Three days afterwards O'Connell was able to dress and move about his room. He was weak from loss of blood and the confinement that an active man resents. But his brain was clear and vivid. They had been three wonderful days.
Angela had made them the most amazing in his life. The memory of those hours spent with her he would carry to his grave.
She read to him and talked to him and lectured him and comforted him. There were times when he thanked the Power that shapes our ends for having given him this one supreme experience. The cadences of her voice would haunt him through the years to come.
And in a little while he must leave it all. He must stand his trial under the "Crimes Act" for speaking at a "Proclaimed" meeting.
Well, whatever his torture he knew he would come out better equipped for the struggle. He had learned something of himself he had so far never dreamed of in his bitter struggle with the handicap of his life. He had something to live for now besides the call of his country—the call of the HEART—the cry of beauty and truth and reverence.
Angela inspired him with all these. In the three days she ministered to him she had opened up a vista he had hitherto never known. And now he had to leave it and face his accusers, and be hectored and jeered at in the mockery they called "trials." From the Court-House he would go to the prison and from thence he would be sent back into the world with the brand of the prison-cell upon him. As the thought of all this passed through his mind, he never wavered. He would face it as he had faced trouble all his life, with body knit for the struggle, and his heart strong for the battle.
And back of it all the yearning that at the end she would be waiting and watching for his return to the conflict for the great "Cause" to which he had dedicated his life.
On the morning of the third day Mr. Roche, the resident magistrate, was sent for by Nathaniel Kingsnorth. Mr. Roche found him firm and determined, his back to the fireplace, in which a bright fire was burning, although the month was July.
"Even the climate of Ireland rebels against the usual laws of nature!" thought Kingsnorth, as he shivered and glanced at the steady, drenching downpour that had lasted, practically, ever since he had set foot in the wretched country.
The magistrate came forward and greeted him respectfully.
"Good morning, Mr. Roche," said Nathaniel, motioning him to sit down by the fire.
"I've sent for you to remove this man O'Connell," added Nathaniel, after a pause.
"Certainly—if he is well enough to be moved."
"The doctor, I understand, says that he is."
"Very well. I'll drive him down to the Court-House. The Court is sitting now," said Roche, rising.
Kingsnorth stopped him with a gesture.
"I want you to understand it was against my express wishes that he was ever brought into this house."
"Miss Kingsnorth told me, when I had arrested him, that you would shelter him and go bail for him, if necessary," said Roche, in some surprise.
"My sister does things under impulse that she often regrets afterwards. This is one. I hope there is no, harm done?"
"None in the world," replied the magistrate. "On the contrary, the people seem to have a much higher opinion of you, Mr. Kingsnorth, since the occurrence," he added.
"Their opinion—good or bad—is a matter of complete indifference to me. I am only anxious that the representatives of the government do not suppose that, because, through mistaken ideas of charity, my sister brought this man to my house, I in any way sanction his attitude and his views!"
"I should not fear that, Mr. Kingsnorth. You have always been regarded as a most loyal subject, sir," answered Roche.
"I am glad. What sentence is he likely to get?"
"It depends largely on his previous record."
"Will it be settled to-day?"
"If the jury bring in a verdict. Sometimes they are out all night on these cases."
"A jury! Good God! A jury of Irishmen to try, an Irishman?"
"They're being trained gradually, sir."
"It should never be left to them in a country like this A judge should have the power of condemning such bare-faced criminals, without trial."
"He'll be condemned," said Roche confidently.
"What jury will convict him if they all sympathise with him? Answer me that?"
"That was one difficulty we had to face at first," Roche answered. "It was hard, indeed, as you say, to get an Irishman convicted by an Irish jury—especially the agitators. But we've changed that. We've made them see that loyalty to the Throne is better than loyalty to a Fenian."
"How have they done it?"
"A little persuasion and some slight coercion, sir."
"I am glad of it. It would be a crime against justice for a man who openly breaks the law not to be punished through being tried before a jury of sympathisers."
"Few of them escape, Mr. Kingsnorth. Dublin Castle found the way. One has to meet craft with craft and opposition with firmness. Under the present government we've succeeded wonderfully." Roche smiled pleasantly as he thought of the many convictions he had been instrumental in procuring himself.
Kingsnorth seemed delighted also.
"Good," he said. "The condition of things here is a disgrace—mind you, I'm not criticising the actions of the officials," he hastened to add.
The magistrate bowed.
Kingsnorth went on:
"But the attitude of the people, their views, their conduct, is deplorable—opeless. I came here to see what I could do for them. I even thought of spending a certain portion of each year here. But from what I've heard it would be a waste of time and money."
"It is discouraging, at first sight, but we'll have a better state of affairs presently. We must first stamp out the agitator. He is the most potent handicap. Next are the priests. They are nearest to the people. The real solution of the Irish difficulty would be to make the whole nation Protestants."
"Could it be done?"
"It would take time—every big movement takes time." Roche paused, looked shrewdly, at Kingsnorth and asked him:
"What do you intend doing with this estate?"
"I am in a quandary. I'm almost determined to put it in the market. Sell it. Be rid of it. It has always been a source of annoyance to our family. However, I'll settle nothing until I return to London. I'll go in a few days—much sooner than I intended. This man being brought into my house has annoyed and upset me."
"I'm sorry," said the magistrate. "Miss Kingsnorth was so insistent and the fellow seemed in a bad way, otherwise I would never have allowed it."
A servant came in response to Kingsnorth's ring and was sent with a message to have the man O'Connell ready to accompany the magistrate as quickly as possible. Over a glass of sherry and a cigar the two men resumed their discussion.
"I wouldn't decide too hastily about disposing of the land. Although there's always a good deal of discontent there is really very little trouble here. In fact, until agitators like O'Connell came amongst us we had everything pretty peaceful. We'll dispose of him in short order."
"Do. Do. Make an example of him."
"Trust us to do that," said Roche. After a moment he added: "To refer again to selling the estate you would get very little for it. It can't depreciate much more, and there is always the chance it may improve. Some of the people are quite willing to work—"
"ARE they? They've not shown any willingness to me."
"Oh, no. They wouldn't."
"What? Not to their landlord?"
"You'd be the LAST they'd show it to. They're strange people in many ways until you get to know them. Now there are many natural resources that might be developed if some capital were put into them."
"My new steward discouraged me about doing that. He said it might be ten years before I got a penny out."
"Your NEW steward?"
"Andrew McPherson."
"The lawyer?"
"Yes"
"He's a hard man, sir."
"The estate needs one."
"Burke understands the people."
"He sympathises with them. I don't want a man like that working for me. I want loyalty to my interests The makeshift policy of Burke during my father's lifetime helped to bring about this pretty state of things. We'll see what firmness will do. New broom. Sweep the place clean. Rid it of slovenly, ungrateful tenants. Clear away the tap-room orators. I have a definite plan in my mind. If I decide NOT to sell I'll perfect my plan in London and begin operations as soon as I'm satisfied it is feasible and can be put upon a proper business basis. There's too much sentiment in Ireland. That's been their ruin.Iam going to bring a little common sense into play." Kingsnorth walked restlessly around the room as he spoke. He stopped by the windows and beckoned the magistrate.
"There's your man on the drive. See?" and he pointed to where O'Connell, with a soldier each side of him, was slowly moving down the long avenue.
The door of the room opened and Angela came in hurriedly and went straight to where the two men stood. There was the catch of a sob in her voice as she spoke to the magistrate.
"Are you taking that poor wounded man to prison?"
"The doctor says he is well enough to be moved," replied Roche.
"You've not seen the doctor. I've just questioned him. He told me you had not asked his opinion and that if you move him it will be without his sanction."
Kingsnorth interrupted angrily: "Please don't interfere."
Angela turned on him: "So, it's YOU who are sending him to prison?"
"I am."
Angela appealed to the magistrate.
"Don't do this, I entreat you—don't do it."
"But I have no choice, Miss Kingsnorth."
"The man can scarcely walk," she pleaded.
"He will receive every attention, believe me, Miss Kingsnorth," Roche replied.
Angela faced her brother again.
"If you let that wounded man go from this house to-day you will regret it to the end of your life." Her face was dead-white; her breath was coming thickly; her eyes were fastened in hatred on her brother's face.
"Kindly try and control yourself, Angela," Kingsnorth said sternly. "You should consider my position a little more—"
"YOUR position? And what is HIS? You with EVERYTHING you want in life—that man with NOTHING. He is being hounded to prison for what? Pleading for his country! Is that a crime? He was shot down by soldiers—for what? For showing something we English are always boasting of feeling OURSELVES and resent any other nation feeling it—patriotism!"
"Stop!" commanded Kingsnorth.
"If you take that sick, wretched man out of this house it will be a crime—" began Angela.
Kingsnorth stopped her; he turned to the magistrate: "Kindly take the man away."
Roche moved to the window.
Angela's heart sank. All her pleading was in vain. Her voice faltered and broke:
"Very well. Then take him. Sentence him for doing something his own countrymen will one day build a monument to him for doing. The moment the prison-door closes behind him a thousand voices will cry 'Shame' on you and your government, and a thousand new patriots will be enrolled. And when he comes out from his torture he'll carry on the work of hatred and vengeance against his tyrants. He will fight you to the last ditch. You may torture his BODY, but you cannot break his HEART or wither his spirit. They're beyond you. They're—they're—," she stopped suddenly, as her voice rose to the breaking-point, and left the room.
The magistrate went down the drive. In a few moments O'Connell was on his way to the Court-House, a closely guarded prisoner.
Angela, from her window, watched the men disappear. She buried her face in her hands and moaned as she had not done since her mother left her just a few years before. The girlhood in her was dead. She was a woman. The one great note had come to her, transforming her whole nature—love.
And the man she loved was being carried away to the misery and degradation of a convict.
Gradually the moans died away. The convulsive heaving of her breast subsided. A little later, when her sister Monica came in search of her, she found Angela in a dead faint.
By night she was in a fever.
Dublin, Ireland, Nov. 16th, 18—
Dear Lady of Mercy:
I have served my sentence. I am free. At first the horrible humiliation of my treatment, of my surroundings, of the depths I had to sink to, burned into me. Then the thought of you sustained me. Your gentle voice: your beauty: your pity: your unbounded faith in me strengthened my soul. All the degradation fell from me. They were but ignoble means to a noble end. I was tortured that others might never know sorrow. I was imprisoned that my countrymen might know liberty. And so the load was lighter.
The memory of those three WONDERFUL days was so marvellous, so vivid, that it shone like a star through the blackness of those TERRIBLE days.
You seem to have taken hold of my heart and my soul and my life.
Forgive me for writing this to you, but it seems that you are the only one I've ever known who understands the main-springs of my nature, of my hopes and my ambitions—indeed, of my very thoughts.
To-day I met the leader of my party. He greeted me warmly. At last I have proved myself a worthy follower. They think it best I should leave Ireland for a while. If I take active part at once I shall be arrested again and sent for a longer sentence.
They have offered me the position of one of the speakers In a campaign in America to raise funds for the "Cause." I must first see the Chief in London. He sent a message, writing in the highest terms of my work and expressing a wish to meet me. I wonder if it would be possible to see you in London?
If I am sent to America it would speed my going to speak to you again. If you feel that I ask too much, do not answer this and I will understand.
Out of the fulness of my heart, from the depths of my soul, and with the whole fervour of my being, I ask you to accept all the gratitude of a heart filled to overflowing.
God bless and keep you.
Yours in homage and gratitude,FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL.
London, Nov. 19th, 18—
My dear Mr. O'Connell:
I am glad indeed to have your letter and to know you are free again. I have often thought of your misery during all these months and longed to do something to assuage it. It is only when a friend is in need and all avenues of help are closed to him that a woman realises how helpless she is.
That they have not crushed your spirit does not surprise me. I was as sure of that as I am that the sun is shining to-day. That you do not work actively in Ireland at once is, I am sure, wise. Foolhardiness is not courage.
In a little while the English government may realise how hopeless it is to try and conquer a people who have liberty in their hearts. Then they will abate the rigour of their unjust laws.
When that day comes you must return and take up the mission with renewed strength and hope and stimulated by the added experience of bitter suffering.
I should most certainly like to see you in London. I am staying with a distant connection of the family. We go to the south of France in a few weeks. I have been very ill—another reproach to the weakness of woman. I am almost recovered now but far from strong. I have to lie still all day. My only companions are my books and my thoughts.
Let me know when you expect to arrive in London. Come straight here.
I have so much to tell you, but the words halt as they come to my pen.
Looking forward to seeing you, In all sincerity,ANGELA KINGSNORTH.
Nathaniel Kingsnorth stayed only, long enough in Ireland to permit of Angela's recovery.
He only went into the sick-room once.
When Angela saw him come into the room she turned her back on him and refused to speak to him.
For a moment a flush of pity for his young sister gave him a pang at his heart. She looked so frail and worn, so desperately ill. After all she was his sister, and again, had she not been punished? He was willing to forget the foolhardy things she had done and the bitter things she had said. Let bygones be bygones. He realised that he had neglected her. He would do so no longer. Far from it. When they returned to London all that would be remedied. He would take care of her in every possible way. He felt a genuine thrill course through him as he thought of his generosity.
To all of this Angela made no answer.
Stung by her silence, he left the room and sent for his other sister. When Monica came he told her that whenever Angela wished to recognise his magnanimity she could send for him. She would not find him unforgiving.
To this Angela sent no reply.
When the fever had passed and she was stronger, arrangements were made for the journey to London.
As Angela walked unsteadily to the carriage, leaning on the arm of the nurse, Nathaniel came forward to assist her. She passed him without a word. Nor did she speak to him once, nor answer any remark of his, during the long journey on the train.
When they reached London she refused to go to the Kingsnorth house, where her brother lived, but went at once to a distant cousin of her mother's—Mrs. Wrexford—and made her home with her, as she had often done before. She refused to hold any further communication with her brother, despite the ministrations of her sister Monica and Mrs. Wrexford.
Mrs. Wrexford was a gentle little white-capped widow whose only happiness in life seemed to be in worrying over others' misfortunes. She was on the board of various charitable organisations and was a busy helper in the field of mercy. She worshipped Angela, as she had her mother before her. That something serious had occurred between Angela and her brother Mrs. Wrexford realised, but she could find out nothing by questioning Angela. Every time she asked her anything relative to her attitude Angela was silent.
One day she begged Mrs. Wrexford never to speak of her brother again. Mrs. Wrexford respected her wishes and watched her and nursed her through her convalescence with a tender solicitude.
When O'Connell's letter came, Angela showed it to Mrs. Wrexford, together with her reply.
"Do you mind if I see him here?" Angela asked.
"What kind of man is he?"
"The kind that heroes are made of."
"He writes so strangely—may, one say unreservedly? Is he a gentleman?"
"In the real meaning of the word—yes."
"Of good family?"
"Not as we estimate goodness. His family were just simple peasants."
"Do you think it wise to see him?"
"I don't consider the wisdom. I only listen to my heart."
"Do you mean that you care for him?"
"I do."
"You—you love him?"
"So much of love as I can give is his."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Wrexford, thoroughly alarmed.
"Don't be afraid," said Angela, quietly. "Our ways lie wide apart. He is working for the biggest thing in life. His work IS his life. I am nothing."
"But don't you think it would be indiscreet, dear, to have such a man come here?"
"Why—indiscreet?"
"A man who has been in prison!" and Mrs. Wrexford shuddered at the thought. She had seen and helped so many poor victims of the cruel laws, and the memory of their drawn faces and evil eyes, and coarse speech, flashed across her mind. She could not reconcile one coming into her little home.
Angela answered her:
"Yes, he has been in prison, but the shame was for his persecutors—not for him. Still, if you would rather I saw him somewhere else—"
"Oh no, my dear child. If you wish it—"
"I do. I just want to see him again, as he writes he does me. I want to hear him speak again. I want to wish him 'God-speed' on his journey."
"Very, well, Angela," said the old lady. "As you wish."
A week afterwards O'Connell arrived in London. They met in Mrs. Wrexford's little drawing-room in Mayfair.
They looked at each other for some moments without speaking. Both noted the fresh lines of suffering in each other's faces. They had been through the long valley of the shadow of sorrow since they had last met. But O'Connell thought, as he looked at her, that all the suffering he had gone through passed from him as some hideous dream. It was worth it—these months of torture—just to be looking at her now. Worth the long black nights—the labours in the heat of the day, with life's outcasts around him; the taunts of his gaolers: worth all the infamy of it—just to stand there looking at her.
She had taken his life in her two little hands.
He had bathed his soul all these months in the thought of her. He had prayed night and day that he might see her standing near him just as she was then: see the droop of her eye and the silk of her hair and feel the touch of her hand and hear the exquisite tenderness of her voice.
He stood mute before her.
She held out her hand and said simply
"Thank you for coming."
"It was good of you to let me," he answered hoarsely. "They have not broken your spirit or your courage?"
"No," he replied tensely; "they are the stronger."
"I thought they would be," she said proudly.
All the while he was looking at the pale face and the thin transparency of her hands.
"But you have suffered, too. You have been ill. Were you in—danger?" His voice had a catch of fear in it as he asked the, to him, terrible question.
"No. It was just a fever. It is past. I am a little weak—a little tired. That will pass, too."
"If anything had happened to you—or ever should happen!" He buried his face in his hands and moaned "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
His body shook with the sobs he tried vainly to check. Angela put her hand gently on his shoulder.
"Don't do that," she whispered.
He controlled himself with an effort.
"It will be over in a moment. Just a moment. I am sorry."
He suddenly knelt at her feet, his head bowed in reverence. "God help me," he cried faintly, "I love you! I love you!"
She looked down at him, her face transfigured.
He loved her!
The beat of her heart spoke it! "He loves you!" the throbbing of her brain shouted it: "He loves you!" the cry of her soul whispered it: "He loves you!"
She stretched out her hands to him:
"My love is yours, just as yours is mine. Let us join our lives and give them to the suffering and the oppressed."
He looked up at her in wonder.
"I daren't. Think what I am."
"You are the best that is in me. We are mates."
"A peasant! A beggar!"
"You are the noblest of the noble."
"A convict."
"Our Saviour was crucified so that His people should be redeemed. You have given the pain of your body so that your people may be free."
"It wouldn't be fair to you," he pleaded.
"If you leave me it will be unfair to us both."
"Oh, my dear one! My dear one!"
He folded her in his arms:
"I'll give the best of my days to guard you and protect you and bring you happiness."
"I am happy now," and her voice died to a whisper.
Three days afterwards Nathaniel Kingsnorth returned late at night from a political banquet.
It had been a great evening. At last it seemed that life was about to give him what he most wished for. His dearest ambitions were, apparently, about to be realised.
He had been called on, as a staunch Conservative, to add his quota to the already wonderful array of brilliant perorations of seasoned statesmen and admirable speakers.
Kingsnorth had excelled himself.
Never had he spoken so powerfully.
Being one of the only men at the banquet who had enjoyed even a brief glimpse of Ireland, he made the solution of the Irish question the main topic of his speech. Speaking lucidly and earnestly, he placed before them his panacea for Irish ills.
His hearers were enthralled.
When he sat down the cheering was prolonged. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, an old friend of his late father, spoke most glowingly to him and of him in his hearing. The junior Whip hinted at his contesting a heat at a coming bye-election in the North of Ireland. A man with his knowledge of Ireland—as he had shown that night—would be invaluable to his party.
When he left the gathering he was in a condition of ecstasy. Lying back, amid the cushions, during his long drive home, he closed his eyes and pictured the future. His imagination ran riot. It took wings and flew from height to height. He saw himself the leader of a party—"The Kingsnorth Party!"—controlling his followers with a hand of iron, and driving them to vote according to his judgment and his decree.
By the time he reached home he had entered the Cabinet and was being spoken of as the probable Prime Minister. But for the sudden stopping of the horses he might have attained that proud distinction.
The pleasant warmth of the entrance hall on this chill November night, greeted him as a benignant welcome. He bummed a tune cheerfully as he climbed the stairs, and was smiling genially when he entered the massive study.
He poured out a liqueur and stood sipping it as he turned over the letters brought by the night's post. One arrested him. It had been delivered by hand, and was marked "Most Urgent." He lit a cigar and tore open the envelope. As he read the letter every vestige of colour left his face. He sank into a chair: the letter slipped from his fingers. All his dreams had vanished in a moment. His house of cards had toppled down. His ambitions were surely and positively destroyed at one stroke. He mechanically picked up the letter and re-read it. Had it been his death-sentence it could not have affected him more cruelly.
"Dear Nathaniel: I scarcely know how to write to you about what has happened. I am afraid I am in some small measure to blame. Ten days ago your sister showed me a letter from a man named O'Connell—[Kingsnorth crushed the letter in his hand as he read the hated name—the name of the man who had caused him so much discomfort during that unfortunate visit to his estate in Ireland. How he blamed himself now for having ever gone there. There was indeed a curse on it for the Kingsnorths. He straightened out the crumpled piece of paper and read on]:—a man named O'Connell—the man she nursed in your house in Ireland after he had been shot by the soldiers. He was coming to England and wished to see her. She asked my permission. I reasoned with her—but she was decided. If I should not permit her to see him in my house she would meet him elsewhere. It seemed better the meeting should be under my roof, so I consented. I bitterly reproach myself now for not acquainting you with the particulars. You might have succeeded in stopping what has happened."
"Your sister and O'Connell were married this morning by special licence and left this afternoon for Liverpool, en route to America."
"I cannot begin to tell you how much I deplore the unfortunate affair. It will always be a lasting sorrow to me. I cannot write any more now. My head is aching with the thought of what it will mean to you. Try not to think too hardly of me and believe me."
"Always your affectionate cousin,"
"Mary Caroline Wrexford."
Kingsnorth's head sank on to his breast. Every bit of life left him. Everything about his feet. Ashes. The laughing-stock of his friends.
Were Angela there at that moment he could have killed her.
The humiliation of it! The degradation of it! Married to that lawless Irish agitator. The man now a member of his family! A cry of misery broke from him, as he realised that the best years of his life were to come and go fruitlessly. His career was ended. Despair lay heavy on his soul.
Standing on the main deck of an Atlantic liner stood Angela and O'Connell.
They were facing the future together.
Their faces were turned to the West.
The sun was sinking in a blaze of colour.
Their eyes lighted up with the joy of HOPE.
LOVE was in their hearts.
A year after the events in the preceding book took place O'Connell and his young wife were living in a small; apartment in one of the poorer sections of New York City.
The first few months in America had been glorious ones for them. Their characters and natures unfolded to each other as some wonderful paintings, each taking its own hues from the adoration of the other.
In company with a noted Irish organiser O'Connell had spoken in many of the big cities of the United States and was everywhere hailed as a hero and a martyr to English tyranny.
But he had one ever-present handicap—a drawback he had never felt during the years of struggle preceding his marriage. His means were indeed small. He tried to eke out a little income writing articles for the newspapers and magazines. But the recompense was pitiful. He could not bear, without a pang, to see Angela in the dingy surroundings that he could barely afford to provide for her.
On her part Angela took nothing with her but a few jewels her mother had left her, some clothes and very little money. The money soon disappeared and then one by one the keepsakes of her mother were parted with. But they never lost heart. Through it all they were happy. All the poetry of O'Connell's nature came uppermost, leavened, as it was, by the deep faith and veneration of his wife.
This strangely assorted fervent man and gentle woman seemed to have solved the great mystery of happiness between two people.
But the poverty chafed O'Connell—not for himself, but for the frail, loving, uncomplaining woman who had given her life into his care.
His active brain was continually trying to devise new ways of adding to his meagre income. He multiplied his duties: he worked far into the night when he could find a demand for his articles. But little by little his sources of revenue failed him.
Some fresh and horrible Agrarian crimes in Ireland, for which the Home Rule party were blamed, for a while turned the tide of sympathy against his party. The order was sent out to discontinue meetings for the purpose of collecting funds in America—funds the Irish-Americans had been so cheerfully and plentifully bestowing on the "Cause." O'Connell was recalled to Ireland. His work was highly commended.
Some day they would send him to the United States again as a Special Pleader. At present he would be of greater value at home.
He was instructed to apply to the treasurer of the fund and arrangements would be made for his passage back to Ireland.
He brought the news to Angela with a strange feeling of fear and disappointment. He had built so much on making a wonderful career in the great New World and returning home some day to Ireland with the means of relieving some of her misery and with his wife guarded, as she should be, from the possibility of want. And here was he going back to Ireland as poor as he left it—though richer immeasurably in the love of Angela. She was sitting perfectly still, her eyes on the floor, when he entered the room. He came in so softly that she did not hear him. He lifted her head and looked into her eyes. He noticed with certainty what had been so far only a vague, ill-defined dread. Her face was very, very pale and transparent. Her eyes were sunken and had a strange brilliancy. She was much slighter end far more ethereal than on that day when they stood the deck of the ship and turned their faces so hopefully to the New World.
He felt a knife-like stab startle through his blood to his heart. His breath caught.
Angela looked up at him, radiantly.
He kissed her and with mock cheerfulness he said, laughingly:
"Such news, me darlin'! Such wondherful news!"
"Good news, dear?"
"The best in the wurrld," and he choked a sob.
"I knew it would come! I knew it would. Tell me, dear."
"We're to go back—back to—back to Ireland. See—here are the orders," and he showed her the official letter.
She took it wonderingly and read it. Her hand dropped to her side. Her head drooped into the same position he had found her in. In a moment he was kneeling at her side:
"What is it, dear?"
"We can't go, Frank."
"We can't go? What are ye sayin', dear?"
"We can't go," she repeated, her body crumpled up limply in the chair.
"And why not, Angela? I know I can't take ye back as I brought ye here, dear, if that's what ye mane. The luck's been against me. It's been cruel hard against me. An' that thought is tearin' at me heart this minnit."
"It isn't THAT, Frank," she said, faintly.
"Then what is it?"
"Oh," she cried, "I hoped it would be so different—so very different."
"What did ye think would be so different, dear? Our going back? Is that what's throublin' ye?"
"No, Frank. Not that. I don't care how we go back so long as you are with me." He pressed her hand. In a moment she went on: "But we can't go. We can't go. Oh, my dear, my dear, can't you guess? Can't you think?" She looked imploringly into his eyes.
A new wonder came into his. Could it be true? Could it? He took both her hands and held them tightly and stood up, towering over her, and trembling violently. "Is it—is it—?" he cried and stopped as if afraid to complete the question.
She smiled a wan smile up at him and nodded her head as she answered:
"The union of our lives is to be complete. Our love is to be rewarded."
"A child is coming to us?" he whispered.
"It is," and her voice was hushed, too.
"Praise be to God! Praise be to His Holy Name," and O'Connell clasped his hands in prayer.
In a little while she went on: "It was the telling you I wanted to be so different. I wanted you, when you heard it, to be free of care—happy. And I've waited from day to day hoping for the best—that some good fortune would come to you."
He forced one of his old time, hearty laughs, but there was a hollow ring in it:
"What is that yer sayin' at all? Wait for good fortune? Is there any good fortune like what ye've just told me? Sure I'm ten times the happier man since I came into this room." He put his arm around her and sitting beside her drew her closely to him. "Listen, dear," he said, "listen. We'll go back to the old country. Our child shall be born where we first met. There'll be no danger. No one shall harm us with that little life trembling in the balance—the little precious life. If it's a girl-child she'll be the mother of her people; and if it be a man-child he shall grow up to carry on his father's work. So there—there—me darlin', we'll go back—we'll go back."
She shook her head feebly. "I can't," she said.
"Why not, dear?"
"I didn't want to tell you. But now you make me. Frank, dear, I am ill."
His heart almost stopped. "Ill? Oh, my darlin', what is it? Is it serious? Tell me it isn't serious?" and his voice rang with a note of agony.
"Oh, no, I don't think so. I saw the doctor to-day. He said I must be careful—very careful until—until—our baby is born."
"An' ye kept it all to yerself, me brave one, me dear one. All right. We won't go back. We'll stay here. I'll make them find me work. I'm strong. I'm clever too and crafty, Angela. I'll wring it from this hustling, city. I'll fight it and beat it. Me darlin' shall have everything she wants. My little mother—my precious little mother."
He cradled her in his strong arms and together they sat for hours and the pall of his poverty fell from them and they pictured the future rose-white and crowned with gold—a future in which there were THREE—the trinity one and undivided.
Presently she fell asleep in his arms. He raised his eyes to heaven and prayed God to help him in his hour of striving. He prayed that the little life sleeping so calmly in his arms would be spared him.
"Oh God! answer my prayer, I beseech you," he cried. Angela smiled contentedly in her sleep and spoke his same. It seemed to O'Connell as if his prayer had been heard and answered. He gathered the slight form up in, his arms and carried her to her room and sat by her until dawn.
It was the first night for many weeks that she had slept through till morning without starting out of her sleep in pain. This night she slumbered like a child and a smile played on her lips as though her dreams were happy ones.