BANISHMENT.
Years went by. The volcano burned blithely, and the upper orders
danced on it. No court was more like that of a stage potentate than
the court of the Irish Viceroy. No ridottos were so gorgeous as those
of Dublin; no equipages so sumptuous; no nobles so magnificently
reckless. Mr. Handel averred in broken German that he adored the
Hibernian capital, and gave birth to his sublime creations for the
edification of Dublin belles. The absentees returned home in troops,
finding that in their mother's mansion were many fatted calves; and
vied with one another, in the matter of Italian stuccoists and
Parisian painters, for the display of a genteel taste. But, as the
poet hath it, 'things are not always as they seem.' The crust of the
volcano grew daily thinner. What a gnashing of teeth would result from
its collapse!
The Grand Convention fell a victim to its leaders, and from a mighty
engine of the national will shrivelled into an antic posturing. Mr.
Grattan (the man of eighty-two _par excellence_) perceived that he was
overreached; that perfidious Albion shuffled one by one out of her
engagements, that the independence, over which he had crowed like a
revolutionary cock, was no more than an illusory phantom. The
Renunciation Act was repealable at pleasure, he found, and no
renunciation save in name. The horrid Poyning, the objectionable 6th
of George III., tossed into limbo with such pomp, might become law
again by a mere pen-scratch. Ireland was decked in the frippery of
freedom, which, torn off piecemeal, would leave her naked and ashamed.
The Volunteers, perceiving that their blaring and strutting had
produced nothing real, looked sheepishly at one another and returned
to their plain clothes. After all, they were asses in lions' skins;
their association a theatrical pageant of national chivalry, which
dazzled Europe for an instant till men smelt the sawdust and the
orange-peel and recognised in the helmet a dishcover. During all
this vapouring and trumpeting, England had held her own, by means of
the subservient Lords and the heavily mortgaged Commons. The
parliament, too base for shame, smiled unabashed; the Volunteers,
conscience-smitten and in despair, broke up and fell to pieces. The
Catholics were as much serfs as ever. Derry, whose conscience was
troubled with compunctious visitings, went so far as to propose that
the Catholics (burning source of trouble in all altercations) should
emigrate _en masse_ to Rome as a bodyguard for his Holiness; but the
latter, dreading an incursion of three million savages, which would
have been like an invasion of the Huns, declined with thanks the
present, and the laudable scheme was given up.
Far-sighted folks became aware that the pretty tricks of the puppets
were due to an English punchinello. The fantoccini did credit to their
machinist, who was skilful at pulling of wires. Who was he? Why, Mr.
Pitt the younger, who would have his dolls jump as he listed, though
they should come to be shattered in the jumping. Mr. Pitt, the British
premier, set his wits to work to keep all grades and classes
squabbling. At one time, to exasperate the Papists, he gave an extra
twist to the penal screw; at another, he untwisted it suddenly to
anger the Orangemen. Coercion and relief were two reins in his skilled
hands wherewith he sawed the mouth of poor rawboned Rosinante, till
the harried animal came down upon its haunches. He established a
forty-shilling franchise which gave votes to the poorest, most
ignorant, and most dependent peasantry in Europe. This he declared was
the divine gift of liberty. Nothing of the sort. It merely placed a
fresh tool in the hands of large proprietors who were dying to be
bribed and charmed to have something new to sell.
Though the Volunteers ceased to be a cause of uneasiness, it was plain
to Mr. Pitt that a repetition of their military fandango must be made
impossible. How was this to be accomplished? As it was, they had left
behind them, when they vanished, the nucleus of a disease--a small
but sturdy band of patriots, who were not to be bought or cajoled.
Unless treated in time, this spot might inflame and grow contagious.
How was it to be treated? That was the grave question whereon hung the
peace of Erin. The honest handful saw the rock on which the Convention
had split, and were humble enough to try and remedy the error.
Theobald--romantic young _protege_ of Arthur Wolfe--was the first to
show them the true case, to demonstrate that Ireland's harmony was
England's disappointment; that the only hope for motherland lay, not
in a commingling of a few red uniforms, or a picturesque mixing of
social grades, but in a compact welding together for the common weal
of the different religious creeds which had distracted the land with
its dissensions since the Reformation. 'Till this is done,' he said,
'the Sassanagh will toss us as a battledore a shuttlecock. Establish
the grand principle of liberty of conscience, bridge the abyss of
mutual intolerance, stay the carnage of the first emotions of the
heart! If the rights of men be duties to God, then are we of the same
religion. Our creed of civil faith is the same. Let us agree then to
exclude from our thoughts all things in which we differ, and be
brethren in heart and mind for our mother's sake.' The words of the
romantic young apostle touched his hearers on their tenderest chord,
and they swore to learn wisdom by the past, and live in amity for
ever. The quick revulsion from bigotry to tolerance was not so amazing
as it seems, for Theobald Wolfe Tone was but the visible expression of
the spirit of his age--the abuse-abhorring spirit which distinguished
the eighteenth century, and culminated in the French upheaving of '89.
That sanguinary outburst, which blew into the elements a long-rooted
despotism, and which clenched the new-fangled faith enunciated in the
War of Independence, had an enormous effect on Ireland--an effect of
which Mr. Pitt availed himself for his own purposes with his usual
tact. The principle of '89 made its way to England, where the genius
of the Constitution prevailed against its allurements; then passed
across the Channel, where it was eagerly received by men who were
being hounded on to recklessness. The adverse religious sects which
had just vowed eternal amity, seeing what passed in Paris, looked on
one another with alarm. The Catholic clergy grew suspicious of the
reformers who extolled the conduct of France, because the new _regime_
had produced Free Thought, or rather had endowed the bantling with
strength which the great Voltaire had nourished. People were startled
by bold views which were new to them. The timid looked down a chasm to
which they could perceive no bottom, and shrank back. A fanatical few
were for going all lengths at once, and demanding the help of France
to produce an Irish upheaval. At this juncture a friendly English
policy--a judicious combination of discipline and conciliation--would
have allayed the brewing storm. But it was not the intention of
British ministers that the country should be tranquillised just yet.
Quite the contrary. They resolved to stir up such a tempest as should
frighten Erin out of her poor wits, and drive her to distrust her own
strength and her own wisdom for the rest of her natural existence.
Theobald Wolfe Tone--ardent, patriotic, fired by the golden thoughts
of youth, and bursting with Utopian schemes--was just such a catspaw
as was wanted. His bright earnest face beamed with the rays of truth;
his pure life compelled respect; his rapt eloquence lured many to his
side, despite the warnings of their judgment. Though a Protestant, he
was scandalised by the Penal Code. He wandered like a discontented
young Moses among his enslaved countrymen. From pamphleteering he took
to declamation, and, like many another, became convinced by his own
discourse. He started a society among the Presbyterians of Ulster for
the encouragement of universal love, and dubbed it the Society of
United Irishmen. It grew and flourished at Belfast, for all Irish
projects which were bold and enterprising came into being in the
north. In spite of Mr. Wolfe, of Curran, of Lady Glandore (who took up
her brother's _protege_), young Tone abandoned the Bar, and
deliberately developed into an incendiary. He travelled over the
country haranguing crowds, addressing meetings, demonstrating home
truths, exhorting all to join the cause which should promote concord
amongst Irishmen of all persuasions. A bloodless revolution was to be
organised like that of '82, but on a surer basis. Instead of five
hundred thousand, five millions of men were to stand up as one to
demand a clear ratification of their rights, and, really united at
last, would be certain of the crown of victory. Vainly his friends
warned him off the precipice, declaring that the world was not ripe
for a millennium, that the heart of man is desperately wicked, that
five millions of men never were yet of one mind, that even a dozen
Irishmen never yet agreed upon any given subject whatsoever. Tone was
infatuated with his Utopian scheme, prepared like the pure-souled
enthusiast that he was to give up his all to bring about its
furtherance. What better catspaw could be selected by Mr. Pitt than
this artless apostle in whom was no taint of guile?
If Tone's society had been left alone, it would have dwindled as
over-virtuous for this world. It must be persecuted (so Mr. Pitt
determined) till it flourished like a bay-tree. Then Tone and the
United Irishmen must be stamped beneath the heel, and it would be odd
indeed if they did not drag their tottering country in their downfall.
So Mr. Pitt sat down to play a game of chess with unconscious
Theobald, permitting him to frisk his pieces about the board till he
chose to take them one by one. The game was heartless, for the players
were deplorably ill-matched. What could a knot of earnest youths do
against the forces of established government--a government which was
not squeamish as to the weapons it employed? Master Tone was agitating
for the Catholics, was he? Out with a relief bill, which, by bestowing
illusory concessions, should exasperate the ultra-Protestants. Then
with lightning-speed, in dazzling sequence, a host of contradictory
enactments, such as should keep the ball a-rolling. Towns were
garrisoned with English troops, armed assemblies suppressed, public
discussions forbidden, the sale of ammunition prohibited, conventions
of delegates rendered penal. A deft touch of personal persecution
besides, and the United Irishmen would become martyrs.
Before they could fully understand this complex phalanx of decrees,
Tone and his lieutenants--driven by events as by a remorseless
broom--found themselves transformed from a harmless debating club into
a secret society, proscribed and outlawed. They discovered, too, that
an illegal Star Chamber--a threatening Wehmgericht--had been created
somehow to spy out their ways; that a secret council was established
in the Castle, which was garnished with bristling bayonets, and
supplied with paid informers.
They buffeted like beasts in a net. The more they struggled, the more
entangled they became. Then, hot-headed to begin with, they grew
frantic. Must it be war? they howled. War be it then, though you have
arms and we have none. With the sacred cause we will win or perish.
Tear your colours from the staff, O people; muffle your drums and beat
your funeral march if ye are not prepared to stand in the breach with
us, to fall or conquer, for God and motherland!
Fate gave Mr. Pitt a cruel game to play, but he was not one to blench
at phantoms. It was a game beset with difficulties--tortuous, dirty,
dark. So he turned up his cuffs and played it like the bold man he
was, without flinching; in an age, too, when the end was acknowledged
to justify the means. The crime which he had to commit was of his
master's ordering, and must lie at his door--at the door of good King
George, that well-meaning stupid boor. On his shoulders and no others
must be laid the horrors of '98--of that hideous carnival which,
though it took place but eighty years ago, stands without rival in the
annals of human wickedness. Some, maybe, will hope that this chronicle
is overdrawn. Unhappily it is not so. There is no historical fact
recorded in these pages in connection with that bitter time for which
there exists not ample evidence. The cruelty of devils lies dormant in
each one of us. From 1796 to 1800, it had full play in Ireland. There
is no doubt that if Mr. Pitt had been allowed his way, he would have
dealt fairly by the sister island; that he intended a broad
emancipation of the serfs, an honourable course which would have
landed him on his father's pinnacle. But his hands were tied in two
ways. First by the bigotry of George, who loathed with a lunatic
abhorrence all opinions which differed from his own; secondly, by the
upheaval of '89, which, by overturning established dogmas, opened out
awful vistas of new danger to the body politic. The position being
what it was, he cut his coat according to his cloth, accepted what he
could not help, and arranged that a religious feud must be fomented to
boiling-point, in order to make its suppression an excuse for
political slavery.
To carry out this project he needed a trusty coadjutor; one who was
crafty, ambitious, selfish, clever, unprincipled, and, above all,
Irish; and this _rara avis_ he found in the Irish chancellor, Lord
Clare (whose acquaintance we made in 1783, when he was Fitzgibbon,
attorney-general). This man he reckoned up at once at his true worth,
and set him accordingly to fight the battle with the patriots. A
better tool it was not possible to find, for he despised his
countrymen for their unpractical romance, looking on them as
stepping-stones for his own personal aggrandisement. His domineering
airs had in the intervening time coerced to his own way of thinking a
host of weathercock viceroys, had raised him to the woolsack, rendered
him supreme in the law courts. Mr. Pitt begged this glorious creature
to make a trip to London, and proceeded to open his mind to him, or
rather that murky cupboard which he exposed as such to the admiration
of his dolls, when he chose to cajole them into the belief that they
were colleagues.
'We have an ensanguined path to tread, my dear Lord Clare,' he said,
with raised eyebrows; 'but it is the shortest and the safest. We must
coax on these boys to displays of rashness till they shall drive the
most respectable to take refuge in our bosom. A prison shall cool the
ardour of the fanatics. Gold shall be the portion of those who waver.
Bloody, say you? Is not Ireland already traceable in the statute-book
as a wounded man in a crowd is tracked by his wounds? A few transitory
troubles--mere spasms, nothing more--and our patient will be calm. Let
the jade be tied hand and foot, and we'll mop up the blood and she
will come to hug her chains. As for you, my dear lord,' he went on
with a familiar smirk, which warmed Lord Clare with pleasure, 'you
will be a gainer in several ways. Your talents are wasted in that poky
little house on College Green. We want men of your kidney at St.
Stephen's, 'fore Gad we do!' and Lord Clare took the bait, and the
English premier rubbed his hands behind his back. It was but a new
phase of a time-honoured policy. Chancellor and patriots should be
made to plunge their paws into the fire; then Mr. Pitt in his ambush
would quietly eat the nut.
So the new society of United Irishmen pursued its desperate way,
upheld in fainting moments by the ardour of its young apostle; and the
chancellor returned home to set traps to catch his feet; and in order
to facilitate his movements a new viceroy was sent over--a gabbling
weak man, who would do as he was bid; whose private life was
irreproachable; who in public was an idiot; who would obey the
chancellor in all things; whose name was my Lord Camden.
As might have been expected, Theobald fell into the snare. His
lieutenants were locked up. Undismayed, he prated, with increased
vehemence, of a bondage worse than that of Egypt, called on the men of
Ulster to break down the Penal Code; pointed out that the oppressor
was as vicious as an Eastern despot, that the oppressed was disfigured
into the semblance of a beast. The awakened Presbyterians answered to
his call; and, when they had sufficiently committed themselves, the
watchful chancellor put down his claw on them. Tone's career was
short. Very soon he too was cast into gaol, while small fry were
allowed to flap their wings till their mission, too, should be
accomplished. But Mr. Pitt, if a strong, was not an ungenerous foe. He
respected the young man, who was made of the stuff which makes heroes.
By his command Theobald was incarcerated in Newgate for a brief space,
to chew the cud of his vain imaginings, and then was given back his
liberty on condition of departing from the country which he loved.
Sadly he accepted the boon which was tossed to him--for choice lay
'twixt exile and the Kilmainham minuet; despatched his faithful wife
before him to America; and (Mr. Pitt and the chancellor permitting)
called his closest friends around him once again ere he shook their
hands for the last time. He stands in the gloaming now, bareheaded, to
pour out a last burning exhortation to his disciples as we take up the
clue of this our chronicle, whose thread shall no more be broken.
It is the lovely evening of the 12th of July, 1795. The scene a
triangular field known as 'The Garden' on the shore of Dublin Bay,
from whence may be duskily distinguished on the one side the cupolas
and spires of the city; on the other, at the end of a promontory
jutting out into the sea, the ivy-clad walls of Strogue Abbey, bowered
in umbrageous woods. Joy-chimes are wafted on the breeze, and now and
again a puff of smoke shows as a white spot across the bay, and a
second later the boom of a royal salute shakes the hollyhocks and
causes the little group to shiver. It is the anniversary of William,
who saved us from wooden shoes. Mr. Curran--apart from the rest--beats
his cane testily upon the ground, and murmurs: 'Lord Clare is
justified in despising them. The pack of fools! Jigging round
Juggernaut at this minute with orange lilies and foolish banners! Even
so Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Will my countrymen learn wisdom? Of
course not. Never.'
The evening light shines full on the face of the young enthusiast,
marking in relief the deep cuts chiselled by premature sorrow on his
cheek. He is effeminate-looking but genteel, with long lank hair
simply caught back behind. His thin figure appears more slight than
usual, his pale face more wan, in the anxious eyes of his companions;
his hands more thin and feverish as one by one he clasps with a
lingering pressure those that are held out to him.
'Thanks, friends!' he says, with a weary smile. 'It was idle in me to
bid you take the oath once more; for having once sworn I know you will
be faithful. Yet will it be as music to mine ears, as I roam in a
foreign land, to recall the solemn cadence of your beloved voices.
Nay--weep not! Be of good cheer. See these flowers around, and take
courage with the omen. Mark how they droop and sink--grieving together
for the dying-day. A few hours of sleep and they will wake refreshed
again, and lift up their loving heads unto the sun, with dew-tears of
gladness glistening upon their eyelids.'
'Oh, Theobald, what will become of us when you are gone?' cries out
Robert Emmett, a boy of seventeen. 'You carry hope with you in the
folds of your mantle. Once gone, we shall be left in darkness,
groping.'
Tone shuddered, and fought with himself against presentiment.
'I have watched over the cradle of Liberty,' he whispered, dreamily.
'God forbid that I should ever see its hearse.' Then passing his palm
across his eyes as if to shut out a nightmare, he said, laying a hand
on the broad shoulder of a young man beside him, 'Courage, boy Robert!
True, I go from you. But here is the Elisha who shall take up the
mantle which I leave a legacy with Hope wrapped in it. Look up to your
brother Thomas, Robert--the wise and prudent, the sage man in counsel.
Follow him as you have followed me; faithfully, truly, till I return.
For I shall return, if God so wills it, I promise you. This night I
sail for America, but am under no promise to stay there. I shall make
my way to France, and lay our grievances at the feet of the Directory.
There is nothing for it but to amputate the right hand of England. Oh,
how I hate the name of the thrice accursed! France is the surgeon who
shall do the job. I would fain give a toast before I go, if Doreen
will lend the flask she hugs so carefully.'
'It is for your journey, Theobald,' was Doreen's soft answer.
'Never mind me,' he returned, with assumed gaiety. 'Let us pour a last
libation to our common mother.'
A man who had been spreading his great length upon the grass, now
jumped up with an oath. A giant he was; evidently, from his dress,
belonging to the half-mounted class. His big kindly flat face was
shaded by a Beresford bobwig, under which twinkled a pair of roguish
eyes set in a sallow skin. His buckskin breeches were worn and greasy;
his half-jack-boots were adorned with huge silver spurs; while a faded
scarlet vest (fur-trimmed, though it was summer) closed over his broad
chest; and a square-cut snuff-coloured coat, with all the cloth in it,
hung from his brawny shoulders.
'Theobald!' he shouted, in a voice which sent the owls whirling
seaward, 'you shall not go from us. Why not lie hidden somewhere, and
direct us still? Can we not be trusted to keep the secret? You look at
things too blackly. We need no French help, but can win our way as the
Volunteers did--by moral force; or if we must fight, can quite look
after ourselves. Don't tell me. These English are not ogres.'
'Oh, stay with us, dear Theobald!' cried eagerly Robert Emmett,
the boy of seventeen. 'Cassidy is right. We will have no help from
France--for that would imply bloodshed--the blood of our own
brethren--and the curse of God is upon fratricide.'
Tone shook his head, and answered bluntly:
'No! That was all very well twelve years since; but the day for a
peaceful revolution's past. On the heads of those who forced us to
seek foreign aid shall the blood-curse be. Our omelette can't be made
without a breaking of eggs. For three years we've dribbled in and out
of Newgate and Kilmainham, and know all their holes and corners, and
dread neither prison any more. We must strike, and that sharply, but
are not strong enough alone.'
'Theobald!' observed Mr. Curran, from his grass-knoll, 'it's a
Upas-tree you've planted. Take heed lest it blight the land.'
'We must not be led away by a morbid anxiety about a little life,'
rejoined the apostle. 'I go a solitary wanderer, but shall return with
an army at my back--and then!' He paused, as though delving into
futurity, and the prospect which he saw upon its mirror was
reassuring; for with new courage he turned to his band and said: 'Keep
together, Protestant and Catholic, for _L'Union fait la Force_, and
Britain will try to divide you. Come what may, hold on by one another.
Thomas Emmet, old friend! as a literary man and editor of the "Press,"
it is your duty to keep this before the public. Study the tactics of
the foe, that one by one they may be exposed in time. And you,
Cassidy,' he continued, laying a hand tenderly on the giant's arm,
'keep watch over your too ingenuous nature, lest you find yourself
betrayed. In your way you are a clever fellow, but, like most people
of your bulk, unduly innocent. I speak with loving authority to you,
for is not your sister my dear wife, who, next to Erin, holds all my
heart? You are too servile to Lord Clare, Cassidy, who, himself an
Irishman, is the bitterest enemy that Ireland ever had. Beware lest he
twist you to his purpose, for the undoing of us all. You are also on
too intimate terms with Sirr--the town-major--that shameful jackal of
my Lord Clare's.'
'You would not suspect me, Theobald!' cried the giant, ruefully. 'I'm
not more wise than others, but I mean well.'
'No, indeed!' returned his brother-in-law. 'Would to God that we had
more such hearts as yours amongst us! But keep watch and ward, lest
you be overreached, for you are simple.'
'My Lord Clare is partial to me, and tells me many things,' apologised
the giant, with a twinkle in his eye. 'Maybe I'm not so stupid as I
look, and can unravel a fact from a careless hint. As for Sirr, I
don't care two pins for him; yet who knows how useful he may prove to
us? He has apartments in the Castle--is hand and glove with Secretary
Cooke; through him we may be able to tamper with the soldiery, turning
the arms of Government against itself, for the town-major is no man of
straw.'
But Tone shook his head.
'It is ill dealing with traitors' weapons,' he retorted. 'In a passage
of wits, you will certainly be worsted, for you are too open, too
blundering.'
Cassidy looked demurely at the rest, with his whimsical half-smile, as
though to ask whether this verdict on his character were a compliment
or not; and handsome Doreen smiled back on him in her grave way as she
handed the flask and cup to Tone, and twined her arm round Sara
Curran's waist.
A pretty picture were these two girls--who loitered a little amongst
the darkling flowers, while Tone was speaking his farewell. Doreen had
fulfilled the promise of her childhood, and was now a statuesque woman
of two-and-twenty, with rich warm blood mantling under an olive
skin--soft eyes of the brown colour of a mountain stream, shaded by
long silken lashes--and an aquiline nose whose nostrils were as finely
cut and sensitive as were her aunt's. People wondered where she got
her scornful look, for Mr. Arthur Wolfe (attorney-general now) was the
most peaceable and quiet of men, while all the world knew that her
retiring mother had faded from excess of meekness. Her aunt, Lady
Glandore, had watched her growth approvingly, for the tall supple form
was what her own had been--as was the swan-like neck and head-toss.
She approved and seemed quite to like her niece till she remembered
that she was a Papist and a blot on the escutcheon; then she despised
her, yet never dared to touch forbidden ground save in a covert way;
for Doreen had a temper, when roused, as self-asserting as her own,
and her aunt was grown old before her time; too old to rise without an
effort at the sound of the war-trumpet.
Doreen was dutiful to her aunt in most things; but on the subject of
her oppressed religion was a very tigress. If Lady Glandore permitted
herself too broad a sally, those eyes with the strongly-marked black
pupils would shoot forth a cairngorm flame--that mass of dark brown
hair which hung in natural curls after the Irish fashion down her
back, would shake like a lion's crest, and my lady would retire from
the field discomfited. Yet this occurred but seldom, and folks could
only guess how the Penal Code burned into her flesh by a certain
unnatural quietude and an artificial repose of manner beyond her
years.
Of course she adored Tone, the champion who had wrecked his life on
behalf of three million serfs who were her brethren, and under his
guidance became quite a little conspirator, niece though she was of an
ultra-Protestant grandee, daughter of the attorney-general, who, as
such, was crown prosecutor of her allies. It may be asked, how came
her aunt to permit the girl to form such dangerous ties? The damsel
was wayward, and the aunt a victim of some secret canker, over which
she brooded more and more as her hair blanched. A hard tussle or two,
and practically she lowered her standard. The girl went whither she
listed, and chose as bosom friend Sara Curran, daughter of the member
of parliament, to whom her father was deeply attached; and who had on
the occasion of her uncle's tragic end struck up a queer friendship
with her aunt, which flourished by reason of its incongruity.
Doreen, from the time she could first toddle, had been accustomed
to scour the country on ponyback in company with her cousins,
and these rides--more frequently than not--had for object the
Priory--a comfortable nest which Curran had taken to himself near
Rathfarnham--where they were regaled on tea and cakes by little Sara,
the lawyer's baby child. Sara and Doreen became fast friends as they
grew up--the faster probably because Doreen, who was the elder by
several years, was strong as the sapling oak, while Sara was clinging
like the honeysuckle.
Of course Curran, whose business kept him for many hours daily in the
courts of law and House of Commons, could desire no better companion
for his pet than the niece of the Countess of Glandore--the daughter
of his friend and superior, Arthur Wolfe; and so as her cousins grew
into men and left her more and more alone, she frequented more and
more the Priory, where no one mocked her faith, and where she
frequently met Theobald.
Wolfe-Tone and the Emmetts met frequently at Curran's, and their
large-minded talk and broad generous views seemed to her like the wind
which has passed over seaweed, compared with her aunt's narrow drone,
the vain self-vaunting of my Lord Clare, the drunken ribaldry and
coarse jests of her cousin Lord Glandore. So she, in her goldlaced
riding-habit, had come too to the tryst that she might look on her
hero once again; and for propriety's sake had brought as escort Papa
Curran and gentle Sara, who, though only sixteen, was already casting
timid sheep's-eyes at the younger of the two Emmetts--a gownsman at
this time in the University.
Bashful Sara had relapsed into tears several times during Tone's
discourse--a pale, fair, pretty creature she was, with a dazzling skin
and light-blue eyes--and showed symptoms of hysteria when the patriot
proposed a final libation. Not that she had any reason for emotion
(such as Doreen might with more reason have displayed), being the
eye-apple of a prosperous barrister who professed the dominant faith;
but she knew that young Robert, whose shoes she would have knelt and
kissed, was deeply bitten with the prevailing mania, and maybe she had
besides a dim presentiment of the trouble which was to pour later upon
her head and his. Be that as it may, she sank upon the ground now and
sobbed, while Tone held forth the cup which Doreen had filled with a
steady hand.
'A toast, dear friends--the last we may drink together!' he said; and
gazed on the plashing waters, which glowed with the last gleam of the
sun that was no more. 'I give you Mother Erin! May she soon be decked
in green ribbons by a French milliner!'
Again and again did Doreen, a calm Hebe, fill the goblet, which was
drained by each man present with a murmured 'Amen!'
The sun had died behind the Wicklow hills; still the Protestant chimes
brayed fitfully across the sea, though the cannon at dusk were silent.
Far off from the direction of Strogue Abbey came a noise of galloping
hoofs, which grew gradually louder and louder, while every man looked
at his neighbour as though expecting some new misfortune. No wonder
they were uneasy, for their proceedings were watched, and a new
disaster happened daily. Presently Mr. Curran, established as vidette,
descried a well-known horseman, who pulled up sharply in the road, and
dismounting, vaulted lightly over the wall.
'Terence!' he exclaimed with mixed feelings, as he beheld a
finely-grown young man, whose round face was remarkable for mobile
eyebrows, a fearless eye, and puckers of fun about a sensitive mouth,
'what are you doing here? Be off!'
'Yes, Terence,' returned a cheery voice, 'or Councillor Crosbie, if
you please, since I have the honour now to act as your worship's
junior. Where's Tone? Not gone. Thank goodness! I must clasp the dear
lad's hand before he goes.'
Mr. Curran shook his mane back like a retriever that has bathed, which
was a trick he had when worried.
'Donkey! what do you here?' he grumbled. 'Are we not fools enough
without you? You belong to another race, which has nought in common
with our troubles. Take my advice, and just trot home again. If you
want to be silly, join the Cherokees as your brother has, or the
Blasters, or the Hellfires. Leave plotting to the children of the
soil.'
The young man, who was good-looking, with the comeliness which a fresh
complexion gives, showed his white teeth, and broke into a merry
laugh.
'In an evil temper,' he remarked. 'Gone without dinner, eh? If I am
not a drunkard and a gambler, whose fault is it, sir, but yours? Who
taught me that as a younger son I have my way to carve through life?
Who made me choose the Bar? Who superintended my studies, and gave a
helping hand? _You_--you cross Curran! and, believe me, I'm not
ungrateful, though a bit more idle than you like.'
'Then get you gone, and leave us to our folly,' was the testy
rejoinder. 'I won't have your mother saying some day that I brought
her boy to danger, and instilled ideas into his vacant mind which put
his neck in danger.'
'Fiddlededee!' laughed the good-humoured scapegrace. 'You are no more
a conspirator than I. Why are you here, and why have you brought my
cousin if awful rites are going forward?'
'Because I'm an ass!' growled the other. 'Conspirator--why not, pray?
My heart is sick when I look round me. Why should I not be maddened as
others are? Do I love Erin less? Doreen belongs through her religion
to the people, and it is fitting she should sorrow with them. Yes, it
is maddening?' he pursued, kindling suddenly, and breaking through the
crust in which for prudence' sake he cased himself, as the thoughts
over which he had been brooding took form. 'What is to become of us?
It would have been merciful if Spencer's desire had been gratified,
and the land turned into a seapool. Our travail is long, and endeth
not. Our master gives us a hangman and a taxgatherer; what more should
such as we require? His laws are like shoes sent forth for
exportation. 'Twere idle to take our measures, for if they pinch us,
what matters it? We stand between a social Scylla and Charybdis. Poets
and visionaries, like this poor fool here, work on the hare-brained
people, whose craving for freedom is whetted to voracity; and, led by
the blind, they tumble into traps, at which a less ardent nation would
be moved to laughter. Temerity, despair, annihilation--that is the
_mot d'ordre_. See if I am not a true prophet. And the luxurious
nobles--do they help with their counsel? Not they! Their twin-gods are
their belly and their lust. They have nothing in common with the
people.'
'The French shall drive them into the sea,' remarked Tone, placidly.
'The French, the French!' retorted Curran. 'Much good may they do us!
A revolution achieved by such means would merely mean a change of
masters. You live in a fool's paradise, Theobald. I can see farther
into futurity than you, for I'm older, worse luck. I see a time
coming--nay, it's close at hand--when a spectre will be set up and
nicknamed Justice; which, if God wills, it shall be my mission to tear
down. Yet what may I do with my little weight? A mean weak man with
feeble health. May I be the log to stop the wheels of the triumphal
car? Verily, the ways of Heaven are inscrutable!'
It was rarely that the little advocate spoke out so plainly. His
friends knew that he ever regarded his country with the idolatry of a
lover, that to her he gave freely all he had to give; through the
stages of her pride, her hope, her struggles and despondency, his
heart was hers for better and for worse; and therefore many marvelled
that, actively, he should have held aloof from the patriot band.
Nobody could charge him with cowardice. Terence himself had never
solved this mystery, although as his junior he saw more than most of
the workings of Curran's mind. He had wondered at his chief's coldness
in a careless way, till now, when it became patent to him, as to the
rest, that Curran's second sight beheld the possibility of state
trials in the future, where one would be needed to stand up for the
accused whose heart was steadfast, whose courage was indomitable.
Terence felt sure his chief was wrong--the beardless are always wisest
in their own esteem--for to the honest boy it seemed impossible that
Albion could be so base.
Yet the notion was grand that, despising dignities, the little lawyer
should be keeping himself in reserve for a Herculean labour, that he
should be deliberately laying himself out to stand by those whom
others would desert; and so, to the knot of bystanders in the
gloaming, the ugly pigmy of a man appeared sublime, as he sat in an
attitude of profound dejection, with the sweat of strong emotion in
beads upon his forehead and on the black elflocks of his untidy hair.
The jolly giant Cassidy rapped out a huge oath, and vowed with a
string of expletives that he should be 'shillooed' forthwith. The
Emmett brothers fairly wept; tears stood in the eyes of the statuesque
Doreen; Theobald knelt down before him on the dewy grass, and
entreated a farewell blessing ere he went.
'The Lord bless and keep you, my poor friend!' Curran whispered in a
broken voice. 'Whether He wills that you should die an exile, or that
you should return to us with glory, God be with you! May it never be
my lot to stand up in court for you! or if it must be so, may inspired
words be given me to save you from your danger! Now we must be
separating, or we'll have the Castle spies on us.'
Followed by many a God-speed Tone vanished in the darkness. All
listened to his retreating steps, wondering when and how they might
ever meet again. Curran heaved a sigh, and was the cynical man of the
world once more, with the dancing eye and whimsical half-melancholy
smile, who threw all the judges on circuit into convulsions with his
wit, and stirred the jury to unseemly laughter.
'Terence,' he said, linking his arm in that of his junior, while the
young ladies, helped by the Emmetts, mounted their horses, 'you were
wrong to come here. My lady will be angry if you mix with the common
riffraff. What would you say if she pulled her purse-strings tight,
you extravagant young dog? The idea of one of your birth worrying
himself about the people's wrongs is of course preposterous;
therefore, to please your mother, you had best give them a wide berth.
My Lord Clare shall get you a snug post with nothing to do, and vast
emoluments such as becomes a lord's brother, and then you'll be rich
and independent in no time, while I am still prosing over briefs.'
Terence, in whose face the wicked Glandore expression was tempered by
good-nature, was not pleased with the banter of his chief, for his
cousin was at his elbow, who always persisted in looking on him as a
boy, though he was a great fellow of four-and-twenty who was
constantly arraying himself in gorgeous clothes to please her. A
tantalising cousin was Miss Doreen to him; suggesting broidered capes
and becoming ruffles when amiably disposed, which, when with pain and
grief he got them made, received no notice from her whatsoever. He
chose to imagine that he was desperately in love with the beautiful
Miss Wolfe, and was proud of his passion, though she laughed at him.
Vainly he sighed; yet no worm fed upon his damask cheek. Albeit he
pretended to be very wretched, he was not; for his life was before him
and he enjoyed it thoroughly, and was the victim of an amazing
appetite, and would probably have forgotten all about Miss Wolfe in a
week (though he would have smitten you with a big stick if you dared
to hint as much) if her lithe figure had been removed from his sight
for that brief period. Sometimes he took it into his head that she
fancied Shane, and then he was pierced through and through with
jealousy, for the brothers never could get on, and the younger one
knew my lord to be not only thick of skull, but drunken and dissolute
too, even beyond the average of his compeers; a fire-eater, whose hand
was never off his sword, who cared more for dogs than women, more for
himself than either, and who as a husband would be certain to bring
misery upon the girl. Then again he would be consoled for an instant
by the reflection that it does not answer at all for first cousins to
marry; and then his longings would get the better of him, as he marked
the wealth of the brown hair which had a golden ripple through it, the
finely developed bust, the eyes like peatwater. She was interesting,
and his heart was soft. He watched her furtively sometimes in her fits
of sadness; when she sat behind a tambour at the Strogue hall-window,
gazing, with eyes that saw nothing, at the fishing-boats upon the bay,
as they splashed along with yellow sails and clumsy oars upon their
mirrored doubles, till tears fell one by one upon her work, like
thunderdrops upon a window-pane; and he could tell that she was
dreaming of her people. Then his heart yearned towards Doreen. He
longed to seize her in his lusty arms, crying:
'My beloved! I am poor, and you are rich' (for Mr. Wolfe had put by a
cosy nest-egg). 'Our tastes are simple. I will try to live upon love
and my allowance. You shall keep all your fortune to yourself--only be
mine, my very own!' But somehow he never said the words, for something
told him that she would only smile, and on second thoughts he was glad
he had not spoken.
It would have been wrong in her to scoff, for the proposal would have
been as unusual as disinterested; but girls will laugh at improper
moments. Miss Wolfe was an heiress as times went, and likely to be
richer; impecunious squires and squireens were legion; and the
abduction clubs not yet quite stamped out. This, indeed, was one
reason why she spent most of her time at Strogue instead of with her
father in Dublin; for he, easygoing in most things, was painfully
alive to the possibility of finding his daughter stolen one day when
he was in court, to be bucketed about the country without a change
of linen till his reluctant consent was wrung to a match with some
ne'er-do-well.
At Strogue such a thing could hardly happen, for the prestige of the
Glandores was hedged about with terror, and every ne'er-do-well knew
that to play Paris to the Helen of the fair Doreen--to carry her off
from the sanctuary of Strogue Abbey--would be to call down dolorous
reprisals from her two stalwart cousins.
So, having her constantly before his vision, Terence adored the damsel
wildly by fits and starts, hating her when she snubbed him, taking a
loyal interest, for her sake, in the Penal Code and the United
Irishmen; and was not aware that he stood on the verge of the
political maelstrom, in whoso eddies so many good Irishmen had come to
drowning.
Terence professed in nowise to be a patriot. He said openly that the
United Irishmen deceived themselves, that they were fond of inventing
imaginary terrors, that Lord Clare, though personally he disliked him,
was an estimable statesman, the right man in the right place. Doreen
was angry with him at times for this. Then he had an excuse for
kissing her to make it up, for the flash from her grave eyes was only
summer lightning. But to be accused of mercenary motives, even in
banter, was quite another thing, because all the world knew that the
Irish aristocracy, as a body, did not shine in the way of
unselfishness, and Terence's nature was too open and honest, his
carelessness as to money too deep-seated, for him to feel aught but
disgust at being coupled with the pensioners. It was not true that he
was mercenary, but it might easily have been so. Who knows what might
have been if my lady had not proved liberal--a kind mother? Many are
virtuous so long as they are not tempted. Yes. You will doubtless be
surprised to hear that my lady had worked no evil to her second son.
Madam Gillin's singular office had for the space of twelve years been
a sinecure. The Countess never refused him money when he asked for it,
and was apparently a model mother to the youth, though she certainly
showed a strong partiality for Shane, which may be accounted for by
the fact that mothers invariably doat upon their prodigals, and milord
resembled his father not a little.
Now Curran, being quite at home at the Abbey, knew all these ins and
outs and petty details. Terence's indignation, therefore, amused him.
He burst into a peal of merriment when the young man asked, tartly,
what he meant by his insinuations.
'I know Lord Clare offered me a place,' he said, with a side-glance of
apology at his cousin; 'but I refused it with disdain. Though he's a
worthy man I don't like him, because he orders us about, and I would
not be under any obligation to him for the world. My mother's too fond
of the chancellor----'
'What if you were assured that he's a traitor?' Curran asked, with
mock gravity.
'I'd become a United Irishman to upset him!' returned the prompt
scapegrace.
'Nonsense!' replied his friend, growing serious. 'No, no. It's an ill
subject for jesting. Treason is a dangerous pastime, which it behoves
you to keep clear of for the sake of your noble name. Don't forget
that, being half an Englishman, half of your allegiance is due to the
British Crown--at least so the Lords think. With us it's different. To
try the bird, the spur must touch his blood. Come, let's be off.
Good-night, boys!'
And so the conference terminated.
The elder Emmett rode moodily to Dublin, concocting inflammatory
articles for the benefit of the newspaper which he edited, reflecting
too, not without misgivings, upon the mantle which had fallen,
unbidden, on his shoulders. Robert, his excitable brother, walked home
to Trinity College with elastic step, his brain still whirling with
the outlaw's parting words. The rest were bound for Strogue, where my
lady sat wondering, no doubt, what could keep them out so late.
Cassidy, who was a good singer, and amusing in other ways, had been
invited to the Abbey by Terence. As for Curran and his daughter, they
often sojourned there, and were certain of a hearty welcome, for their
own sake now, as well as Arthur Wolfe's.
None of the party spoke as they cantered briskly by the shore. Curran
was upbraiding himself for want of caution in betraying his true
sentiments even to close friends. Few saw as far as he, and the very
air of Innisfail breathed treachery. His daughter, gentle Sara, whose
fair locks clustered like silk cocoons about her baby-face, was in an
ecstatic trance as she bumped up and down on her rough pony.
What signified bumps, when the subject of her thoughts was Robert, the
dear, delightful undergraduate? She would have bumped all the world
over for him, though she was modesty itself, and he oblivious that she
existed. It was pleasant to think that he, at least, was bound by no
rash oath. It would be a sweet task, if possible, to keep him from the
toils.
Doreen rode ahead, plunged in one of her sad moods, as she thought of
the future of the wanderer, who had given up all he possessed in the
world to bring about the freeing of her people. Might any woman's
platonic worship make good that loss to him? Would she ever see him
again, and under what circumstances?
Terence read her thoughts, and was cross at her devotion to this
outlaw, a condition of mind which even he perceived was not proper in
a well-brought-up young lady. Of course everybody respected Tone, and
liked him, too, for his excellent qualities. She could not marry him,
that was one comfort, for he was already married to the sister of this
great hulking giant, Cassidy, who chirruped out scraps of song as
though Erin was the most prosperous of motherlands. But it certainly
seemed wrong, to the sage youth, that a handsome young woman should be
on confidential terms with so many strange young men. Her aunt, he
knew, objected to it strongly, but unaccountably held her peace. Then
he laughed, in spite of his displeasure, at the conceit of any one
interfering with Doreen--the demure damsel who pursued her calm way,
enslaving all and taking note of none, as though she had taken vows of
perpetual maidenhood--had cut herself adrift for the role of a Jeanne
d'Arc.