LOVE'S TRIUMPH.
The only persons present at the supper were Mr. ----, his wife, Rosette,
and Grierson, and it must be confessed that the young lady did all the
talking. Most of it was about her school days, and there were bright
little sketches of French life and much, but not very much, of the army
that was sweeping over Europe, overthrowing old landmarks and breaking
up dynasties. It was hardly to be wondered at that the others were
listeners. The lovely face of the speaker seemed to beam as she spoke.
Her beautiful eyes were at times as still as a waveless sea, and as
deep, under the blue sky of a cloudless summer day. At times they
flashed and sparkled as she became more interested in the subject of her
conversation; her speech seemed to flow, as flows the song of the lark
singing and winging his way up until he is lost in the height, and
there was that _soupçon_ of a foreign accent to which we have already
referred, and to which we are half tempted to give the name of "brogue,"
knowing how sweet what we call the "brogue" can be in a winsome Irish
girl's lips. Then there were the wonderful gestures that seemed, as it
were, to add colour and motion to her descriptions. It was simply a
delight to watch the play of her features, and as for Robert Grierson,
he seemed to himself as if he were under a spell, and in truth he was.
If Love had wounded him the previous evening, this night it succeeded in
binding him hand and foot; and, as he returned home, walking in the
moonlight by the stream, he seemed to hear, as it murmured by, the music
of her voice.
It is hardly necessary to say that he made frequent opportunities of
meeting her. Mr. and Mrs. ---- gave him every facility. Mrs. ----,
because she was, like most women, a bit of a matchmaker, and could
sympathise still with a little love romance. That this was one she did
not doubt. Anyone with her opportunity would have found no difficulty
in making this discovery, and she regarded the match in every way a
suitable one. Rosette was, indeed, almost penniless, while Robert
Grierson had enough and to spare for both, with no relatives depending
on him, and she thought he ought to be proud to win for his wife so
beautiful and charming a girl as Rosette.
As for Mr. ----, he was glad of the intimacy which he saw springing
up between the young couple, for other, though hardly as romantic,
reasons. As for Rosette herself, she had been so much accustomed to
admiration that at first she accepted Robert Grierson's attentions as
a matter of course, but it was not very long until she felt that her
interest in him was becoming deeper, and her longing to meet him
stronger.
During their earlier meetings their talk was just such as might be
expected to take place between a handsome, brilliant, light-hearted,
young lady, who assumed the airs of a queen, and a somewhat bashful
young gentleman, who had felt his heart was under her feet, and who,
dazed by her beauty and her will, could do barely more than listen and
admire. But when they had become more intimate her talk was of another
character. She began to speak much of France--of the Revolution--of the
cause of Liberty.
She seemed to know by heart the wonderful story of the young Republic
that had started up half armed and caught hoary dynasties by the throat,
and humbled them to the dust.
As she spoke the battlefields seemed to rise before her vision, and she
described the conflicts as if she had taken part in them, and on one
occasion, after telling how a crowd of beardless boys, without shoes,
and almost in tatters, had rushed the heights and sabred the Austrian
gunners, she suddenly turned towards Grierson, and, with passionate
gesture, exclaimed:
"Ah, if I were a man, I should be a soldier. But if I ever marry, I'll
marry only a soldier of liberty."
She and Grierson were standing on a knoll that rose over the river that
flashed back the hues of the sunset.
They fell also on the face and figure of Rosette, and as Grierson
listened to her impassioned tones and watched her lovely face glowing
with transcendent beauty he felt she had only to lift her finger to
beckon him to destruction, and that he would have leaped in response
like a hound loosened from the leash.
"Ah, glorious France!" she exclaimed, "she had only to stamp her foot
and out her children came swarming round her, begging her to let them go
fight, conquer or die for her."
"But poor Ireland," and a wistful look came into her eyes, "I come back
to you only to find a race of slaves!"
And her voice, exultant a second before, sank as if burdened with great
sorrow.
Then, after a slight pause, she resumed.
"But I fear I should not have spoken this way, Mr. Grierson, and the
evening is waning, and I had better return home."
"Not have spoken this way!" Grierson exclaimed, "as if I have any desire
to find fault with your words or your thoughts; as if every word of
yours does not find a home in my heart!"
And he caught her little hand and lifted it to his lips.
She permitted the caress, then gently withdrawing her hand she repeated:
"I had better return home."
"But why should you not speak to me and tell me everything?" he cried
passionately.
"Because--because," she stammered, "you know you were once one--one of
us, but you are so no longer."
"One of us!" and he emphasised the last word.
"Oh, I mean," she replied with a slight toss of her head, rather
suggestive of disdain, "you were once a soldier of liberty--but you are
so no longer."
For a second he was puzzled, then his heart caught her meaning.
"You said you would marry only a soldier of liberty."
"It is true," she replied.
"And if I were one?"
"But you are not! Look, the sun is sinking behind the hills already--the
shadows are in the valley. I must return."
"But if I were a soldier of liberty once more. If I take the oath of the
United Men?"
"You took it, Robert Grierson."
"But you do not understand. You have not heard all."
"I understand. I have heard everything. You took the oath, and while men
are arming everywhere, and the revolution that will make Ireland a
Republic like France and like America is setting into motion you are
playing the part of a truant and a dreamer."
"But my promise was given to the dying--I might almost say, dead."
"Then go amongst the graves and keep it."
"But this is too cruel, Rosette--Rosey--little Rose. Tell me, if I were
to--to join the United ranks again, would you count me a soldier of
liberty?"
"Of course," she replied. "Every Irish soldier of liberty is one now."
"And if I did would there be hope for me? You know what I mean,
Rosette."
"Green is the colour of the United Men," she answered, "and you have
heard, I'm sure, how, when Camille Desmoulines, in the gardens of the
Palais Royal in the beginning of the Revolution, plucked a leaf from
one of the trees, he decked himself with it, crying out: 'Green is the
colour of hope.'"
Her eyelids drooped a little as he looked at her with an ardent gaze.
"And may I hope?" he asked.
"If you wear the green." And she held towards him a leaf which she had
plucked.
He took it and kissed it, and then? Well, it is enough to say that
Robert Grierson once more wore the green, as the affianced lover of
Rosette.