THE CLOVEN HOOF.
My lady's preparations were completed at last, and, thanks to her
maternal supervision, so were those of her favourite son. Though so
close at hand, she went little into Dublin; for the sight of many
strange uniforms reminded her of a past time, the associations
connected with which she did her best to bury. She knew only,
therefore, by rumour what was passing--by the reports of the
_Gazette_, by conversations with Lord Clare. As for Curran, there was
nothing to be got from him. He was as surly and morose as possible;
said rude things about the Orange Societies; told her details of
atrocities which, she felt sure, must be exaggerated; quarrelled with
her about the scarlet woman; showed signs of becoming as bigoted on
one side as she half admitted herself to be on the other.
She grew almost reconciled to the necessity of going northwards, for
Shane's conduct gave her serious alarm. He almost lived at the Little
House, and she saw the possibility, if the journey were delayed much
longer, of his declining to go at all. For all Norah's influence was
evidently thrown into the scale against her, and she bitterly
regretted now having shot off that arrow at Crow Street.
The artful damsel was striving to instil into her lover's mind that it
was cowardly to go away at this juncture; and it was only by
pretending to have private intelligence from the chancellor that his
mother could soothe his _amour propre_ to sleep.
She was credibly informed, so she declared, that Paris spies had told
Dublin spies, who had whispered it at the Castle, that the French
fleet would certainly make for the north. It stood to reason they
would not sail into Cork Harbour or Dublin Bay, where their foe was
ready to receive them. Not a bit of it. They would make for the
lonely, rock-bound coast of Donegal or Antrim, and young Lord Glandore
would cover himself with glory by appearing at the head of the
yeomanry in the neighbourhood to harass the landing of the troops.
This was just such a wild idea as suited the youthful fire-eater. He
saw, in his mind's eye, the shattered vessels on his iron rocks of
Ennishowen; a feeble resistance and surrender--for a mere handful
could do anything on those cliffs--and gave way, as usual, to his
mother. But she felt that, if they were to go, they must be off as
speedily as possible, or even her influence would fail at the last
moment, and that which she most dreaded might take place, despite her
efforts.
Her indignation against the lady of the Little House knew no bounds.
That she should immolate her own daughter for the mean purpose of
revenging herself upon a rival, was too horrible! It was really
amazing to consider what these Catholics were capable of! They had no
consciences. They were ready to commit any enormity, because when it
was done they could go to confession, wipe the stain off the slate,
and come back smiling. Lord Clare was perfectly right about the
scarlet woman, and Mr. Curran in his dotage. For every sort of reason
these Catholics must be kept down. No punishment was bad enough for
them--they should be locked in cages like wild beasts--they were
absolutely incorrigible--at least, so thought the Swaddler. Doreen was
turning out abominably. If she too were not soon caged, she would be
running off some day with a groom--or a United Irishman, which was
worse, breaking her father's heart, and dragging his name through the
mire. She preached to her brother on this subject, making him very
uneasy, and gave up looking after her poor, lest, meeting Mrs. Gillin,
she might forget herself.
Her preparations were complete, yet still she lingered at the Abbey.
Society was in such a state of suspense that freedom of action seemed
paralysed. The lady-lieutenant was frightened, and talked of fleeing
to London, yet she delayed her journey. The mall and the Beaux-walk
were both as full as ever. People went thither in hopes of decided
news one way or other--which never came; and being there, they rode
and gossiped and joked, because it was the habit to do so.
Emmett and his friends were becoming grievously troubled, for the
split in their camp widened daily. Were the French playing with their
Irish allies? This continued inaction on their part was
incomprehensible; for summer had faded to autumn, autumn was
shrivelling into winter--it was almost too late to expect assistance
now. Must the effort be postponed till next year? or a forlorn
hope be attempted single-handed? To make it now would be madness, for
rains were pouring down with Hibernian vehemence--the country was
sodden--would soon be frozen--the exposed patriots would die off like
rotten sheep. To wait till next year was a bad prospect--who can
calculate what may happen in six months? The evil acts of the
executive were piling up with terrible velocity. A sense of treachery
and of dismay seemed to hang over the capital, for none could be
certain who had taken the oath and who had not. Fathers were known to
be loyalists whose sons had received the tonsure. Peasant mothers had
put pikes in hiding whose daughters were living with the soldiers.
Friends met and dined, and laughed with each other about the wide
divergence of their views, just as they had done for some time past;
but the feeling that though they differed their friendship would not
wane was beginning to be shaken, for Major Sirr and his sinister band
were abroad. No one was safe from the informer.
There was a dinner-party at the Abbey--a party of typical incongruity.
The chancellor was there, all smiles and airiness. Mr. Curran was
there, who was becoming strangely absent and sour; his little primrose
Sara too, who looked delicate and nervous, and shrank, as if in pain,
from conversation, which of course turned on politics. Cassidy was
there too, in humble attendance on Doreen; and young Robert Emmett,
whom the chancellor condescended to twit scornfully on his behaviour.
'Keep your head out of the noose, my dear young friend!' he said. 'No
one is so small as to escape the vigilant eye of a paternal
government. Do you suppose we are not informed of your pratings within
Trinity? Your bursts of baby-eloquence, which are flowery but foolish?
It is a harmless amusement possibly within those aged walls, and the
wild talk of undergraduates is of little moment, yet I warn you that
it will not be permitted much longer. Oh dear no! We won't do you the
honour of arresting you. That would give you too much importance. But
it may become my painful duty, as chancellor of that university as
well as of this realm, to erase your name with others from its books,
unless you mend your manners--that's all; so be warned and wise in
time.
Robert chafed and choked at such language as this, which seemed to
mark him for a schoolboy before his wistful love; but he stood in such
awe of the stately dowager that he only reddened and hung his head.
Then Lord Clare, feeling merry, felt disposed to break a lance with
his ancient enemy of the Bar; he therefore gaily asked if he might
take a glass with Colonel Curran of the Lawyer's Corps--whose military
skill would soon be brought into play, considering that the paternal
Government had decided at last to propose a suspension of Habeas
Corpus. The United Irishmen were behaving so badly--were declaiming in
so provoking a fashion about their bonds, that it was as well to show
them for a moment what slavery really meant. But this pleasant little
sally fell dismally flat; for Curran was already aware of this
dreadful resolve, and did not rise in vehement expostulation, as the
other expected. So had Doreen heard of it. Her eye brightened a
little, but her hand never shook as she leisurely peeled a peach.
When the news had first gone forth, she had ridden over to the Priory,
lest haply some one might be there who could advise what might best be
done. She found Curran on his doorstep, putting on his gloves.
'I knew they'd do it,' was all he said to her. 'You stop here till I
return. I am going to Mr. Grattan.'
Presently he came cantering back on his shaggy pony, and said to the
anxious girl:
'There is nothing for it but patience. Mr. Grattan expected this, and
so did I. We shall oppose the bill, but that will make no difference.
This wretched land is doomed. If the bill is carried, Mr. Grattan will
retire from parliament, and so shall I. We are both sick of the
murderous farce.' Then, drumming his fingers on the window, in an
attempt to keep down his agitation, he muttered forth at intervals:
'Habeas Corpus! the very last guardian of our liberties! They'll bring
in the knife when every one's asleep, and stab our guardian in the
dark!'
So the lawyer--not taken unawares--only smiled, and, bowing stiffly
over his glass, asked quietly:
'Did you ever read AEschylus, my lord? I know you are a fine scholar.
You always remind me of Mercury in "Prometheus Vinctus," who was
constantly abusing the poor martyr for howling, when his only
grievance was a stake of adamant through his breast!'
The party broke up early, as both of the elder gentlemen were due at
the House, and the social atmosphere was stormy. My Lord Clare
whispered to his old friend at starting that he would call round in
the morning, as he had something very particular to say to her. Doreen
took the opportunity of imploring Curran to send a message to the
shebeen, with intelligence as to the fate of the bill (care of
red-polled Biddy), that she might know from him what happened with as
small a delay as possible.
That astute person turned out but too true a prophet. The bill which
was to close the courts of law, and place power over life and property
in the hands of military despots (and such despots!), was shuffled
into the House by the attorney-general at 2 a.m., and read for the
second time after _grave and mature deliberation_ at 2.10 a.m.; and
Doreen, when she read the note which informed her that it was carried
by 137 against 7, had an extra douche of sorrow poured over her, in
that her too facile parent had been its godfather!
So martial law was declared, and the humane and benignant soldiery,
whose good feeling had already been proven at Armagh and elsewhere,
were to work their wicked will unrestrained. Doreen was too much upset
to appear at breakfast, so my lady picnicked alone on the window-seat
which looked upon the stable-yard, watching for her vagrant darling,
keeping a keen look-out, too, as to whether her niece went out for a
scamper. For my lady had passed a sleepless night--one of those
terrible _nuits blanches_ much worse than any nightmare--when all our
sins sit heavy on our chests; when our brains throb to bursting, and
we hope there is no hereafter. She tossed--listening for Shane's
return--growing more feverish as hour after hour passed silently.
Still at the Little House! This was maddening. The vision of Shane and
Norah arriving to throw themselves upon their knees, danced before her
eyes. Once or twice, when sinking into a doze, she sat up with a
start, clutching the luxuriant braids of white hair which gave her in
her looking-glass such an odd look of winter and autumn united.
Manfully she had quelled any shrinking on her own account about
returning to Ennishowen. To her who had borne so much, what mattered a
little extra suffering? It was excellent advice that her niece had
given her. The way, and the only way, out of the labyrinth was to
transfer the establishment _en bloc_; she had recognised the fact, and
had resolved, for her dear boy's sake, not to spare herself. But now,
in dead of night, when the past stood out in phosphorescent light, and
the future loomed even yet more ghastly, she had to fight the old
weary moral fight again, in which she had so frequently been worsted.
Again she saw her husband on that bed of chairs at Daly's. Again she
heard him say, ere the last rattle stopped his voice for ever, 'Make
right that wrong while there is time!' Again she welled over with
impotent rage, whimsically mixed with penitence, in that she must wear
the Nessus shirt which he had shuffled off long since. She realised,
as she ruminated, that she had been deceiving herself as to the
motives which kept her still at Strogue. It was a terror of the island
of Glas-aitch-e at Ennishowen--of the tales which each twig and shrub
would tell her there--of the songs which the waves would sing to her
as they dashed against the cliffs--which had really delayed her
starting. But there must be an end of this weakness. All was ready.
For Shane's sake she would like to start upon the morrow, for the
sooner she drank her dose the better; but, unfortunately, a promise
had been given to attend their excellencies at a great ball which was
to take place at the Castle--and to retire suddenly, in ticklish times
like these, would certainly be construed as big with political import.
But after all, this fete (which was to show the scum that their
betters did not fear them) would be past in a few days. Till that time
arrived my lady would continue to wait; but in order to underline for
herself in her midnight self-communing the determination that there
was to be no more cowardice, she then and there resolved that the
great coach should take them upon the very same evening within the
Castle-yard, and spirit them forward on their way, instead of making a
fresh start from the Abbey on the morrow. This resolution being come
to, my lady's mind became calmer. As the blue light of wintry morning
struggled in she felt quite relieved, and got up presently--as
imperious as usual--to await Lord Clare's communication, and watch the
stable-yard for Shane's return.
It was fully eleven o'clock before Lord Clare's carriage wheezed up
the avenue--the casket which held Ireland's great man. For once Doreen
had not bucketed forth on one of her wild rides. Shane had not yet
come in.
My lady swept out upon the narrow terrace in front of the hall-door to
receive her guest. He must stand in need of refreshment; what would he
please to take?
He would take nothing for the moment. Yes--he would. It was a strange
conceit in one who had visited there as a familiar gossip during so
many years. He would take a view of Strogue Abbey--he would be shown
over the mansion by its chatelaine. My lady was surprised. Indeed, she
had not been over the quaint place herself for ages. What did my Lord
Clare desire to see? Was it the dungeon? or the ancient kitchen and
buttery, with its black woodwork, or the water-tower?
He would see everything while he was about it, he said. In the first
instance the young men's wing, with its museum of fishing-rods and
guns--and--what was that over it--an armoury? Oh, indeed! he would
like to look at it.
'But perchance I should disturb the young gentlemen,' her guest said
with hesitation. 'By-the-bye, has your son gone out?'
To Lord Clare's genuine astonishment, my lady reddened and looked
away. Could she know the mission on which he had come? If so, then she
was a greater mistress of her face than he supposed. If not, what
troubled her? He forgot that shrined in her love there was but one
son. That while he was hinting of the second, she, with sorrow, was
thinking of the first--who was dallying--where?
The twain wandered in the young men's rooms--in Shane's, whose bed was
smooth and neat--in Terence's, where faithful Phil was sitting, deeply
engrossed in fly-making, as innocently as if he had never heard of a
bough in England's crown.
'Both boys out, then? so much the better,' gaily quoth the chancellor,
who chose for a moment to ignore Terence's mysterious absence. 'I hope
Terence is safe; I can assure you Shane is; I saw him not an hour
since. He roystered with the Blasters all night, and of course had to
fight a duel in the morning. Is not the motto of their gay society
"Nemo me impune lacessit"? But he didn't get a scratch--indeed he's a
splendid swordsman--such a tactician--so sharp and quick of eye! I
must really congratulate him when he comes in by-and-by. Those spiral
stairs? Ah! That's the armoury.'
Phil dropped his flies, and leapt up from his seat. My lady and her
guest, taking no heed of him, climbed upward, opened the armoury-door,
went in and shut it. He could hear the creaking of their feet
above. What could he do? Nothing! He sank panting on his seat,
bewildered--then, stealing out, made the best of his way to the
shebeen.
'By-the-bye, where is Terence?' asked Lord Clare. 'You don't know? I
do. My poor old friend, prepare yourself for a shock. Sit down.'
With a gentleness which would have astonished his numerous enemies,
the chancellor laid his two hands on my lady's shoulders and pressed
her into a seat. The pupils of her eyes assumed that look, as of a
startled hare, which shone in them sometimes. She sat down silently
and waited.
Had Terence been guilty of something base? That was her first thought,
in which there was a touch of remorse. Then came a feeling of anger in
that he existed at all. Oh that he had never been born, or had died
in his early childhood! This in its turn was followed by intense
self-loathing; but her face remained immovable, while she looked up
with inquiring gaze.
'I have most unpleasant news for you,' said Lord Clare kindly, for he
liked my lady better than any one except himself, 'and thought it
would come best to you from me. For we'll hush the matter up--rest
easy on that score, trusting that no worse may come of it. Terence, as
you know, was rude to me at Crow Street, t'other day. I didn't mind
his petulance, of course; but for your sake I was hurt that he should
have gone astray and made an exhibition of himself in public. It's
your rough diamond Curran's fault, with his romantic balderdash about
his country. He threw the young man into dangerous society, forgetting
that it takes a seasoned head to weigh the hollowness of enthusiasm.
Terence has been bitten by the prevailing rabies; the fever's hot upon
him, and being of a higher breed than his companions, has rushed
straightway into action, instead of merely prating like the others. As
his mother, you should have greater influence over him than any one.
Argue him out of his dangerous course. You think he's at Cork on law
business? He's strutting up and down the landing-stage at Brest, with
Tone and Hoche, and all the rest of the jays in peacock-plumes. He's
urging the bevy of juvenile generals there to come across the water,
despite the lateness of the season; in fact, he's beginning the risky
game which brought Balmerino, Kilmarnock, Lovat, to the block. I'm
sure of what I state--trust me for that. Why! these hot-pated fools do
nothing that we're not informed of; and Mr. Pitt's staff in France is
every whit as sharp as ours here. Do you desire a proof that I speak
with authority? What are these things stacked here, under these
cloths, within these presses, even piled, as you see, right up the
chimney!' Lord Clare moved about the room with the precision of
one who is sure of what he does. 'Pikeheads, my lady--rough but
efficient--which are to rip his Majesty's soldiers when the struggle
shall begin. It was an ingenious notion to store them under the roof
of a known loyalist. Who placed them here? Your ingenuous boy,
Terence, with the assistance of the people at the shebeen below. That
"Irish Slave," by the way, must have a visit from us; also the fair
dame on whose ground it stands. Look at this paper. A design for a
pikehead, precisely like these, with written directions--in whose
hand? Terence's! I gave five hundred guineas for that piece of paper.
See! do not tremble--it's destroyed--the evidence is gone.'
My lady sat upright in her chair without moving, staring up at the
speaker, scarcely comprehending what he said, through the singing in
her ears. Terence, her son, had actually joined the disaffected--these
deluded persons whose proceedings shocked all her prejudices--whom she
sincerely believed were only fit for Bedlam. He might come to an
ignominious death unless she put forth all her influence to drag him
from the danger. What influence could she expect to have? Whose fault
was it that she had none? Her sin was finding her out in an unexpected
fashion. A great cry rose up within her, that her fortitude was near
its end. It broke from her bosom in a sigh of weariness. She looked
old and haggard as she stared up at the chancellor. Her ancient
friends poke of the situation: of how the commander-in-chief my Lord
Carhampton must inaugurate a new regime, now that martial law was
declared; of how, all things considered, in the complications which
were arising, it would be wise for the denizens of the Abbey to depart
shortly. Terence might be expected back in a day or two; then his
mother must speak to him and take him with her if she could. It would
be well to take Miss Wolfe away too, as she was playing the fool most
egregiously. She, too, had a hand in this pike-stacking.
My Lord Clare laughed in his disagreeable manner as he recounted how
he had succeeded in terrifying poor vacillating Arthur Wolfe about
her. At all events it was most wise that Lord Glandore should go; for
it would be a terrible thing--supposing Terence proved obstinate--if
the brothers should come to be in rival camps upon the scene of
action.
'My dear lady,' he concluded, 'we shall have a hot time of it before
we've done, I do assure you. Take your measures as I advise. Now I
must be off to turn the screw upon the "Irish Slave."'
The coach rolled citywards. My lady, face to face with a new trouble,
clung to the one speck of brightness which glittered like a star.
Gillin certainly was committing herself. There was to be a search upon
her premises. Her ruin would surely follow. The pressure from that
side would be removed. Thank heaven for that! Yes! This was a real ray
of light shining from out the gloom. Things at their worst must mend.
With firm step the countess swept along the passages, striving to
stifle the remorse which whispered that if evil came to Terence, she
would be responsible. She would follow her friend's sage advice to the
letter, she determined. It was time to do battle with Doreen, as to
her proposed visit to the north.
Miss Wolfe was bending over the sun-dial in her little flower-plot,
which was sad-looking with quaint-toned chrysanthemums, her head bowed
upon her arms--a statue of despair. An open letter lay crumpled at her
feet. My lady saw it and smiled grimly. Indeed, the poor maiden had
received a terrible blow--one heavy enough to stagger even her
firmly-knit nature. The beauteous _Chateau en Irlande_, which she had
been so busy building, had come crashing down. Its gargoyles and
turrets were admirable to behold--but, alas! its foundations were of
sand. It had toppled bodily upon her head, and she was stunned by the
completeness of the ruin. Her fond parent had indited her a note
bidding her pack up her clothes; for, that she might be removed from
danger, she was to go to Glas-aitch-e with her aunt.
She was caught in her own trap. Those dainty visions of returning to
her father, of weaning him from the flesh-pots, of bolstering him up
in the buckram of her love against his weak sensual self, were
vanished. 'She was to be taken away out of danger,' her cruel father
wrote, as though she did not pant for danger as doth the war-horse!
The misfortunes which might result from this unlooked-for arrangement
rose up before her one by one, each armed with its separate shiver.
The struggle would come. She, whose heart was wrapped in it--who had
made up her mind in which direction duty lay--would be a prisoner far
away in a desert island, to which news would trickle slowly: that was
bad enough. But of late she had become morbidly anxious, on account of
the disorganisation which delay was causing among the United Irishmen.
It was only by her own personal influence that Russell and Bond had
bowed to Tom Emmett's dictum, and consented to await Terence's return.
Were the French coming, or were they not? If not, would the society
fling down the gauntlet alone? If it should do so, what would be the
result? Would Emmett continue to carry his point as to delay? If he
failed in his endeavours, what could be expected to take place? Even
if he should be able to control the unruly, how fraught with danger
was the prospect. Help from France was the willow that bound the
sticks; that band removed, with what ease might each separately be
broken!
At sound of my lady's footstep, Doreen started from her crouching
attitude. Her aunt's were the last eyes on earth which she would wish
to pry into her despair. She was vaguely suspicious too that her
aunt's wild projects of matrimony had something to do with this last
arrangement. It was, beside the others, a mild phase of annoyance no
doubt, but it certainly was annoying to consider that in Donegal she
would find herself shut up well-nigh alone with Shane, who, urged by
his mother, might tease her dreadfully. Taken altogether, her future
looked black as Styx. She promised herself to make one effort more to
remain behind in Dublin. Then it flashed upon her that perchance some
one had warned her father of the prominence which she had assumed of
late. Yet who would tell him? Her precautions were always well taken.
In public she acted with extreme reserve towards Tom Emmett and the
rest. Private interviews had always been held at obscure cottages,
whose owners she knew would be hanged ere they betrayed her. There was
no doubt though, she reflected with sore foreboding, that there were
traitors somewhere. If only they could be unmasked. Well, well! time
unravels many tangles.
'I see your father has written to you,' my lady said, stepping down
into the garden. 'He must even defend you against yourself. Upon my
word, the Irish are all insane. I shall have the honour to be your
keeper for awhile--in a most impregnable asylum.'
Then it was her aunt who had suggested this step. At this instant how
bitterly she hated her!
'I have yet to learn,' she said with hauteur, 'what business you have
to interfere with me. I am of age, and not your daughter.'
'You will not presume to disobey your father, I suppose?' the countess
inquired coldly. 'Though I ought rather to be surprised if for once
you are dutiful.'
'My duty is to my mother's people!' Doreen murmured absently.
'I told you once before,' her aunt went on, unheeding, 'that you would
disgrace the family and break your father's heart. For both reasons it
is my distinct business to interfere with you. The friends whom you
have chosen to make, are rushing like sheep to the slaughter. You
shall not be one of the flock if I can help it. I have spoken gravely
to your father about you; and so has some one else--Lord Clare.'
'Lord Clare!' echoed Doreen, astonished. 'What does he know about me?'
'Too much,' retorted her aunt, dryly. 'He showed me, just now, a
delectable sight in the armoury, a discovery which cost him five
hundred guineas. For shame! It is kindness to deem you mad.'
'How did he know of the pikes?' startled Doreen inquired.
'Through Terence,' replied my lady, shortly--for she knew not how much
or how little her niece and son were mixed up in this affair, and
always instinctively avoided talking of the latter to the former.
There was a long pause, during which the dowager continued to eye her
niece.
'Aunt, I will go with you to Donegal!' Miss Wolfe said slowly, her
large eyes peering with vague terror into space. 'I think now I will
take a walk, for I am rather upset;' and quietly taking her garden-hat
from the bench hard-by, she knotted its ribbons under her chin, and
disappeared between the beech hedges of the rosary.
There are moments in most lives when so sharp a pang shoots through
our hearts, that we feel there is nothing left but to seek a remote
covert and wait for death. Such strokes age us suddenly and surely. To
few is it given to become old by slow and imperceptible steps. We
remain in the solitude of our covert without speech; almost without
feeling. Presently we perceive that we were mistaken about death (for
the White Pilgrim comes not for the bidding); and emerge into the
world again, apparently the same as before--young outwardly, and
smooth-browed, but really altogether different. Poets have sung much
of broken hearts, at which cynics have scoffed, time out of mind.
Hearts have broken under a sudden mental shock, but seldom. They are
more usually turned inside out and changed.
Doreen had just received such a shock as calls imperatively for
solitude. Then the snake in the grass--the Judas--was Terence--her own
cousin! Rapidly she walked through the rosary, and out by the wooden
gate into the open--away--inland across the fields, for miles.
She was surprised to find that she felt more grieved than was at all
necessary, in that the snake was Terence. Only a few minutes ago she
had been praying heaven to unmask the villain, with the laudable
intention of pointing him out to the reprobation and contempt of the
society. But Terence! The open-visaged, careless youth who exasperated
her, as a woman, chiefly because he was prodigal of promise which was
not likely to be fulfilled. He had been so importunate in blundering
puppy fashion (really almost as ridiculous as Cassidy), heaving absurd
sighs, carrying on his intermittent wooing in so ludicrously naive a
manner, as to provoke scorn in so high-spirited a mistress. Looking
within herself, she discovered that behind her light estimate of his
amatory ravings there was a genuine liking for the lad. Could she have
been entirely mistaken in him? Could her judgment have been utterly at
fault when she decided, that if feebly endowed by nature, he was at
least honest and true? For the more she considered the subject as she
trudged across country, the more she felt that it would be indeed
grievous if that fine open face, which had looked so noble in its
indignation on account of the martyr Orr, should turn out to be only a
grinning mask.
Terence the Judas--the betrayer of the innocent--the snarer of the
unwary! Terence, her cousin, whose jocund visage she admitted to be
rather dear to her. If he proved so base a scoundrel, in whom then
might an earnest soul place trust? Was his perfidy a fall, or original
sin? She remembered how she had read wise thoughts in books, wherein
sages had explained that our nature is unstable, liable to trip--that
none can resist temptation if clothed in the fittest garb. Is not the
prayer which should be oftenest on our lips, 'Lead us not, O God, into
temptation?' Women are perverse, choosing always the left one, when
they ought to take the right turning; and with the perversity of women
Doreen chose at once to accept the most distasteful phase of the
situation. She took it for granted that Terence was in the wrong,
instead of more prudently suspending her judgment till his return from
France.
The feet of her cousin were cloven. He wore a tail and smelt of
brimstone. She stood still beside a paling as she thought of him, and
shook it in a rage with both her hands, while a vague feeling of
uneasiness came over her in that she should care so much that Terence
should prove the Judas. Yet was she not quite justified in her dismay?
Was it not natural that her faith in truth and goodness should be
thrown out of gear by such low calculating turpitude? Clutching the
gnarled paling, the unhappy lady bowed her face on it and burst into
sobs which shook her to the centre.
Five hundred guineas! That was the sharpest of the many thongs which
smote her. She had declined to look at the sordid motive--it was so
very mean and vile. But now it clamoured with open palms at the gates
of her brain, and shouted deafeningly. Vulgar money troubles are at
the bottom of everything that's base! What a pity that there should be
such a thing as money! Five hundred guineas! How small--how miserable
a sum! He was always in debt, she knew: to such easy-going creatures
as he always seemed to be, debt was a state of nature. But could he
have sunk so low as this? Was he capable, for five hundred guineas, of
suddenly assuming a noble love of motherland, which was a farce--of
laying a gin for the feet of persons who had never injured him--nay,
whom he reckoned among his dearest friends? For the wretched price of
five hundred guineas, could he look her--his cousin, almost his
sister--in the face, and endeavour to steal her heart, that he might
stick it on a pole for the amusement of fellow-traitors? Traitor!
Arch-traitor--wretch! Tears having come to her relief, Doreen sat on
the grass and wept, and felt like the wounded beast within the covert.
Piecing scraps together, with the key which my lady had furnished,
many cloudy matters became clear. My lady was proud and prejudiced,
but her pride revolted against treachery. If not, why had she suddenly
warned her niece to see that her correspondence was not tampered with?
Who should tamper with it? Not Jug, or Biddy, or Phil. They were
children of the soil, who knew not treachery. How could my lady know
of any tampering of theirs? No! It was against Terence--the son whom
my lady loved not--whose unworthy proceedings filled her aristocratic
soul with repugnance--that she had warned her niece. Lord Clare knew
the very wording of Theobald's last letter--through whom? Through
Terence, of course--for five hundred guineas--alas! alas!
All of a sudden a new idea struck Doreen, and she sat up, her cheeks
blanched and tear-stained. The traitor had worked well for the
degrading pittance. He had succeeded in hoodwinking the society as
well as herself. He was now at Brest, with every secret in his
possession--every detail--every aspiration--cut and dried--in cold
black and white--and she it was who had despatched him. The Emmetts,
Russell, Bond, were doomed men. Their young lives were unconsciously
sacrificed by her. There was no end to the blood for which she would
be answerable. The cycle of her frenzied thoughts came back to the
point at which she started. She had been trifling like some innocent
child with burning brands which had scorched her. Not herself alone.
Her life was her own, for better or for worse. When she should be
called to appear before the throne to account for her deeds, she would
be asked, 'Why broke you your father's heart for a chimera? why did
you lead Emmett, Russell, Bond, by your wiles to the scaffold? Who
were you to set yourself up as a teacher? To lure honest men, like a
siren, to destruction? What could her faltering answer be? I meant
well. I acted for the best. I was presumptuous. I am sorry.... Can
regret undo the injuries which are due to our presumption? No. The
wretched Doreen was crushed by an overwhelming sense of her own
littleness and failure. There was nothing for it but to kneel down and
cry, 'I have sinned;' to clasp her sorrow and take it to the north,
there to hold vigils of unfruitful repentance, whilst praying humbly
to be released from earth. The wilds of Glas-aitch-e should be her
covert. Into it she would creep like a stricken doe. If the White
Pilgrim would obey her summons, with what gratitude she would cling to
his filmy raiment! If he refused to hearken to her pleading--why then
she must, kneeling on the stones, endure unto the end with such
meekness as a vengeful heaven might vouchsafe to her.
The wild paroxysm past, she got up and returned with trailing feet
towards the Abbey. Her limbs were aching from contact with dank
herbage: her brogues and stockings soiled with clinging mud. A
drizzling veil was settling on the earth, which looked, as far as ken
might reach, dun-toned and colourless. Raising dazed eyes, she beheld
a slim figure moving with rapid strides, and recognised young Robert
from afar.
What could he be doing? Was he also crushed in spirit, as weary of the
world as she; wandering in search of peace? or on one of his many
missions of private charity?
He had been to the Abbey in quest of her; was told by a garden-lad
that she had passed through the wooden postern, and had tracked her
wanderings from hut to hut.
'They are going too far!' he said abruptly, with bent brows, as he
turned to walk back with her. 'Already the squireens are abroad,
imitating their fellows in the north. Dublin's in a ferment. It needs
but the coming of the French to settle the affair at a blow. Every
magistrate has received orders to raise twenty men to preserve the
peace in place of the militia, should these be ordered to the coast.
But they overreach themselves. Decent people are so furious at the
tactics of Lord Clare, that even the militia are dying to turn against
the Government. Cassidy says so, who should know, seeing that he keeps
up a friendship with the Castle. I speak to-night at the Debating
Club. Look at these notes,' he added, smiling. '"Recipe to make a
Rebel! Take one loyal subject uninfluenced by pension; burn his house
over his head; murder his wife and babes before his eyes; march away
with such plunder as you choose to save from the flames----" But what
is the matter? You look ill!'
'I am leaving Dublin almost at once,' Doreen said, 'and am glad of it.
If there is one power which has the gift of withering up the soul, it
is treachery! I am sick of the world. Go to your brother. Tell him the
cause is lost. One who held all their secrets has betrayed them--for
five hundred guineas; that is their value in his eyes.'
Here the girl broke into wild laughter--she who never laughed; and
Robert looked at her in surprise, with a sense of coldness, creeping.
Then, with a hectic spot upon each cheek, she eased her breast with
words; recounted all she knew, and much more which was conjecture,
though in her perturbed state she was not aware of it. Explained that
they were all dupes of Terence's false _bonhomie_--that he had coldly
and deliberately played a part; had, as it were, eaten their bread and
salt, and then stabbed them in the back. In the midst of the hideous
recital, her voice choked in a great gulp, and clasping her hot face
with her hands, she burst into a flood of tears.
Ardent young Robert was shocked, but not convinced. Terence! whom
every one loved for his bright eyes, through which shone forth an
honest soul. To whom Robert and fellow-undergraduates looked up as to
a _preux chevalier_ in the matter of grouse-shooting and the beguiling
of the wily trout. He could not believe such a thing, and would not.
Lord Clare was capable of any amount of lying. His ways were so
tortuous that they were difficult to follow. His spies were legion,
who ferreted out everything. No doubt Phil and Biddy had been watched;
they had billed and cooed too loudly as they had handed the pikes over
the wall. Terence was unduly heedless about money; his friends
frequently declared that he didn't know its value. It was absolutely
out of the question that he should suddenly be tempted to do so crafty
and mean a thing. As for the delegates of the society being betrayed
and their secrets known, there was nothing new in that. Had they not,
months ago, been arrested at his own chambers, their papers seized,
themselves arbitrarily imprisoned, and afterwards as arbitrarily
released? He could not fathom the tactics of the executive, the youth
was forced to confess, for their movements seemed planned to
circumvent each other. The rank and file were being captured by dozens
and hanged, while the commanders and organisers of the scheme were
permitted to remain at large.
It was not unpleasing to Doreen to hear her cousin defended; but she
shook her head.
'If the French were to come now,' she said, 'they might set things
right; but then they must come in force; and Terence, having gone to
Brest, would probably clinch the irresolution of Hoche, and
effectually decide him not to come at all. Verily, the world and its
affairs were vexation of spirit; conspiracy a disheartening game;
Ireland an accursed land, foredoomed to eternal misery.'
By the wooden postern which gave access to the rosary, stood a group
of peasants, who humbly bowed to Miss Wolfe, then returned to the
dirge of lamentation which her appearance had interrupted.
'Jug Coyle, what is the matter?' Doreen inquired; for she recognised
in a heaving heap before her the shattered remains of that lady.
'Whisht! acushla!' a man whispered. 'Let her tears flow. Sure she's
burned out of house and home. Her cabin's desthroyed. The sodgers--bad
luck to 'em!--have taken her bit of bacon and the dhrop of potteen
the quality used to loike, and thin they began to turn up the
pratey-garden, and Biddy gave a yelp and wanted to run to the Little
House, but the blagyards gagged her mouth with an ould rag, and tuk
her away screeching.'
'The "Irish Slave" destroyed?' inquired Robert.
'Yes, your honour,' replied the man, lowering his voice as he glanced
around. 'But they didn't find much. Phil, Masther Terence's man, came
down from the Abbey to give the office, and most of the pike-heads
were tossed over the wall, till we can put 'em back to-night. Wake up,
Jug, and spake with the lady. Sure the shock has druv the collough
crazy. When the thatch was all ablaze we went up to Madam Gillin, who
always has the kind word and bit and sup; but she said she could do
nothing, and bade us come to you.'
'To me!' echoed Doreen, bitterly. 'Am I not too a Catholic, and
helpless?'
'But it's your father's the great gintleman,' urged the fellow
coaxingly, as he twisted his corbeen between his horny hands. 'If ye'd
spake the word, acushla----'
'My father!' Doreen groaned, breaking abruptly through the knot of
suppliants. 'What can he do? He is sending me away. I'll pray to God
for you; but He has been deaf this long while.'