SHADOWS.
As day waned, the Volunteers perceived that they must pass the night
as watchmen if they wished the capital to be sufficiently peaceful on
the morrow to attend to the parliamentary tournament. What the
gownsmen intended for a frolic developed into a riot, thanks to the
national love of a row and the complicated feuds which were
continually breaking forth. No sooner had the undergraduates pumped
upon the Graces and driven the English detachment into Castle Yard
than they found themselves hemmed in by their natural enemies, the
butchers of Ormond Quay, who owed the college gentlemen a grudge
because they invariably took up the cudgels of the Liberty-lads when
these sworn foes thought fit to have a brush.
The weavers were every bit as pugnacious as the butchers. Dulness of
trade, hot weather, a passing thunder-shower, were excuse sufficient
for a breaking of the peace; and then shops were closed and business
suspended along the Liffey banks, as bridges were taken and retaken
amid showers of stones, till one or other of the belligerents was
driven from the field. It was one of the singular contradictions of
the time that youths of high degree should always be ready to join the
dregs of the city in these outrages; that members of an intensely
exclusive class should unite with coal-porters or weavers against
butchers, to the risk of life and limb. But so it was, and frightful
casualties were the result sometimes; for the butchers were playful
with their knives, using them, not to stab their opponents, which they
would have considered cowardly, but to hough or cut the tendon of the
leg, thus rendering their adversaries lame for life. Sometimes they
dragged their captives to the market, and hung them to the meat-hooks
by the jaws until their party came to rescue them. Not but what the
aristocratic gownsmen were quite capable of holding their own, as had
been proved, a few weeks before the commencement of this history, by
the result of a conflict on Bloody Bridge, on which occasion a rash
detachment of the Ormond Boys was driven straight into the river,
where many perished by drowning before they could be extricated. The
butchers vowed vengeance for this feat, yet were kept quiet for a
while by the attitude of the Volunteers; but now they sprang blithely
to arms with marrow-bone and cleaver upon hearing that their foes were
on the war-path.
At a moment so big with fate as this was, the Volunteers could permit
of no such kicking up of heels. The dignity of the situation would be
compromised by vulgar brawling. Peg Plunket and Darkey Kelly were
clapped into the Black Dog, dripping wet, to repent on bread and water
their having flaunted forth this day. Lord Glandore's regiment was
detached to sweep the riff-raff to the Liberties at once, then to coax
back in less violent fashion the gownsmen to Alma Mater. A charge of
the splendid hunters which the men rode soon sent the factions
swirling like dead leaves, after which the armed patriots quietly
jog-trotted towards College Green, driving their scapegrace brothers
and sons before them with flat of sword and many a merry jest. The
affair was so good-humoured that the lads did not look on it as
serious. They had been commanded to drop stones and fling shillalaghs
into the water, and had been compelled to obey the mandate; but their
door-keys remained to them--heavy keys which, slung in kerchiefs, were
formidable weapons--and they valiantly decided upon just another sally
before being shut up, if only to show how game they were. Upon turning
into Dame Street from the quay, behold! another woman, of churlish
breeding, showy and pink and plump, sitting in a noddy, conversing
with a friend. It was clearly not fair to drench Peg and Darkey and
Maria and leave this one to go scot-free! So, with the college
war-cry, they made a swoop at her. Half a dozen youth clambered into
the carriage, while one leaped on horseback and another seized the
reins, and then the cavalcade started at a gallop with a pack of
madcaps bellowing after, all vowing she should have a muddy bath.
Vainly she shrieked and wrung her pretty hands for mercy. She was no
Phryne, she bawled. A respectable married lady, a descendant of Brian
Borohme and Ollam Fodlah and ever so many mighty princes. Ah now!
would the darlints let her go! They wouldn't? Then they were wretches
who should repent their act, for she had friends--powerful friends
among the Englishry--who would avenge the outrage. Her cries only
amused her tormentors. The more she bawled the more they yelled and
whooped and danced about like demons; the faster on they galloped. So
recklessly, that in skirting William's effigy a wheel caught against
the pedestal and the noddy was overturned--a wreck. This was great
fun. The mischief-makers formed a circle, and whirled singing round
their prey. She was in piteous plight from mire and scratches. What
rarer sport than this? The wench was sleek and well-to-do; it would be
grand to set her floundering in the filthy stream before returning
home to college. But she was right. She had a powerful friend--close
by too--one whose temper was short, whose sword was sharp; no less a
person than the colonel of the regiment that, with quip and quirk, was
coaxing them homewards. At the sound of Mrs. Gillin's lamentations,
Lord Glandore waved his sword and thundered out 'Desist!' He might as
well have argued with the winds. The phosphorescent light of menace
which folks dreaded in the eye of a Glandore glimmered forth from his.
With a fierce oath he spurred his horse, and, beside himself with
passion, plunged blindly with his weapon into the heap of sable gowns.
A luckless youth with gold braid upon his vesture, who was bending
down to extricate the lady, received the sword-point in his back, and,
screaming, swooned away. A cry of enraged horror burst from all, and,
like a swarm of angry bees, the boys fixed, without thought of
consequences, on the aggressor. They were of his own class; their
blood as hot and blue as his, although so young. What! murder a
gownsman for a bit of folly? 'Twas but a frolic, which he had turned
to tragedy. A peasant would not have mattered--but one of noble
lineage! Vengeance should fall swift and terrible. They dared the
soldiery to interfere. A hundred hands dragged the colonel from his
horse, which, with a blow, was sent riderless down Sackville Street.
His clothes were in tatters in a twinkling. A dozen heavy keys flew
through the air with so sure an aim that he staggered and fell prone.
One youth picked up the weapon, which yet reeked with his comrade's
blood, and broke it on the backbone of his destroyer. In a trice the
tragedy was complete. Ere his men could reach him, Lord Glandore lay
motionless; and Gillin was rending the air with shrieks which were
re-echoed from the club-house.
And now the _melee_ became general, for some weavers who had lingered
in the rear gave the alarm; the Liberty-boys sallied forth again, and
the chairmen, hewing their staves in twain, belaboured all
impartially, adding to the general disturbance. This was no vulgar
riot now, for blood had been twice drawn--that of the privileged
class--and gentlemen, fearing for their sons who were only armed with
keys, rushed out from club and tavern to form a bulwark round the
gownsmen against the rage of the infuriated soldiery. Thus sons and
fathers were smiting right and left below, whilst mothers were
screaming from the windows; and the peeresses saw more than they came
out to see ere swords were sheathed and peace could be restored. They
had lingered, many of them, at Daly's till past the tea-hour, to
inspect the illuminations before adjourning to the Fishamble Street
Masquerade; and crowded in a bevy round the club-house door as the
dying earl and his distracted love were borne into the coffee-room;
while the collegians retired backwards in compact order, silent but
menacing, till the gates of Alma Mater opened and clanged to on them.
The peeresses had bawled as loud as Madam Gillin, and now cried with
one voice for pouncet-boxes. The one of their order whom the tragedy
chiefly concerned uttered never a word. With dry eye and distended
nostril my lady looked on the prostrate figures--the still one of her
lord--the picturesquely hysterical form of the hated Gillin--and bit
her white lip as the frown, which was become habitual, deepened on her
face. Little Doreen looked on in unblinking wonder, till her father
clasped his fingers on her eyes to shut out the horrid sight from
them. Members entered hurriedly by the private way from the Parliament
Houses, and smirked and looked demure, and, feeling that they had no
business there, retired on tiptoe. The peeresses felt that a
prospective widow is best left alone, and one by one retreated,
skimming away like seamews to gabble of the dread event to
scandalmongers less blest than they, leaving the two women to face
their bereavement and speak to each other for the first time. Strange
to say, these rivals had never had speech together in their lives.
Madam Gillin choked her sobs after a while and revived, sitting up
stupidly and staring half-stunned, as she picked with mechanical
fretfulness at the feathers of her fan. The shock of so sudden a
misfortune took her breath away; but, perceiving the haughty eyes of
her enemy fixed gloomily upon her, she rallied and strung up her
nerves to face the mongrel daughter of the Sassanagh.
My lady--erect and towering in martial frock and helm--pointed with
stern finger at the door. Of her own will the real wife would never
soil her lips by speaking to this woman; but she, assuming a dogged
smile as she rearrayed her garments, tossed her head unheeding, till
Arthur Wolfe took her hand and strove to lead her thence. She pushed
him back and leaned over the impromptu bed which lacqueys had built up
of chairs and tables; for at this moment my lord moved, opened his
eyes which sought those of his mistress, and, struggling in the grip
of Death, essayed to speak. His wife moved a step nearer to catch his
words, but, consistent to the end, he motioned her impatiently away.
The face of the countess burned with shame and wrath as she turned to
the window, and, clasping her eldest-born to her bosom, pressed a hot
cheek against the panes. He could not forbear to humiliate her, even
before the club-servants--before vulgar little Curran and the foolish
neophyte--before the horrible woman who had usurped her place in his
affections. Was it the hussy's mission to insult her always--to cover
her with unending mortification? No! Thank goodness. That ordeal was
nearly overpast, but she would forget its corroding bitterness never!
My lord's sand was ebbing visibly. In an hour at most he must pass the
Rubicon. Then the minx should be stripped of borrowed plumes and
turned out upon the world, even as Jane Shore was centuries ago.
Ignominy should be piled back upon the papist a hundredfold. She knew,
or thought she knew, that my lord was too careless to have thought of
a last testament. At all events, a legacy from a Protestant to a
Catholic was fraught with legal pitfalls. But she started from false
premises, as her astonished ears soon told her.
My lord, raising himself upon his elbows, spoke--slowly, with
labouring breath; for his life was oozing in scarlet throbs through
the sword-gash, and grave-damps were gathering upon his skin.
'Gillin dear!' he gasped, with a diabolical emphasis to disgust his
wife. 'I have loved you, for you were always gay and cheerful and
forgiving, not glaring and reproachful like that stony figure there! I
leave you well provided for. The Little House is yours, with the farm
and the land about it; in return for which I lay a duty on you. My
lady will not be pleased,' he continued, with a look of hate; 'for she
will never be able to drive out of Strogue without passing before your
doors. And she must live there--there or at Ennishowen, or by my will
she will forfeit certain rights. Lift me up. I can hardly breathe.'
Both Wolfe and Curran made a movement of indignation as the departing
sinner exposed his plans. What a fiendish thing, so to shame a wife
whose only apparent crime was a coldness of demeanour! Well, well! The
Glandores were always mad, and this one more crazy than his
forefathers.
My lord marked the movement, and, turning his glazing eyes towards his
second son, smiled faintly. 'Not so bad as you think,' he panted. 'I
have bequeathed the Little House to your daughter, Gillin, to be held
in trust for you, then to be hers absolutely--to pretty Norah, who, at
my wish you know, was baptised a Protestant. I will that the two
families should live side by side, in order that his mother may do no
harm to my second child, whom she abhors. I do not think she would do
him active wrong. But we can never tell what a woman will do if
goaded. Swear to watch over the boy, Gillin; and if evil befall, point
the finger of public opinion at his mother. She will always bow to
that, I know. Bring lights. Hold up my little Terence that I may look
at him. Lights! It is very dark.'
A candle was brought in a great silver sconce, but my lord had looked
his last on earth. Vainly he peered through a gathering film. The
child's blonde locks were hidden from his sight; and then, feeling
that the portals of one world were shut ere those of the other were
ajar, he was seized with a quaking dread like ague. The devil-may-care
swagger of the Glandores was gone. He strove with groans to recall a
long-forgotten prayer, and the spectators of his death-bed were
stricken with awe.
'Gillin,' he murmured, in so strange and hoarse a voice as to make her
shudder. 'It is an awful wrong we've done. Why did you let me? Too
late now. I cannot set it right, but she--call my lady--why is she not
here?'
The tall countess was standing sternly over him, close by, with
crossed arms, but he could not see her.
'I am here. What would you?' she said; as white as he, with a growing
look of dread.
'That wrong!' he gurgled. 'That dreadful thing. Oh, set it right while
you have time; for my sake; for your own, that you may escape this
torment. If I might live an hour--O God! but one! We three only know.
If I could----'
The wretched man made an effort to rise--a last supreme effort. A
spasm seized his throat. He flung his arms into the air and fell
back--dead.
Doreen, the brown-eyed girl, cowered against her father and began to
cry. The boys, who looked on the work of the White Pilgrim for the
first time, clung trembling in an embrace with twitching lips. The two
women--so dissimilar in birth and breeding--bound by a strange secret
link--scrutinised each other long and steadily across the corpse, as
skilful swordsmen do who would gauge a rival's skill. They were about
to skirmish now. In the future might one be called upon to run the
other through? Who can tell what lurks behind the veil?
The countess winced under the insolent gaze with which Madam Gillin
looked her up and down. With a tinge of half-alarmed contempt she
broke the silence.
'Arthur,' she said, 'take that chit away. With her mother's craven
soul in her, she's like to have a fit. At any rate, save my conscience
that. Fear not for me, though they _have_ all run off as if I were
plague-stricken. Mr. Curran I dare say, or some one, will see me taken
care of. You will have details to look to for me. Take the girl hence.
No. Leave the boys.'
Arthur Wolfe departed, taking with him Doreen and his godson Tone; and
Mr. Curran, nodding to them, withdrew to the antechamber.
The women were alone with their dead. My lady stood frowning at the
usurper, who, no whit abashed, laid a hand upon the corpse and said,
in solemn accents: 'So help me God--I'll do his bidding. Do not glare
at me, woman, or you may drive me to use my nails. I know your secret,
for your husband babbled of it as he slept. It is a fearful wrong.
Many a time I've urged him to see justice done, no matter at what cost
to you and to himself. But he was weak and wicked too. I suppose it is
now too late, for you are as bad as he, and vain as well of your murky
half-caste blood!'
Madam Gillin drew back a step; for, stung to the quick by the
beginning of her speech, my lady made as if to strike her foe with the
toy-bayonet; but, reason coming to the rescue, she tossed it on the
ground. This last insult was too much. To speak plainly of such
shameful things to her very face! The brazen hardened papist hussy!
But vulgar Gillin laughed at the fierce impulse with such a jeering
crow as startled Mr. Curran in the antechamber.
'Do you want fisticuffs?' she gibed, with a plump white fist on either
hip. 'I warrant ye'd get the worst of such a tussle, my fine madam,
for all your haughty airs--_you_--who should act as serving-wench to
such as I. Nay! Calm yourself. I'm off. This is the first time we've
ever spoken--I hope it may be the last, for that will mean that you
have behaved properly to your second son. I've no desire to cross your
path; you cruel, wicked, heartless woman!'
Lady Glandore, her thin lips curling, took Terence by the hand for all
reply, and bade him kneel.
'Swear,' she said in low clear tones, drawing forward the astonished
Shane, 'that you will be faithful to your elder brother as a vassal to
a suzerain, that you will do him no treason, but act as a junior
should with submission to the head of his house.'
The little boy had been crying with all his might ever since they
brought in that ghastly heap. Confused and awed by his mother's hard
manner he repeated her words, then broke into fresh sobs, whilst Madam
Gillin stared and clasped her hands together as she turned to go.
'Sure the woman's cracked,' she muttered. 'What does she mean? The
feudal system's passed. No oath can be binding on a child of twelve.
Maybe she's not wicked--only mad--as mad as my lord was. Well, God
help the child! What's bred in the bone will out! Deary me! There's
something quare about all these half-English nobles.'
Mr. Curran waited, according to agreement, lest anything should be
required by my lady; and though by no means a lady's man, was not
sorry so to do, for the conduct of the countess in her sudden
bereavement had been, to say the least of it, extraordinary, and he
was curious to observe what would happen next. There was something
beneath that haughty calmness which roused his curiosity. Was she
regretting the past, conscious only of the sunshine, forgetful now of
storms; or was she rejoicing at a release? Holding no clue, conjecture
was waste of brain-power.
So Mr. Curran resolved to reserve his judgment, and turned his
attention to what was going on without, while the servants stole
backwards and forwards, improvising the preparations for a wake.
The proceedings outside were well-nigh as lugubrious as those within.
A thick mist and drizzling rain were descending on the town, turning
the roads to quagmires, the ornamental draperies to dish-clouts, the
wreaths to funereal garlands. The illuminations, concerning which
expectation had been so exercised, flickered and guttered dismally.
Groups of men in scarlet, their powder in wet mud upon their coats,
reeled down the greasy pavement, waking the echoes with a drunken
view-halloo or a fragment of the Volunteer hymn. Some were making an
exhaustive tour of the boozing-kens; some staggered towards the
lottery-rooms in Capel Street, or the Hells of Skinner's Row; some
were running-a-muck with unsteady gait, and sword-tip protruded
through the scabbard for the behoof of chairmen's calves; while some
again, in a glimmer of sobriety, were examining the smirched stockings
and spattered breeches which precluded their appearance at Smock
Alley. Chairs and coaches flitted by, making for Moira House or the
Palace of his Grace of Leinster, for all kept open-house to-night, and
Mr. Curran's crab-apple features puckered into a grin as he marked how
fearfully faces were upturned to Daly's, where one of the elect was
lying stiff and stark. But the grin soon faded into a look of sadness,
as, like some seer, he apostrophised his countrymen.
'O people!' he reflected, 'easily gulled and hoodwinked, how long will
your triumph last? This is but a grazing of the ark on Ararat--a
delusive omen of the subsiding of the waters. Our bark is yet to be
tossed, not on a sinking, but on a more angry flood than heretofore.
Eat and drink, for to-morrow you die. What was your ancestors' sin
that ye should be saddled with a curse for ever? Your land was the
Isle of Saints, yet were ye pre-doomed from the beginning; for when
the broth of your character was brewed, prudence was left out and
discord tossed in instead. And the taskmaster, knowing that in discord
lies his strength, plays on your foibles for your undoing. How long
may the prodigy of your co-operation last? Alas! It pales already.
To-morrow is your supreme trial of strength, and your chiefs are at
daggers-drawn. What will be the end? What will be the end?'
He shook himself free from the dismal prospect of his thoughts, for
since Madam Gillin bustled out my lady had been very quiet. He peeped
through the doorway. No! She had not moved since he looked in an hour
ago; but was sitting still with her chin on her two hands--gazing with
knitted brows at the body as it lay, its form defined dimly through
the sheet that covered it.
Terence, lulled by tears, had fallen asleep long since upon the floor.
Shane walked hither and thither, biting his nails furtively; for he
was a brave boy who feared not his father dead, though he trembled in
his presence whilst alive. Had he dared he would have gone forth into
the street to see the gay folks, the lights, and junketing, for he was
high up in his teens and longed to be a man. But it would not do to
leave the mother whom he loved and dreaded to the protection of
Curran--the low lawyer. He was my lord now, and the head of his house,
and must protect her who had hitherto protected him. He marvelled,
though, in his slow brain, as it wandered round the knotty subject,
over the passage of arms betwixt the ladies; their covert menace; the
oath the little lad was made to swear. It was all strange--his mother
of all the strangest. Protect her, forsooth! The uncompromising mouth
and square chin of her ladyship--the steely glitter of her light grey
eye--showed independent will enough for two. Clearly she was intended
to protect others, rather than herself to need protection. But her
manner was odd, her frown of evil augury. At a moment of soul-stirring
woe, such calmness as this of hers could bode no good.
All through the night she sat reviewing her life, while Shane walked
in a fidget, and patient Curran waited. She brooded over the past,
examined the threatening future, without moving once or uttering a
sound. She was deciding in her mind on a future plan of action which
should lead her safely through a sea of dangers. Was she as relentless
as she looked? Was this an innately wicked nature, set free at last
from duress, revolving how best to abuse its liberty; or was it one at
bottom good, but prejudiced and narrow, chained down and warped awry,
and dulled by circumstance?