measures.”’
‘I should like to discuss that point with you,’ said Miller.
‘Not now, I beg,’ interposed Miss O’Shea. ‘Gorman, will you decant another bottle?’
‘I believe I ought to protest against more wine,’ said the priest, in his most insinuating voice; ‘but there are occasions where the yielding to temptation conveys a moral lesson.’
‘I suspect that I cultivate my nature a good deal in that fashion,’ said Gorman, as he opened a fresh bottle.
‘This is perfectly delicious,’ said Miller, as he sipped his glass; ‘and if I could venture to presume so far, I would ask leave to propose a toast.’
‘You have my permission, sir,’ said Miss Betty, with stateliness.
‘I drink, then,’ said he reverently, ‘I drink to the long life, the good health, and the unbroken courage of the Holy Father.’
There was something peculiarly sly in the twinkle of the priest’s black eye as he filled his bumper, and a twitching motion of the corner of his mouth continued even as he said, ‘To the Pope.’
‘The Pope,’ said Gorman as he eyed his wine—
‘“Der Papst lebt herrlich in der Welt.”’
‘What are you muttering there?’ asked his aunt fiercely.
‘The line of an old song, aunt, that tells us how his Holiness has a jolly time of it.’
‘I fear me it must have been written in other days,’ said Father Luke.
‘There is no intention to desert or abandon him, I assure you,’ said Miller, addressing him in a low but eager tone. ‘I could never—no Irishman could—ally himself to an administration which should sacrifice the Holy See. With the bigotry that prevails in England, the question requires most delicate handling; and even a pledge cannot be given except in language so vague and unprecise as to admit of many readings.’
‘Why not bring in a Bill to give him a subsidy, a something per annum, or a round sum down?’ cried Gorman.
‘Mr. Miller has just shown us that Exeter Hall might become dangerous. English intolerance is not a thing to be rashly aroused.’
‘If I had to deal with him, I’d do as Bright proposed with your landlords here. I’d buy him out, give him a handsome sum for his interest, and let him go.’
‘And how would you deal with the Church, sir?’ asked the priest.
‘I have not thought of that; but I suppose one might put it into commission, as they say, or manage it by a Board, with a First Lord, like the Admiralty.’
‘I will give you some tea, gentlemen, when you appear in the drawing-room,’ said Miss Betty, rising with dignity, as though her condescension in sitting so long with the party had been ill rewarded by her nephew’s sentiments.
The priest, however, offered his arm, and the others followed as he left the room.