APRES LA MORT, LE MEDECIN.
The chancellor was glad and sorry. Glad in that the son of his old
friend should be reprieved, whereby (as he supposed) her great trouble
would be lightened; sorry that so singular a scandal should have
attended this trial--a scandal which would not make the completion of
his task the easier. But the ball was so near its goal--it had
gathered such velocity in transit--that it would take a very grave
obstacle at this stage seriously to impede its course. So the
chancellor gave up being sorry, and was altogether glad that the trial
had ended as it did. He reflected, however, that something would have
to be done to entice the public mind away from gyves and bolts, and
prepare it for the beginning of millennium. The _Gentleman's Magazine_
of that particular date happened to contain an account of a sojourn of
the royal family at Weymouth, with minute details of how the Princess
Amelia did tambour-work, while his Majesty, with his own august hands,
was deigning to fry sprats for supper. Lord Clare saw his way to a
delicate bit of flattery. He had the arcadian tale printed off and
posted on the walls of Dublin, that loyal minds might be edified and
touched by the simple manners of their sovereign; but (as was become
usual) the chancellor was thwarted by the Viceroy, who said the whole
thing was fudge, and ordered the placards to be pulled down. The Privy
Council censured Lord Kilwarden for his pusillanimous behaviour at the
trial, alleging that it was a pity to see a man high in office who
showed so little resource in an emergency; but at the same time they
decided _nem. con_. that there must be no more state-trials. The story
of Phil's dramatic end would certainly be reported in London, with
additions, and my Lord Moira would be sure to make the most of it. Mr.
Pitt would certainly be angry at the _contretemps_. From first to last
it was a miserable business which could not, unfortunately, be hushed
up. In spite of the Gr--t P--rs--n--ge searching questions would be
asked. Mr. Pitt must somehow be placed in a position to state that
suffering Erin had gone through her operation and was comfortably
bedridden for the remainder of her days. To this end the members of
the Irish senate must be brought back from the state of siege in
ancestral castles, which they were pleased to call 'villegiatura,'
without delay; by threats, and bribes, and promises they must be
induced to haggle no more over their mess of pottage. Ireland must
seem to retire from the world with a good grace, and be tucked snugly
up between the sheets for evermore. Lord Clare was satisfied that the
decisive moment had arrived, for the country was quiet enough now for
the question of union to be freely ventilated. It was delightfully
quiet--with the silence of the tomb. The lords, he was convinced, were
ready for anything, provided they were well paid. When they were
assured that patriotism and interest were directly antagonistic, the
former was certain to come off second best. Lord Clare informed the
Viceroy that the proposition might be put at once and carried, if only
His Excellency would be a little civil to the senate.
But His Excellency hated tortuous groping; he abhorred the Irish
peers; begged that he might not be asked even to sniff the noisome
broth. When he came over he attached to his person a young Irishman of
parts, who was not squeamish. The chancellor had also shown that
he was not squeamish. These two Irishmen--my Lords Clare and
Castlereagh--must do all the broth-stirring; the sooner the brew was
ready, the sooner they would receive their wages--the sooner would he,
the Viceroy, be enabled to leave the wretched country and go home.
Once the union carried, every one would be delighted--except the
Irish; and even they, in due time, would come to be glad also. Lord
Clare's eye kindled with satisfaction. He beheld the possibility, if
this captious Viceroy would only depart, of himself returning to his
former position. He saw himself again the awful statesman, before whom
courtiers should salaam, as they used to do; he saw his ambitious
vision (obscured for an instant) realised at last. There were only a
few more yards of mud to wallow through before reaching _terra firma_,
and then he would take a bath and, by dint of scrubbing, appear no
more dirty than his fellows. So he made up his mind, as Lord
Cornwallis declined to help, to manage the caldron in conjunction with
Lord Castlereagh, and the pair were quite engrossed by the phases of
their hellish cookery.
There was one matter that was hemmed round with grievous difficulties,
which had not yet been settled, and which troubled every member of the
Privy Council not a little. What was to be done with those leaders of
the United Irishmen who were still awaiting trial at Kilmainham? What
was to be done with Tom Emmett, Russell, Neilson--what with the
arch-traitor Terence Crosbie? It was evident that a repetition of the
fiasco of the other day must on no account be risked; they must not be
tried. Neither must they remain at Kilmainham, for it was probable
that they had relations with the outer world, that they were plotting
still, and might possibly give more trouble by-and-by by organising a
new Directory. There was no object now in allowing them to plot. On
the contrary, once the union carried, it was essential that Ireland
should be at peace. Lord Clare knew perfectly well, while he prated
about peace, that he had wilfully hailed the silence of a cowed nation
as a restoration of contented tranquillity. He knew very well that if
the English army and the soldier Viceroy were removed, and the leaders
permitted to scheme on, the country would be in as much danger as
ever; that, union or no union, millennium could not supervene until
time should blot away the nefarious means employed. What could be done
with these dangerous conspirators? They could not be tried and
executed; they could not be released, or kept in Ireland, or shipped
to America. As white elephants, they daily became more cumbersome; it
was a pity that gaol-fever would not take them off. But they were
provokingly well, in spite of privation and suffering. Their wings
must be cut somehow. Couriers posted to and fro between London and
Holyhead, bearing despatches on this difficult point. While Lords
Clare and Castlereagh were making final preparations for the union,
Lord Cornwallis was striving to devise a plan which should not be too
glaring an example of broken faith. He implored. He begged. He
threatened. Good King George was as tractable as usual. The odious
villains were either Papists, or Protestant defenders of Papists,
which was worse. The apostasy of these Protestants was more grievous
than the sin of Popery itself. They should receive no mercy. No
compact with such rascals could be binding. He would not have them
banished across seas, where they might achieve some measure of
happiness. They must be kept in duress as scarecrows--an awful warning
to other ruffians. There was no moving him. At last ministers gave
way, and it being decided that the white elephants should be shipped
to Scotland, commissioners were appointed to select a suitably
unpleasant spot where they might languish without danger to the
community.
There is a fortress on the extremity of a tongue of land which juts
into the Moray Firth, the country round about which is destitute of
houses or of trees--a dreary, forsaken desert devoid of vegetation.
The very place! The obdurate ruffians should be transported to Fort
George, as soon as it could be made strong enough to keep them safe.
Meanwhile the Viceroy was guilty of an act of politic clemency which
would have put the King in a bad temper if he had known of it. He
determined that, as several months must elapse before the fortress
would be ready, it would be well to permit the arch-villain Terence to
go home--on parole--provided he would give his word to plot no more.
The circumstances of his reprieve were producing a profound impression
in society. The romantic devotion of the servant--the imminent danger
of the master--were so dramatic, that high-born dames regretted their
absence from the moving spectacle. They professed to be vastly
interested in a young man who could call forth such a proof of
affection from another, and vowed that it was a shame he should be
sacrificed. Sure, Moiley ought to be content with a nice hecatomb
selected from the lower classes. Lord Cornwallis perceived that here
was a good opportunity of paying the nobles a compliment. They were so
important a factor in the matter of the union, that it was well to
conciliate them as a body; and what better way was there of doing so
than by treating one of their order with indulgence? He therefore
intimated to Lord Clare that he was inclined to do what he might to
please him--that he saw the mistake he had made in allowing Lord
Glandore's brother to be tried--that he, Lord Clare, might, if he
wished it, inform the dowager countess of a special favour that was in
store for one of her known loyalty--namely, that she might expect to
have the custody of her erring child until the time of his vanishing
from Ireland.
Lord Clare was charmed, and hurried to Strogue with the good news. My
lady was a riddle, whose behaviour was always different from what
might be expected. He knew that Terence's danger had placed her on a
gridiron where she was consuming slowly, and naturally concluded that
her joy at his reprieve would culminate when she was told that she
might keep him near her for a while. This extraordinary young man, for
whom a servant would sacrifice his life, must needs be tenderly
beloved by the mother to whom he owed his birth. If she was in
raptures she had a queer method of displaying her feelings. Her cheek
turned a shade more pale than usual. Bowing her head as under a new
blow, she murmured, 'It is well.'
Though he knew and esteemed the countess, Lord Clare's acquaintance
with my lady was not so intimate as ours. He had not seen her at
Glas-aitch-e, when every chair and table was babbling of what had
happened there. He did not look on her when with a spasm of
self-reproach she discovered that the undoing of her second son would
not be so heartrending as it ought to be. He did not know that in face
of Terence's doom she was torn by two distinctly opposite emotions;
that while his fate crushed her as a judgment for past sin, it also
brought a sense of relief. He was not aware that with his death a
burthen of long-endured apprehension would have been lightened,
whereby her tortured soul might attain a semblance of rest at last.
We soon make up our minds to the inevitable. My lady had made up her
mind that Terence was to die. Her pangs of conscience were bitter, but
the dreadful thing was settled; no influence of hers could affect the
youth's fate now, whatever it might have done in the past. So low was
she fallen that she found some poor relief in that. But this new,
unexpected freak of Fortune brought all the bitterness of her trouble
back again; and with a sigh she roused her distempered faculties from
lethargy and bestirred herself--for the dreary battle was, as it
seemed, not over yet. The implacable phantom kept whispering in her
ear that it was not too late even now to set right the wrong; that
there still was time if she would force those stubborn knees to bend
and abase her pride.
My lady loathed herself for the thoughts which held possession of her
mind. When the chancellor brought his news, she concealed the sudden
turbulence within. Strangely enough, the mother's sympathies, even at
that moment, were not for Terence--the son who had escaped the
halter--but for Shane; and a great fear for him leaped up in her
heart, to the crushing out of natural feeling. Terence was snatched
from the grave as by a miracle. A foreboding took strong hold of my
lady's mind that this was for a purpose--that Heaven, not satisfied
with the penance of a lifetime, was determined that she should blab
out to the world the secret which, lying on her bosom, had seared her
life. Oh! why did she not accept her punishment all those years ago,
when the task would not have been so hard? The earth had been no
pleasant place of sojourn to my lady. When she thought of all she had
borne since the old lord's death--of the utter futility of the
penance--she became rebellious, and gnashed her teeth at the simpering
portrait of him who had got off so easily. She rebelled against the
iron sternness of Heaven. She was to bend her proud knees, was
she--and confess? Her whitened hair and ashen cheeks were not to be
taken into account? Very well, then. She defied Heaven; religion was a
delusion and a snare; the Lord of Heaven unduly just. Tossing her
favourite tracts into the fire, she swore she would not be driven to
speak, though the ruin of her soul should be the penalty. At the time
when it was decided that Terence was to die, she spent the long hours
in reverie over the past--in poignant regret that he should have to be
thus sacrificed. She reflected that if she had spoken all those years
ago he would never have joined the popular side--would never have
risked his neck--of that she felt assured; and so she felt in some
sort as though she had herself handed him over to the scrag-boy. It
was an awful thought, and it had weighed down her intellect. But now
came a revulsion. It was not to be so. He was to live as a reproach.
Heaven was hounding her down, so she stood at bay. If Heaven had
accepted the penance of a life without requiring that the original
transgression should be cancelled by confessing it she would gladly
have borne the penance to the end of a long weary existence. But that
the penance should not be accepted in any way as an equivalent, was
maddening to her sense of justice. She bestirred herself; sat no
longer dreaming the days away. The household whispered that my lady
was herself again, that the joy of her son's reprieve was accountable
for the happy change. All thought this save Gillin, who knew her
secret. That excellent person scratched her untidy head with a comb
and pondered. What did the wicked old woman mean to do? There was more
mischief brewing--of that she felt quite sure. Well, Terence was saved
from the gallows by direct interposition from above. He was not
intended to be made a sacrifice, any more than Isaac was when his
father's faith was tried. A few months remained to him before he was
to be taken to his Scottish prison. If my lady should allow him to go
there, without making an effort to prevent it--why then she, Madam
Gillin, would open her mouth and speak. Her lips had been closed
over-long. Had she not sworn an oath beside that deathbed? It would
become her bounden duty to interfere, if the countess lacked courage
so to do.
It was touching that in moments of severest trial my lady should
always have been engrossed by the interests of her black sheep. She
always thought of Shane rather than of herself; and he gave her little
satisfaction in return for this great love. Never very white, he was
daily growing darker. One evil thought engenders another; one evil
deed makes a second necessary: we were all taught that in earliest
infancy, and Shane's condition was in accordance with the rule. His
prowess in the past as King of Cherokees had brought him little blame
in public estimation, for the Glandores had been fire-eaters time out
of mind, and the Irish love a spark with mettle in him. But his
conduct since he departed for Glas-aitch-e was on many sides
disapproved as shady. The Viceroy openly showed his mean opinion of
him. His tenants had protested by injuring his cattle and destroying
his crops. He was proud, was Shane, as well as naturally reckless, and
was fond of notoriety. He resented the Viceroy's treatment, and was
furious with the tenants; and became more wrathful still with Terence,
to whose ill-advised conduct he imputed his own growing unpopularity.
What was the use of having mixed himself up in the odium of Tone's
capture if his brother was to cut the ground from under his feet? It
was but too probable that he might whistle both for an English peerage
and comforting bits in the way of sinecures; and all because of
Terence. Was it not enough to provoke a saint--much more an Irish
earl, who considered himself a pauper? Lord Cornwallis was unkind and
rude. My Lord Glandore complained of his uncivil treatment to Lord
Clare. The chancellor, with an eye to business, soothed his
_amour-propre_, and roundly told the Viceroy in private that he must
constrain himself to be civil to the peers. Then he broke ground to
Shane with reference to the union, explaining that he might put
himself quite right if he would work with the executive in this
matter. He must promise his vote in the House of Lords and all his
influence in the Commons, and then his gracious Majesty would
doubtless give substantial proofs of his approval. Shane promised that
he would follow this worldly-wise advice. As my Lord Clare so cogently
observed, the union was arranged--was to all intents and purposes a
_fait accompli_. Lord Glandore's influence could not prevent the end,
even if that peer should elect to be disinterested. What a lack of
common prudence would he show then, if for a crotchet he should bar
himself out of Tom Tiddler's ground! His brother's ruin showed the
result of crotchets. There would be fine pickings. The Chancellor gave
his word as to that, adding at the same time that the man is a fool
who strains at gnats. Shane therefore was as easily talked over as
many another of his order. Lord Clare was quite certain about the
success of his project, but thought that it would perhaps be well to
sound my lady in order that she might not through inadvertence undo
his work.
Now, as we know, she had lived the life of a recluse, looking at
political events, in most cases, through the chancellor's spectacles,
half-awakened now and then by the diatribes of Mr. Curran. But she
thought his web was a wicked piece of work when now he displayed its
woof to her; and objected strongly to his design of mixing her
firstborn in his scheming. It was grievous to her that the dear dark
wool of the dusky sheep should be further blackened. My lady got rid
of her importunate old friend by saying she would speak to Shane as to
the using of his influence; and, left alone, sat wondering what she
ought to do. It was a bitter thing to think of the proud name being
held up to obloquy. Yet there were reasons why valuable titbits must
not be refused idly by the idol of her heart. If only that old
abortive project could be carried out! If only Shane was safely
married to his cousin! Was it too late to make another effort? My lady
perceived dimly that Shane was repelled by the damsel--and no wonder.
The passions of this earth seemed gone, burnt away, consumed, by the
action on her mind of past events. Doreen sat on a heap of ashes,
enclosed in a rarified atmosphere of her own. But, for all that,
another trial must be made; matters were becoming desperate; my lady
began to fear that she was not strong enough to fight against Heaven.
She would see Shane, and speak very seriously to him forthwith.
It was no easy matter now to get hold of Shane. Since his return to
Dublin he had plunged deeper and deeper into excess--partly from
having been mewed up so long, partly to drown the voice of the inner
monitor, partly because of the forbidding chilliness of his own
fireside and the presence there of his gloomy brother. The Blasters,
who during the reign of terror had been busy with the triangles; the
Cherokees, who had been dispersed about the country with their
regiments, returned now to the capital, to sit for the last time in
the Irish Parliament, by order of the chancellor; and glorious were
the nights they passed together whilst awaiting the decisive moment.
The hounds of Strogue were brought again into requisition. My lord and
his boon companions amused themselves with cub-hunting--careering with
wild shrieks across the land--past cabins, the shoulders of whose
occupants were disfigured with livid weals--past huts whose inmates
cursed the cavalcade as it swept by. They rode all day. They drank and
fought all night. My lady had to bide her time in order to lay hands
upon her son. Verily, it seemed little probable that his infatuated
lordship could be induced, even by her entreaties, to pull up in full
career for the sake of wooing the cousin who frightened him!
As though in furtherance of the unrelenting measures of Heaven, both
sons were received now as guests at the Little House, and equally
insulted their parent by making no secret of going there. The scraping
of their feet was visible on the wall which divided the two
properties. My lady could not but admit that Fate took pleasure in
deliberately thwarting her arrangements. Why, when so many Catholics
came to ruin in the Hurry, was this horrible woman allowed to escape
scot-free? After she had been caught in the act, too, of harbouring
traitors! Was it that through her (the only one on earth who had power
to do so) the secret she kept so hungrily should be blabbed forth upon
the housetops? Sure, a mark of Fate's finger could be detected here.
But my lady was all the more determined to be obstinate. She would go
on scheming, and wrestle with all her puny strength, shaking her
broken spear-haft till finally put out of misery. If Fate was resolved
to kill her, she would die hard, fighting to the very last.
Terence, being free--on parole--moped about the Abbey, never moving
beyond its boundaries, save when he went to the Little House to
converse with its kind hostess. His life was finished, although he was
not destined to wing away at present. The reprieve brought to him no
rapture, much as his heart was touched by the devotion of poor Phil.
He was like one who has passed through the anguish of drowning; who
has subsided into the ecstatic state, made beautiful by coloured
lights, which precedes dissolution. Like those who have been at this
point plucked from the waters, he returned with reluctance to the
world, conscious only of its pain and trouble. After the first short
shock of astonishment, which set his head reeling, he experienced
nothing but unalloyed regret, although the mere fact of life is
intoxicating to the young. His peace was made with his Maker. He had
been privileged to look through the Golden Gate, only to be thrust
cruelly back again into the darkness of this world. Had he but
followed Theobald's example, all would have been over now--he would be
walking with his brother patriots in Paradise. He was satisfied that
his life would be of no further use. He saw little of his mother--as
little as possible, indeed, for on his arrival from Kilmainham she had
tendered a frigid hand in a way that brought tears into his eyes. My
lady's attempt to appear glad was rendered heart-rending by its
ill-success. Was it her fault if her affections were so engrossed by
Shane that there was no corner left for Terence? He saw through the
little mummery at once, and avoided her without stopping to seek for
reasons; and she, on her side, was relieved, for every fibre of energy
within her was strung now for the unequal contest with Fate on Shane's
behalf, which she perceived with prophetic ken to be inevitable.
Curran and Sara stayed on at the Abbey, to the satisfaction of the
inmates, whose skeletons rattled with less deafening jangle in the
presence of strangers. Doreen was glad of Sara for a nurse. My lady,
who always liked Curran, and who was being crushed into humility by
impending Nemesis, was sorry to see how aged he was, and hoped that
the quiet of the Abbey might do for him what it might never do for
her. He lingered on to see the most of Terence, declaring that, the
union passed and the prisoners gone, he would turn his back on the
land he had loved too well, and crave six feet of earth from the
United States. He trotted up and down the alleys of the rosary with
his ex-junior, the hearts of both too full for speech. They would part
soon, never again to meet in this world. They had been involved in
dangers and supreme soul-conflicts, which knit hearts together more
closely than a decade of conventional maundering. Both had been sorely
tried, and had come out the better for the fire. The tenderness the
twain felt one for the other was that of two strong natures, generous
and pure--an equable, staunch tenderness, swayed by no violent
passion, founded on the sure basis of esteem and confidence, such as
may never be attained in any love of man for woman.
This was the attitude of the two friends one to the other, in the
interval that preceded the day which was to decide the fate of
Ireland. Doreen was too ill to see any one. The orders of the doctor
were stringent as to the necessity of extreme quiet for her. Sara
issued forth now and again with bulletins; then returned to her post.
Madam Gillin bearded the tigress in her lair by sending openly to
inquire after the invalid. One morning Sara, neglecting her patient,
came tripping forth, well rolled in furs, with unseemly gladness in
her face--unseemly levity in her demeanour:
'What _do_ you think, papa?' she said, flinging her arms round Mr.
Curran. 'I've got a letter to say he's coming home!'
'_He?_ To whom do you refer?' demanded her father, who declined to
admit that for his child there was but one 'he.'
'Robert, of course!' she replied, with shy reproach. 'Do read!'
Her father read, then handed the note to Terence gloomily. The maid
had her gladness to herself. It was not a wise letter; one written
evidently by an enthusiastic but rash, person, who, having been absent
during the Hurry, could put faith still in the mirage of Irish
freedom; who had not laid to heart the awful lesson of the year that
was expiring. He spoke with indignation of the way he was duped in
London; of the impossibility of getting at his Majesty, who was as
inaccessible to him as any potentate of Old Japan. For months he was
kept dallying in ante-chambers, he complained. His funds would have
failed but for good Lord Moira. But now he was coming back to receive
the mantle of Theobald, which intuition told him was to fit his
shoulders; to bid farewell to brother Tom ere he departed; then to
study the ground with a fresh eye.
Her father looked at Sara, as he pushed the blonde cocoons from off
her bright young forehead. Blind girl to be so glad; she who before
was more wisely jubilant in that her lover should be removed from
danger. Her delight, indeed, was infantine and unalloyed; for all day
long the patriots were declaring that everything was lost, that all
was over. There was no reason, then, why she should look forward to
future complications.
'Use all the power you have, my Primrose,' he adjured his daughter,
with sad earnestness, 'to keep him away yet awhile. The mantle of
Theobald, forsooth! We know that it is red and clammy. The shamrock
must be transplanted to another soil. Tell him not to come, I say. So
soon as the ship sails for Fort George, you and I will go and meet him
in London.'
Sara seemed bewildered, as the smile faded from her face. What could
her parent mean? Sure, it was but natural to come and take a last look
at a beloved brother ere he went away? Whatever Robert's intentions
were, she knew that they were good and noble. The mantle of Theobald
meant love of motherland--no more. Everybody was painfully convinced
that the time for armed resistance was gone and past; that England
held the reins well in hand, and meant to hold them.
The excitement when the grand day arrived was great in Dublin, while
the provinces looked on with unconcern. The brew of my Lords
Castlereagh and Clare had cost them sleepless nights. The Viceroy, as
head-cook, made believe to supervise, but he held a perfumed kerchief
to his august nose; there was no need for special exertion on his
part, for his deputies were by this time familiar with the receipt. By
the middle of the ensuing year at latest, every detail would be
arranged; and then he would be able to depart, his mission
accomplished, out of an atmosphere that poisoned him. But my Lords
Clare and Castlereagh were only bunglers after all. They had not
fathomed the baseness of the senate--the yawning depth of its abyss of
greed. Certain members of both Houses turned round at the last minute.
Some said that their consciences smote them; others admitted that
their rapacity was not satisfied. After a sitting of twenty-one hours
the measure was lost; and my Lords Clare and Castlereagh, baffled
where success seemed certain, looked foolish.
Every one was disgusted. Lord Cornwallis apologised for the muddle to
the British Cabinet. Odd straitlaced people, he explained, rose all of
a sudden to the surface, who, if they had appeared sooner, might have
done much to stop the ball. It was like the legend of Sodom and
Gomorrah. 'Peradventure three righteous men might be found,' and so
on. The affair would have to be postponed for a few months in order
that the three righteous men might be tampered with. Of course the
three righteous men had their price. My Lord Powerscourt had emerged
from his Wicklow mountains to protest from his place against the
sinful measure, and a shamefaced knot rallied round him--a nucleus of
lords who objected to the bartering of freedom against a cartload of
cheap mirrors and bead-necklaces. But retribution fell upon that
ill-advised Lord Powerscourt before the setting of the sun that day. A
national rabble who sallied forth from the Liberties to wreak
vengeance on those who dared to vote for union, by a trifling error
attacked Powerscourt House in William Street, and broke its windows
and smashed its sculptured ornaments. They did not desist till some
one explained that it appertained to a peer who all along had
steadfastly set his face against the orgies of his fellows; against
bloodshed, murder, and torture; and against Lord Clare. But, arrah!
what was broke could be mended, and it was good for trade. Three
cheers for Lord Powerscourt! He must acknowledge the warmth of Pat's
nature, and make the best of the mistake.
Terence learned with heartfelt satisfaction, mingled with surprise and
contrition in that he had wronged his brother so, that Lord Glandore
had not voted with Government. My lady, he knew, was shocked with the
entire proceeding. Perchance to her influence was this happy result
due? Be that as it might, the heart of the younger was drawn towards
his brother. They never cared much for each other--they looked on the
world from a different standpoint. Since the Hurry, a marked coldness
and spitefulness was evident in Shane's demeanour. But he was not so
bad as he seemed, or so selfish, Terence assured himself. At all
events he was repentant--regretted doubtless the part he played with
reference to Theobald, though too haughty to admit it. He, Terence,
was going away so soon--never, in all probability, to look upon
Ireland or his family again--that it behoved him to carry as few
regrets as might be to his prison. He must bid adieu to the world with
a clear conscience--at enmity with no man, least of all his brother.
He resolved to make the first advance to Shane; to congratulate him on
his conduct even at this eleventh hour--to exhort him to resist
temptation 'twixt this and the next attempt--to beg him to take care
that he, though the measure would of course be carried sooner or
later, was in nowise mixed up with the Iscariots. To this laudable end
he strove to throw himself upon his elder's path, and met him face to
face in the stable-yard on the very next day after the first failure.
Shane tried to avoid the gloomy _trouble-fete_, but finding that
impossible, came forward with as _debonair_ a swagger as a racking
headache and impaired digestion would permit. His aspect spoke more of
claret and its effects than of repentance. The coat of cream-coloured
cut velvet that he wore was rent in several places; two of the
filigree gold buttons had been wrenched away; his satin pantaloons
were smirched with dirt; his handsome face was inflamed and bloated.
What a contrast between the brothers now! Their characteristics seemed
inverted from those which marked them in former days. Then Terence had
shown too much of the florid farmer, too much of the bovine contented
animal breadth which men exhibit who live much in the open air and
look on cattle. Then nothing could be more refined and elegant than
Shane--with his miniature figure, his faultless limbs and tiny hands,
his clean-cut features whereon sat the expression of command which
marks a man for one to whom authority is an undisputed birthright. Now
the pair had changed places. Shane's lineaments were losing their fine
lines by reason of sucking at a bottle; the look of command was
departing with his self-respect: whilst Terence, in a dress of studied
simplicity, as upright and square as usual, had assumed a carriage of
reserved haughtiness. His locks had lost their brilliant colour, so
had his cheeks, through care. That silvery sheen from the other world
still glittered in his eye. The rollick of exuberant good-humour and
enjoyment of life was exchanged for a sober melancholy. His voice even
was lowered a semitone. His individuality had slipped into the minor
key.
'Shane,' he said, 'I am so very glad, old fellow. I should have felt
it sorely if you had espoused this measure. Of course it's not my
business to try to direct your opinions; but now that it's all over
for the present, I can't help telling you I'm glad.'
Shane passed across his throbbing temples a hand which was soiled with
the dust of last night's cards, and shrank backward from his brother's
advance. 'You are a nice one,' he sneered, 'to direct my opinions.
_You_--who but for an accident would have danced the minuet like a
peasant! We've been starting a new club--the Blazers--two days and
nights! I'm losing my nerve. This won't do. Too young to be so shaky.
I'll go to bed.'
He endeavoured to escape. His two pet pointers, Eblana and Aileach,
came bounding towards him with yelps which woke the echoes of the
yard. Terence felt that there was a mistake somewhere. His brother was
upon his guard, as though he expected to be reviled.
'Am I wrong, Shane?' he cried, as the blood bubbled to his face. 'You
didn't--did you vote with Government yesterday?'
'What if I did, _Croppy?_' was my lord's surly rejoinder.
Terence winced. 'Do not use harsh words,' he implored. 'Remember that
where I go my life must be passed in retrospect. Pray do not let me
carry away any memories of you but kind ones.'
'Why gibe at me then?' said sulky Shane.
'I--gibe? Is it likely I should jest?'
'Yes, gibe?' repeated Shane, his anger kindling, while the cicatrice
stood forth purple upon his forehead. 'You know that I've been
tricked. I was at the new club among a set of merry dogs, and gave
orders to a porter at the house to fetch me when I was wanted. He
didn't come; I didn't vote; and when I offered just now to run him
through, he pleaded that he was a follower of yours, and could not
possibly do that to which you would object. You! And now you come
preaching like a parson! Curse you!'
Terence was deeply moved. His own brother, then, was itching for his
share of the silver pieces. It was due to accident alone that he had
not disgraced himself. Lord Glandore growled out in exasperation: 'The
chancellor will not speak to me!' and, raising the toy-whip he held,
made as though he would strike his brother, giving at the same moment
a kick which sent Eblana howling to the kennels. Terence recoiled from
the threatened blow. At the same instant the lattice of my lady's
chamber was flung open, and she, in the imperious voice of other days,
cried, 'Shane! come here at once!'
Now the first-born whom she adored so fondly was accustomed to yield
to her when in an imperious mood. He felt guilty now and out of sorts,
knowing that he was desperately in the wrong. In a sneaking manner,
therefore, he threw away his switch, and, kicking aside the other
hound, entered his mother's presence, clasping his splitting temples
with both his palms.
She was sweeping up and down as she used to do, before she took to
feeble blinking in the great chair. Emotion of some kind troubled her
so much that she could scarcely speak. Half frightened, Shane asked if
he should fetch some water.
She shook her head and muttered 'No.' Then, finding voice, she adjured
him in jerky sentences which burned her tongue, to treat his brother
with kindness during the short time they could be together. 'A time
may come,' she said, 'when you will bitterly regret idle taunts. Do
not lay up for yourself the fruits of remorse. I have eaten of them
all my life, and know what they are like.'
'What nonsense!' Shane exclaimed fretfully. 'You're always blowing
bladders into balloons! Don't bother. The Croppy and I will soon part
to meet no more. Then perhaps you'll put aside these foolish terrors!
I think your brain is softening.'
'Foolish terrors!' wailed the countess.
After a moment of reflection she turned sharply round as though urged
by a power beyond control. 'Shane!' she cried, stretching out her arms
lest he should stop her; 'oh! if you only knew what I have endured for
your sake! Listen to me----' then, sinking back on the window-seat,
she drew up her limbs together, murmuring in a tone of such anguish as
fairly alarmed her first-born: 'No, no! I cannot! I _will not!_ It is
too much!'
Shane recovered his self-possession. 'The poor thing's head's
deranged,' he thought; and feeling that he had been wanting in respect
just now, he stooped down and kissed her as she crouched like a bundle
on the cushions.
This unusual display of affection seemed to revive his mother. She
twined her quivering arms about him, and, dragging him to her side,
whispered: 'My darling--for my sake who have gone through sore travail
on your account--oh! be kind to Terence--be very, very kind. If you
knew all, you would be--but you shall never know. I will bear all
myself. My hand shall never pour sorrow on your head!'
The words of mystery perplexed my lord, who, never very bright, was
still confused with drink. He was about to ask questions; perceiving
which my lady spoke abruptly. 'Shane,' she whispered, stroking his
hair with clinging affection, 'do you know what is the fondest wish of
your old mother? If I saw you well married I could die content. When
you were so infatuated with that horrid girl down yonder, you did not
know what pain you gave me.'
'Why?' demanded Shane, the scar on his brow deepening in hue. 'She's a
good girl, and I like her still. There's nothing against her that I'm
aware of. I hate your bread-and-butter misses!' Had the young man been
sober he would not have dared so to speak; but wine gave him courage
to say that to which Norah urged him daily. 'I'll marry Norah if I
like,' cried her stout champion. 'I know you've got some silly notion
about Doreen. Why, I can't think. I don't want to marry her, and she
doesn't want to marry me; and I won't do it--that's flat. Is it you or
I who would marry her? I suppose I may follow my own wishes on the
subject.'
His mother crouched down on the cushions again and moaned, while her
first-born stopped short in wonderment. What a pother, to be sure! Her
nerves must be the centre of some disease, for he had said naught to
warrant such an access of pain! He could not make it out. At length,
by way of applying a soothing plaster, he said: 'There, there! don't
fret so. Maybe I'll die a bachelor, and the Croppy'll inherit. Will
that please you? Come, sit up and smile at me.'