Lord Kilgobbin
‘In a house like this,’ said he jocularly, ‘where people are marrying or giving in marriage at every turn, what may not happen? It may be a question of the settlement, or the bridecake, or white satin “slip” – if that’s the name for it – the orange-flowers, or the choice of the best man – who knows?’
‘You seem to know the whole bead-roll of wedding incidents.’
‘It is a dull répertoire after all, for whether the piece be melodrama, farce, genteel comedy, or harrowing tragedy, it has to be played by the same actors.’
‘What would you have – marriages cannot be all alike. There must be many marriages for things besides love: for ambition, for interest, for money, for convenience.’
‘Convenience is exactly the phrase I wanted and could not catch.’
‘It is not the word I wanted, nor do I think we mean the same thing by it.’
‘What I mean is this,’ said Atlee, with a firm voice, ‘that when a young girl has decided in her own mind that she has had enough of that social bondage of the daughter, and cannot marry the man she would like, she will marry the man that she can.’
‘And like him too,’ added Nina, with a strange, dubious sort of smile.
‘Yes, and like him too; for there is a curious feature in the woman’s nature that, without any falsehood or disloyalty, permits her to like different people in different ways, so that the quiet, gentle, almost impassive woman might, if differently mated, have been a being of fervid temper, headstrong and passionate. If it were not for this species of accommodation, marriage would be a worse thing than it is.’
‘I never suspected you of having made a study of the subject. Since when have you devoted your attention to the theme?’
‘I could answer in the words of Wilkes – since I have had the honour to know your Royal Highness; but perhaps you might be displeased with the flippancy.’
‘I should think that very probable,’ said she gravely.
‘Don’t look so serious. Remember that I did not commit myself after all.’
‘I thought it was possible to discuss this problem without a personality.’
‘Don’t you know that, let one deal in abstractions as long as he will, he is only skirmishing around special instances. It is out of what I glean from individuals I make up my generalities.’
‘Am I to understand by this that I have supplied you with the material of one of these reflections?’
‘You have given me the subject of many. If I were to tell you how often I have thought of you, I could not answer for the words in which I might tell it.’
‘Do not tell it, then.’
‘I know – I am aware – I have heard since I came here that there is a special reason why you could not listen to me.’
‘And being so, why do you propose that I should hear you?’
‘I will tell you,’ said he, with an earnestness that almost startled her: ‘I will tell you, because there are things on which a doubt or an equivocation are actually maddening; and I will not, I cannot, believe that you have accepted Cecil Walpole.’
‘Will you please to say why it should seem so incredible?’
‘Because I have seen you not merely in admiration, and that admiration would be better conveyed by a stronger word; and because I have measured you with others infinitely beneath you in every way, and who are yet soaring into very high regions indeed; because I have learned enough of the world to know that alongside of – often above – the influence that men are wielding in life by their genius and their capacity, there is another power exercised by women of marvellous beauty, of infinite attractions, and exquisite grace, which sways and moulds the fate of mankind far more than Cabinets and Councils. There are not above half a dozen of these in Europe, and you might be one added to the number.’
‘Even admitting all this – and I don’t see that I should go so far – it is no answer to my question.’
‘Must I then say there can be no – not companionship, that’s not the word; no, I must take the French expression, and call it solidarité– there can be no solidarité of interests, of objects, of passions, or of hopes, between people so widely dissevered as you and Walpole. I am so convinced of this, that still I can dare to declare I cannot believe you could marry him.’
‘And if I were to tell you it were true?’
‘I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the mere mention of to-morrow would offend you. It is no disparagement of Walpole to say he is unworthy of you, for who would be worthy? but the presumption of his daring is enough to excite indignation – at least, I feel it such. How he could dare to link his supreme littleness with consummate perfection; to freight the miserable barque of his fortunes with so precious a cargo; to encounter the feeling – and there is no escape for it – “I must drag that woman down, not alone into obscurity, but into all the sordid meanness of a small condition, that never can emerge into anything better.” He cannot disguise from himself that it is not within his reach to attain power, or place, or high consideration. Such men make no name in life; they leave no mark on their time. They are heaven-born subordinates, and never refute their destiny. Does a woman with ambition – does a woman conscious of her own great merits – condescend to ally herself, not alone with small fortune – that might be borne – but with the smaller associations that make up these men’s lives? with the peddling efforts to mount even one rung higher of that crazy little ladder of their ambition – to be a clerk of another grade – a creature of some fifty pounds more – a being in an upper office?’
‘And the prince – for he ought to be at least a prince who should make me the offer of his name – whence is he to come, Mr. Atlee?’
‘There are men who are not born to princely station, who by their genius and their determination are just as sure to become famous, and who need but the glorious prize of such a woman’s love – No, no, don’t treat what I say as rant and rodomontade; these are words of sober sense and seriousness.’
‘Indeed!’ said she, with a faint sigh. ‘So that it really amounts to this – that I shall actually have missed my whole fortune in life – thrown myself away – all because I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.’
Nothing less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self-possession could have sustained this speech unabashed.
‘You have only said what my heart has told me many a day since.’
‘But you seem to forget,’ added she, with a very faint curl of scorn on her lip, ‘that I had no more to guide me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s affection than that of his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily believe in the latter than the former.’
‘Believe in both,’ cried he warmly. ‘If I have conquered difficulties in life, if I have achieved some successes – now for a passing triumph, now for a moment of gratified vanity, now for a mere caprice – try me by a mere hope – I only plead for a hope – try me by hope of being one day worthy of calling that hand my own.’
As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand; but she withdrew it coldly and slowly, saying, ‘I have no fancy to make myself the prize of any success in life, political or literary; nor can I believe that the man who reasons in this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,’ added she, more gravely, ‘your memory may not be as good as mine, and you will pardon me if I remind you that, almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of friendship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. We agreed that each of us claimed for their native land the mythical Bohemia, and we agreed, besides, that the natives of that country are admirable colleagues, but not good partners.’
‘You are not quite fair in this,’ he began; but before he could say more Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and cried out, ‘It’s all true. The people are in wild excitement, and all declare that they will not let him be taken. Oh! I forgot,’ added he. ‘You were not here when my father and I were called away by the despatch from the police-station, to say that Donogan has been seen at Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog. Of course, this is mere rumour; but the constabulary are determined to capture him, and Curtis has written to inform my father that a party of police will patrol the grounds here this evening.’
‘And if they should take him, what would happen – to him, I mean?’ asked Nina coldly.
‘An escaped convict is usually condemned to death; but I suppose they would not hang him,’ said Dick.
‘Hang him!’ cried Atlee; ‘nothing of the kind. Mr. Gladstone would present him with a suit of clothes, a ten-pound note, and a first-class passage to America. He would make a “healing measure” of him.’
‘I must say, gentlemen,’ said Nina scornfully, ‘you can discuss your friend’s fate with a marvellous equanimity.’
‘So we do,’ rejoined Atlee. ‘He is another Bohemian.’
‘Don’t say so, sir,’ said she passionately. ‘The men who put their lives on a venture – and that venture not a mere gain to themselves – are in nowise the associates of those poor adventurers who are gambling for their daily living. He is a rebel, if you like; but he believes in rebellion. How much do you believe in, Mr. Atlee?’
‘I say, Joe, you are getting the worst of this discussion. Seriously, however, I hope they’ll not catch poor Donogan; and my father has asked Curtis to come over and dine here, and I trust to a good fire and some old claret to keep him quiet for this evening, at least. We must not molest the police; but there’s no great harm done if we mislead them.’
‘Once in the drawing-room, if Mademoiselle Kostalergi will only condescend to aid us,’ added Atlee, ‘I think Curtis will be more than a chief constable if he will bethink him of his duty.’
‘You are a strange set of people, you Irish,’ said Nina, as she walked away. ‘Even such of you as don’t want to overthrow the Government are always ready to impede its march and contribute to its difficulties.’
‘She only meant that for an impertinence,’ said Atlee, after she left the room; ‘but she was wonderfully near the truth, though not truthfully expressed.’
CHAPTER LXXXIII
THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHTThere was but one heavy heart at the dinner-table that day; but Nina’s pride was proof against any disclosure of suffering, and though she was tortured by anxiety and fevered with doubt, none – not even Kate – suspected that any care weighed on her.
As for Kate herself, her happiness beamed in every line and lineament of her handsome face. The captain – to give him the name by which he was known – had been up that day, and partaken of an afternoon tea with his aunt and Kate. Her spirits were excellent, and all the promise of the future was rose-coloured and bright. The little cloud of what trouble the trial might bring was not suffered to darken the cheerful meeting, and it was the one only bitter in their cup.
To divert Curtis from this theme, on which, with the accustomed mal à propos of an awkward man, he wished to talk, the young men led him to the subject of Donogan and his party.
‘I believe we’ll take him this time,’ said Curtis. ‘He must have some close relations with some one about Moate or Kilbeggan, for it is remarked he cannot keep away from the neighbourhood; but who are his friends, or what they are meditating, we cannot guess.’
‘If what Mademoiselle Kostalergi said this morning be correct,’ remarked Atlee, ‘conjecture is unnecessary. She told Dick and myself that every Irishman is at heart a rebel.’
‘I said more or less of one, Mr. Atlee, since there are some who have not the courage of their opinions.’
‘I hope you are gratified by the emendation,’ whispered Dick; and then added aloud, ‘Donogan is not one of these.’
‘He’s a consummate fool,’ cried Curtis bluntly. ‘He thinks the attack of a police-barrack or the capture of a few firelocks will revolutionise Ireland.’
‘He forgets that there are twelve thousand police, officered by such men as yourself, captain,’ said Nina gravely.
‘Well, there might be worse,’ rejoined Curtis doggedly, for he was not quite sure of the sincerity of the speaker.
‘What will you be the better of taking him?’ said Kilgobbin. ‘If the whole tree be pernicious, where’s the use of plucking one leaf off it?’
‘The captain has nothing to do with that,’ said Atlee, ‘any more than a hound has to discuss the morality of foxhunting – his business is the pursuit.’
‘I don’t like your simile, Mr. Atlee,’ said Nina, while she whispered some words to the captain, and drew him in this way into a confidential talk.
‘I don’t mind him at all, Miss Nina,’ said Curtis; ‘he’s one of those fellows on the press, and they are always saying impertinent things to keep their talents in wind. I’ll tell you, in confidence, how wrong he is. I have just had a meeting with the Chief Secretary, who told me that the popish bishops are not at all pleased with the leniency of the Government; that whatever “healing measures” Mr. Gladstone contemplates, ought to be for the Church and the Catholics; that the Fenians or the Nationalists are the enemies of the Holy Father; and that the time has come for the Government to hunt them down, and give over the rule of Ireland to the Cardinal and his party.’
‘That seems to me very reasonable, and very logical,’ said Nina.
‘Well, it is and it is not. If you want peace in the rabbit-warren, you must banish either the rats or the rabbits; and I suppose either the Protestants or the Papists must have it their own way here.’
‘Then you mean to capture this man?’
‘We do – we are determined on that. And, what’s more, I’d hang him if I had the power.’
‘And why?’
‘Just because he isn’t a bad fellow! There’s no use in hanging a bad fellow in Ireland – it frightens nobody; but if you hang a respectable man, a man that has done generous and fine things, it produces a great effect on society, and is a terrible example.’
‘There may be a deep wisdom in what you say.’
‘Not that they’ll mind me for all that. It’s the men like myself, Miss Nina, who know Ireland well, who know every assize town in the country, and what the juries will do in each, are never consulted in England. They say, “Let Curtis catch him – that’s his business.”’
‘And how will you do it?’
‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t men enough to watch all the roads; but I’ll take care to have my people where he’s least likely to go, that is, to the north. He’s a cunning fellow is Dan, and he’d make for the Shannon if he could; but now that he knows we ‘re after him, he’ll turn to Antrim or Derry. He’ll cut across Westmeath, and make north, if he gets away from this.’
‘That is a very acute calculation of yours; and where do you suspect he may be now – I mean, at this moment we’re talking?’
‘He’s not three miles from where we’re sitting,’ said he, in a low whisper, and a cautious glance round the table. ‘He’s hid in the bog outside. There’s scores of places there a man could hide in, and never be tracked; and there’s few fellows would like to meet Donogan single-handed. He’s as active as a rope-dancer, and he’s as courageous as the devil.’
‘It would be a pity to hang such a fellow.’
‘There’s plenty more of the same sort – not exactly as good as him, perhaps, for Dan was a gentleman once.’
‘And is, probably, still?’
‘It would be hard for him, with the rapscallions he has to live with, and not five shillings in his pocket, besides.’
‘I don’t know, after all, if you’ll be happier for giving him up to the law. He may have a mother, a sister, a wife, or a sweetheart.’
‘He may have a sweetheart, but I know he has none of the others. He said, in the dock, that no man could quit life at less cost – that there wasn’t one to grieve after him.’
‘Poor fellow! that was a sad confession.’
‘We’re not all to turn Fenians, Miss Nina, because we’re only children and unmarried.’
‘You are too clever for me to dispute with,’ said she, in affected humility; ‘but I like greatly to hear you talk of Ireland. Now, what number of people have you here?’
‘I have my orderly, and two men to patrol the demesne; but to-morrow we’ll draw the net tighter. We’ll call in all the party from Moate, and from information I have got, we’re sure to track him.’
‘What confidences is Curtis making with Mademoiselle Nina?’ said Atlee, who, though affecting to join the general conversation, had never ceased to watch them.
‘The captain is telling me how he put down the Fenians in the rising of ‘61,’ said Nina calmly.
‘And did he? I say, Curtis, have you really suppressed rebellion in Ireland?’
‘No; nor won’t, Mr. Joe Atlee, till we put down the rascally press – the unprincipled penny-a-liners, that write treason to pay for their dinner.’
‘Poor fellows!’ replied Atlee. ‘Let us hope it does not interfere with their digestion. But seriously, mademoiselle, does it not give you a great notion of our insecurity here in Ireland when you see to what we trust, law and order.
‘Never mind him, Curtis,’ said Kilgobbin. ‘When these fellows are not saying sharp things, they have to be silent.’
While the conversation went briskly on, Nina contrived to glance unnoticed at her watch, and saw that it wanted only a quarter of an hour to nine. Nine was the hour she had named to Donogan to be in the garden, and she already trembled at the danger to which she had exposed him. She reasoned thus: so reckless and fearless is this man, that, if he should have come determined to see me, and I do not go to meet him, he is quite capable of entering the house boldly, even at the cost of being captured. The very price he would have to pay for his rashness would be its temptation.’
A sudden cast of seriousness overcame her as she thus thought, and Kate, perceiving it, rose at once to retire.
‘You were not ill, dearest Nina? I saw you grow pale, and I fancied for a moment you seemed faint.’
‘No; a mere passing weakness. I shall lie down and be better presently.’
‘And then you’ll come up to aunt’s room – I call godmother aunt now – and take tea with Gorman and us all.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that after a little rest. I’ll take half an hour or so of quiet,’ said she, in broken utterances. ‘I suppose the gentlemen will sit over their wine; there’s no fear of their breaking-up.’
‘Very little fear, indeed,’ said Kate, laughing at the word. ‘Papa made me give out some of his rare old ‘41 wine to-day, and they’re not likely to leave it.’
‘Bye-bye, then, for a little while,’ said Nina dreamily, for her thoughts had gone off on another track. ‘I shall join you later on.’
Kate tripped gaily up the stairs, singing pleasantly as she went, for hers was a happy heart and a hopeful.
Nina lingered for a moment with her hand on the banister, and then hurried to her room.
It was a still cold night of deep winter, a very faint crescent of a new moon was low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, slightly crisped with frost, covered the ground. Nina opened her window and looked out. All was still and quiet without – not a twig moved. She bent her ear to listen, thinking that on the frozen ground a step might perhaps be heard, and it was a relief to her anxiety when she heard nothing. The chill cold air that came in through the window warned her to muffle herself well, and she drew the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head. Strong-booted, and with warm gloves, she stood for a moment at her door to listen, and finding all quiet, she slowly descended the stairs and gained the hall. She started affrighted as she entered, thinking there was some one seated at the table, but she rallied in an instant, as she saw it was only the loose horseman’s coat or cloak of the chief constable, which, lined with red, and with the gold-laced cap beside it, made up the delusion that alarmed her.
It was not an easy task to withdraw the heavy bolts and bars that secured the massive door, and even to turn the heavy key in the lock required an effort; but she succeeded at length, and issued forth into the open.
‘How I hope he has not come! how I pray he has not ventured!’ said she to herself as she walked along. ‘Leave-takings are sad things, and why incur one so full of peril and misery too? When I wrote to him, of course I knew nothing of his danger, and it is exactly his danger will make him come!’ She knew of others to whom such reasonings would not have applied, and a scornful shake of the head showed that she would not think of them at such a moment. The sound of her own footsteps on the crisp ground made her once or twice believe she heard some one coming, and as she stopped to listen, the strong beating of her heart could be counted. It was not fear – at least not fear in the sense of a personal danger – it was that high tension which great anxiety lends to the nerves, exalting vitality to a state in which a sensation is as powerful as a material influence.
She ascended the steps of the little terraced mound of the rendezvous one by one, overwhelmed almost to fainting by some imagined analogy with the scaffold, which might be the fate of him she was going to meet.
He was standing under a tree, his arms crossed on his breast, as she came up. The moment she appeared, he rushed to meet her, and throwing himself on one knee, he seized her hand and kissed it.
‘Do you know your danger in being here?’ she asked, as she surrendered her hand to his grasp.
‘I know it all, and this moment repays it tenfold.’
‘You cannot know the full extent of the peril; you cannot know that Captain Curtis and his people are in the castle at this moment, that they are in full cry after you, and that every avenue to this spot is watched and guarded.’
‘What care I! Have I not this?’ And he covered her hand with kisses.
‘Every moment that you are here increases your danger, and if my absence should become known, there will be a search after me. I shall never forgive myself if my folly should lead to your being captured.’
‘If I could but feel my fate was linked with yours, I’d give my life for it willingly.’
‘It was not to listen to such words as these I came here.’
‘Remember, dearest, they are the last confessions of one you shall never see more. They are the last cry of a heart that will soon be still for ever.’
‘No, no, no!’ cried she passionately. ‘There is life enough left for you to win a worthy name. Listen to me calmly now: I have heard from Curtis within the last hour all his plans for your capture; I know where his patrols are stationed, and the roads they are to watch.’
‘And did you care to do this?’ said he tenderly.
‘I would do more than that to save you.’
‘Oh, do not say so!’ cried he wildly, ‘or you will give me such a desire to live as will make a coward of me.’
‘Curtis suspects you will go northward; either he has had information, or computes it from what you have done already.’
‘He is wrong, then. When I go hence, it shall be to the court-house at Tullamore, where I mean to give myself up.’
‘As what?’
‘As what I am – a rebel, convicted, sentenced, and escaped, and still a rebel.’
‘You do not, then, care for life?’
‘Do I not, for such moments of life as this!’ cried he, as, with a wild rapture, he kissed her hand again and again.
‘And were I to ask you, you would not try to save your life?’
‘To share that life with you there is not anything I would not dare. To live and know you were another’s is more than I can face. Tell me, Nina, is it true you are to be the wife of this soldier? I cannot utter his name.’
‘I am to be married to Mr. Walpole.’
‘What! to that contemptuous young man you have already told me so much of. How have they brought you down to this?’
‘There is no thought of bringing down; his rank and place are above my own – he is by family and connection superior to us all.’
‘And what is he, or how does he aspire to you? Is the vulgar security of competence to live on – is that enough for one like you? is the well-balanced good-breeding of common politeness enough to fill a heart that should be fed on passionate devotion? You may link yourself to mediocrity, but can you humble your nature to resemble it. Do you believe you can plod on the dreary road of life without an impulse or an ambition, or blend your thoughts with those of a man who has neither?’
She stood still and did not utter a word.
‘There are some – I do not know if you are one of them – who have an almost shrinking dread of poverty.’
