Lord Kilgobbin

‘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.’

‘He sent 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 if they should prove the realists, and that it was we should 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.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE RETURN

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.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

O’SHEA’S BARN

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. We want a government in Ireland – the Nationalists want none. We desire 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.’