Ireland was, as usual, one of concession and coercion. There was to be a
Land Act, and there was to be a Bill which would give the
Lord-lieutenant "power by warrant to arrest any person reasonably
suspected of treason, treasonable felony, or treasonable practices, and
the commission, whether before or after the Act, of crimes of
intimidation, or incitement thereto." The conflict over the latter bill,
which was first introduced, made the House of Commons more like a
bear-garden than a place of rational deliberation and debate. Even Mr.
Bright and Mr. Gladstone became exasperated, and charged back upon their
assailants with an energy and violence quite unwonted. Mr. Gladstone's
speech in particular aroused the House, angered the Irish members, and
proved to be the prelude to a prolonged conflict with systematic
obstruction, which went on for some time, night and day, without break.
Even Mr. Parnell for the moment lost all self-command, entered into an
angry conflict with the Prime Minister, defied the ruling of the
Speaker, and was expelled the House, as Mr. Dillon had been the evening
before. Some thirty others of the National party followed his example
of defiance with a similar result. At the close of February the Coercion
Bill was sent up to the Lords, and on the beginning of March received
the Queen's assent. The end of July saw the third reading of the Land
Bill in the Commons, after long and wearisome debate. The Lords amended
it to death, and sent it back to the Commons--the poor and pithless
shadow of its former self. Restored to life in the Lower House, it was
again presented for the acceptance of the peers. Again they struck at
its vitality, but the Commons said, _Nulla vestigia retrorsum_. A
thousand popular platforms and almost the whole provincial press called
upon the government to be firm; mass meetings in London and other large
cities and towns clamored for the abolition of the House of Lords and
the extinction of hereditary rule. Eventually the courage of the peers
gave way, and the Land Bill of 1881 became law.
The closing months of the year saw the Land League chiefs in Kilmainham
Prison. Mr. Gladstone on his visit to Leeds, early in October, had met
with a reception more than royal from the folks of Yorkshire. For two or
three days special trains from every part of that densely populated
county poured into the great emporium of the cloth-trade thousands of
enthusiastic admirers eager to catch a near glimpse of the foremost
statesman of the age as he rode from point to point through the
barricaded streets. In one of the speeches made during the visit, he had
strongly reprobated the policy and proceedings of Mr. Parnell. At a
meeting in Wexford, a few days after, Mr. Parnell replied with some
bitterness. A few days more brought the exciting news of the arrests by
the Irish Executive. The situation was desperate. The imprisoned leaders
at once issued a manifesto calling upon the tenantry of Ireland to
withhold payment of rents. This was a direct violation of the law, as
well as a great political blunder, and the government at once seized the
occasion as a fitting opportunity for suppressing the Land League and
the advanced Nationalist press. In the session of 1882 there appeared a
manifest indisposition on the part of a majority of the cabinet to give
further sanction to the policy of Mr. Forster in Ireland. The imprisoned
Home Rulers were released from Kilmainham on conditions which he thought
perilously lenient, and he resigned, as also did Earl Cowper. The entry
of the new Lord-lieutenant, Earl Spencer, on the 6th of May, into the
Irish capital, promised well; but the assassin had bargained with the
fates for the day, and before the sun had ceased to shed his bright
beams on the green grass and budding trees of Phoenix Park, a scion of
the noble house of Devonshire and his companion in office had been
immolated on the altar of Irish vengeance before the eyes of the new
viceroy as he stood in the window of the viceregal lodge. The civilized
world was horror-struck. Ireland expressed her profound regret at a
transaction which was thought to have been planned and executed by some
designing foe. Messrs. Parnell, Dillon, and Davitt hastily met to
disclaim any sympathy with the crime and to denounce the criminals. The
rest of the story is now familiar and needs not be retold. The
government was known to have been contemplating a milder _regime_ for
Ireland; but the disastrous incident of the 6th of May drove them back
upon their former policy. A Crimes Bill was passed, followed by a
measure of alleviation, known as the Arrears Bill, with the view of
keeping the scales of justice even. In the middle of August the
exhibition of Irish Art and Manufactures was opened in Dublin, and the
unveiling of the statue of O'Connell, in Sackville Street, was part of
the programme of the ceremonies. On the following day, Messrs. Parnell
and Dillon received the freedom of the city, and Mr. E. D. Gray, M. P.,
proprietor of _Freeman's Journal_, and High Sheriff of Dublin, was
committed to Richmond gaol for contempt of Court.
Whatever necessity may be pleaded for such measures as these, they only
had one result, namely, the steady advancement of the Irish National
cause. Dynamite explosions in London, Glasgow, and elsewhere, troubles
in Egypt and the Soudan, complications with Russia as to the Afghan
frontier, left little time for attention to Irish affairs during the
last years of the existence of the Liberal ministry. The Irish
Nationalist leaders had convinced themselves that they owed no gratitude
to the government, and could hope for nothing from the Liberal party,
except "chains, imprisonment, and death," to cite the words of Mr.
Gladstone's recent reply to the Irish citizens of St. Louis. They had
been long biding their time and watching for their opportunity, when
suddenly it presented itself. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr.
Childers, in presenting the Annual Budget, "ran a tilt" against the
"beer and spirit" interest--a sin unpardonable, for any minister in
England. The Budget was defeated, and ministers accepted the hint,
rejoicing that, for a time at least, their troubles were ended.
Meanwhile the organization of the Irish National party had been
developed to a point of perfection in anticipation of the New Reform
Bill. That bill promised nothing in particular either to Gladstone or
Salisbury, and it has given to neither any particular advantage over the
other. In the counties the Liberal interest has advanced; in the
boroughs it has markedly declined. But it promised everything to
Parnell, and the fulfilment has been equal to the promise. It is no
exaggeration to say that with a compact following of eighty-six he is
virtually "master of the situation." But his position, on the other
hand, is undoubtedly very critical. It is one which few men are likely
to envy; it is one which not one in a thousand is competent to fill.
Will he be equal to it? Where Grattan--sagacious, eloquent, high-minded
and sincere--so signally failed, is Parnell likely to succeed? To-day
his party is united, enthusiastic and strong, but when the hour for
compromise and concession arrives, will the unanimity be maintained?
Does Mr. Parnell himself know how much to ask, how little he ought to
take, and where to draw the limit of compromise? Repeatedly Mr.
Gladstone has invited Irish leaders to bring forward some definite
scheme, and let the country know what they meant by "Home Rule." The
cry, as a party watchword, has served admirably--seldom has a couple of
words served so well--because, as expressing Irish National aspirations,
it meant everything in general and nothing in particular; but the moment
is at hand when it will be necessary to reduce it to a definite and
feasible scheme of domestic government and policy. When that moment
comes, will the prince of obstructionists in St. Stephen's prove himself
equally capable as a constructive statesman on College Green? Should Mr.
Gladstone find himself in a position soon after the opening of
Parliament (he is not in a position now) to enter into practical
negotiation with Mr. Parnell, may not the latter discover, as many an
able and successful leader of men has done before him, that the next sad
thing to a great defeat is a great victory? It is no secret that the
demand Mr. Parnell, as the head of the Irish Nationalist party, is
commissioned to make on behalf of Ireland, is a demand for national
self-government almost, if not quite, amounting to national
independence: it is equally well known that no British statesman would
ever think, in the present state of public sentiment, of countenancing
such a claim. For ourselves we do not venture to forecast the issue of
the conflict; for "prophecy is the most gratuitous style of error." We
content ourselves with hoping that the settlement may be speedy,
pacific, satisfactory, and lasting.
ELIZABETH.[E]
A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS.
BY FRANCES C. SPARHAWK, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."
CHAPTER XXX.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
While Archdale, full of emotions that he did not try to analyze, went on
toward Grand Battery, a figure, eluding him, crept softly to one of the
hospital tents, lifted the curtain a little way without being observed
at first, and stood looking in, an interested spectator, not because
human suffering, patience, and courage were upon exhibition here, but
because here he would find some one who could give him information that
he wanted.
In a few minutes Nancy Foster, passing by the door, looked up and saw
him watching her. She had become too well used to unfamiliar faces and
to messages at all hours and was too well protected to feel alarm.
"Oh! la! how you startled me," she cried. "What do you want? Dr.
Waters?"
"Hush!" he said, and beckoned to her to draw nearer. "I want to speak to
that lady yonder, only for a moment. Do you think she would come here?"
Harwin, for it was he, was a fine illustration of the proverb that he
who asks timidly, teaches denial. If he had demanded her mistress, Nancy
would have spoken to her at once. Now she scanned the intruder
curiously, and judged from the hesitation of his manner that his errand
was not urgent.
"No, she can't," she answered, with the decision wanting in the other.
"Don't you see how she's driven? And she's got to go away some time and
get a little rest. You'll have to come tomorrow."
"To-morrow!" he echoed drearily. Was it for this that he had come from
the fleet in the dispatch boat, and was braving all dangers? He took a
resolution from despair. He fell back until Nancy had gone and was again
intent upon her work.
At last he stepped forward noiselessly and began to make the half
circuit of the tent toward Elizabeth. Nancy, pre-occupied, passed by him
without speaking.
Elizabeth had sent for fresh water to moisten the lips of the dying
soldier whom she had told Archdale about. She had just filled her cup a
second time, and was on her way toward her especial charge for that
night, when Edmonson asked her for water. Ashamed of her impatience at
the simple request, she turned toward him, walking carefully with her
eyes upon her mug, not to waste a refreshment that had to be brought
from a distance. Suddenly, she found herself almost running against the
intruder. She looked up.
But the apology froze upon her lips. She retreated hastily several
steps, the water splashed unheeded over her trembling fingers. Edmonson,
who was always watching her, called to Nancy, "Your mistress, girl!
Quick!" and turned to look for her.
Nancy had gone to her patients in the next tent. But his voice helped
Elizabeth to recover herself. She stood firm again, but her rigid
expression did not change. With a bow, the intruder began:--
"May I venture--"
She interrupted him. "Do not speak to me, or stay here. Go!" She was
like marble, only that her eyes blazed. Her hand pointed toward the door
emphasizing her repulsion. Edmonson looked in amazement at this new
power, to him a new attraction.
The other drew back precipitately a few steps. Then he stopped and stood
looking at her, the questions that he had meant to put so boldly
struggling with something not unlike fear. For Elizabeth's look and tone
were terrible. She was an embodied indignation. At the moment he
believed her Archdale's wife. Her hand pointing toward the door was
turning him beyond the reach of all that was dearest to him. Yet for a
moment it seemed as if he could not resist her, as if he were forever to
be in exile. But he remembered that it was Katie Archdale's world that
was looking at him out of those pitiless eyes, and condemning him. He
had tried so hard to get news of Katie; he had even written her father a
business letter, and had ended it by a covert inquiry for news of her.
Not one word but business had come in the answer. Then, learning that
Elizabeth was here, he had contrived to be sent ashore, for he had been
with Commodore Warren through the siege, had risked meeting Archdale,
had risked everything for this chance of the news he hungered for. He
had been sure that the person whom he recollected as Mistress Royal must
answer whatever questions he might choose to put to her. And now must he
go away starving within sight of food? In desperation he tried to summon
back his assurance.
"Only let me ask you if Katie--Mistress--," he began again, taking a
hasty step toward her. But again she stopped him, and this time without
a word. As he tried to meet her look, gradually his eyes fell. He made
no further effort to speak. Step by step he fell backward, until at a
distance from her he stood still looking at her as if strength failed
him, even to retreat. Elizabeth turned to Edmonson, and gave him the
water left in her cup.
"Is that Harwin?" he asked hoarsely, holding it back from his lips until
she had answered him.
"Yes," she said, as if to end the subject. "Drink. I must go."
He sipped hastily, without thirst, and handed back the cup. "Thank you,"
he said. As she turned away, her hand was trembling again. She swept her
eyes in the opposite direction from Harwin if he should still be there.
Edmonson, after a long glance at her, lay watching him. Here was his
evil genius. But for Harwin what would not have been? In a flash the
future that he had planned, a thousand times more blissful than his
former dreams, came up before him, and, fading, left the present all the
more blank. His wounded right arm moved convulsively. Harwin remained
still where Elizabeth's last repulse had left him. He seemed trying to
swallow his chagrin, and wrap the tatters of his dignity about him
before he moved away. Perhaps he was in a dream of the woman whose very
name he had not been allowed to utter. Elizabeth was beside Melvin
again, and Edmonson still kept his eyes fixed upon Harwin, who was
standing between him and her, and gradually and painfully he raised his
right arm toward the pillow.
Archdale had been met by an orderly, and had gone to the General's tent
instead of to the Battery. Pepperell was alone.
"Sit down," he said. "No, let us go out into the air. Warren's
dispatches have just come," he added, as the two passed out of the tent.
"He expects two or three large ships in any day. I shall arrange for the
general attack as soon as they come up." He smiled at Archdale's
enthusiastic endorsement. "You like the smoke of battle," he said. "But
the fact is, you have an eye for military situations. Of course I have
quite made up my mind, but I should like to hear what you have to say."
And he laughed, and took his young friend's arm with a freedom not too
common in those stately times. But Pepperell was a man who, born in any
age or place, would have found himself at home there, and controlling
affairs, not controlled by them. He had come to Louisburg with very
little experience in military matters; he had never even seen a siege.
He led an army of fishermen, backwoodsmen, farmers, who had left their
employments at their country's call. But these had the strong hearts and
the quick wits that more than a hundred years later, when the land awoke
from a dream of peace, made it rise up a nation of soldiers.
The General and Archdale went to a hillock that commanded a view of the
harbor, and of the city constantly illuminated by the bursting shells,
as were also the forts and the army encamped there. The luridness of war
was over everything. They stood looking toward the island which, ever
since the assault, had hurled its fire at them incessantly.
"And what would you do with that Battery?" asked the General.
"Annihilate the Battery," retorted the young man. "It can be done. I
think you could rake it best from the Light House."
"I believe I will try. Say nothing of this, Archdale. I shall wait a day
or two for those ships. It would be awkward, wouldn't it, if the French
ones came instead?" His words were light, but the other perceived his
deep anxiety.
"What would you do then?" he asked.
"Take Louisburg,--or die."
Archdale turned towards him impulsively. "Yes, you will," he cried, "you
will lead us into Louisburg." He waited a moment. "Before the general
attack--," he began, and hesitated.
"Oh, I'll send the rest of the hospital off to Canso," interposed
Pepperell, "all I can of it; our house there is full now. And the
nurses,--you may be sure that they shall go. That's what you mean?"
"Yes, you think of everything."
"Mr. Royal has been impressing the same necessity upon me." And the
General laughed.
"Where is he?" asked Stephen quickly.
"He has been with his daughter all the afternoon, I believe, but a while
ago he went up to the Batteries with Col. Vaughan.
"But Elizabeth Royal is not a woman to be forgotten," Pepperell went on,
"even if her father were not my old friend, and at my elbow."
"No," said the young man. Then he made a remark about military affairs,
and the subject of the attack was renewed.
Suddenly came the report of a pistol different from the roar of the
cannon, and so unexpected and near that it startled the listeners as if
its sharpness had broken in upon the still night.
"Where was that?" cried the General.
Not only sound, but intuition guided Archdale. For the element that was
a sharper discord than war was to be found in the place to which his
feet were rushing. If not himself for victim, who then? In another
moment he threw back the door of the hospital tent in which Elizabeth
was, and entered.
He was none too soon. Elizabeth, swaying beside the couch of the dying
soldier, fell as Archdale reached her. He lifted her, and carried her to
her own tent. She was too faint to resist, or appeal. Nancy, whom the
shot had summoned, followed, holding back her grief and terror because
help and silence were what her mistress needed. Archdale had stayed but
a moment in the tent. But he had seen everything, Harwin unhurt rushing
toward his assailant, the surgeon wrenching the pistol from the disabled
hand that had missed its aim, and Edmonson's face wild with horror at
the lodgment that his ball had found. He had seen all, and he
comprehended all.
CHAPTER XXXI.
EYES UNSEALED.
Edmonson sat with a terrible fierceness in his face.
Harwin had never seen him before, but he had heard of him, and, through
Katie, of his former attentions to Elizabeth, and he divined who had
fired that shot meant for himself.
"Come up to me," called Edmonson, turning suddenly upon him. "I've no
weapon now. My face can't turn you to stone, though I'd be a Medusa to
do it. But no, I'll do better than that. Come here! come here!" he
repeated excitedly.
Harwin went up to him in silence, reading as he went a lesson that wrote
itself on his mind as if in letters of blood. The man before him was
well-born, well-educated, and skilled in all the graces of society,
accepted even in court circles; yet, as he lay there, he looked a slave,
for the nobility of freedom had gone, and the mark of the brute nature
was on his forehead, and in his hand that he stretched out with the
longing in it to grasp his victim. The soldier on the bed next his, who
had spent a good part of his thirty years of life in a fishing-smack,
who knew nothing of books beyond what the common-school education had
given him, and less of any life but his own venturesome calling, who
beyond knowledge of the sea and its dangers had been taught only by the
quickness of his own wit and the honor of his own heart,--this man, as
he turned attentive eyes upon the approaching figure, Harwin
involuntarily glanced at. In a flash of insight he saw in the
uprightness of the sailor's face the beauty of such strength. Then he
looked back at Edmonson, and there he saw his own heart in exaggeration,
and he trembled.
As he went up to Edmonson, the latter raised himself from his elbow, and
sitting upright leaned as near him as he could.
"Do you know me?" he asked.
The other nodded, "Mr. Edmonson."
"Yes. Do you know that I was to have married Mistress Royal?" Harwin
assented again. "Who told you?"
"Mistress Archdale."
"Ah! yes, the little golden-haired one that thinks herself such a
beauty."
"She is infinitely more than she can think herself," cried Harwin.
Edmonson turned upon him a look of malign triumph. "Ah!" he said. "You
suffer, too." He was silent for an instant. "But then you think that you
may yet win her," he said. "Who knows?" and he watched his listener
closely, "Women are strange," he added. "She'd be flattered by your
having been a scamp for her sake; she is not like the other one." He saw
the light flash into Harwin's eyes and leave its bright mark along his
cheek, and he smiled. "But you never shall," he said. "You might, but
you never shall. Did you see what happened a minute ago?" he went on in
stifled tones. "I shot her, and he carried her out,--not the
yellow-haired one, oh, no, but,--Did you see his face?" he hissed with a
look that made Harwin draw back at its fierceness. "But we shall be
even; we will fight." He sat a moment watching Harwin, and then went on:
"You will be interested in hearing that Mistress Archdale is engaged to
Lord Bulchester, my friend. Your doings, too. But you shall pay for
all," as Harwin stepped back in consternation. "Already, you see you've
begun, but this is not the end."
"Calm yourself," said Harwin laying his hand nervously on the other's
shoulder, "control yourself. This is very bad, if you're wounded."
"Control myself!" sneered Edmonson. "I never have done it in my life,
and I'm not likely to do it now at the command of a coward and a sneak.
Now will you fight with me?"
"Certainly. But I want to know why it is with you?"
Edmonson seemed about to shout his answer, then, recollecting where he
was, said with a passion more dreadful for its suppression, "Why?
Because but for you I should be in paradise now, and by reason of you I
am in----." Suddenly his speech was arrested by what seemed to him in
its vividness a vision rather than a remembrance. He was again one of
the gay carousers at the London inn, he was scoffing at Bulchester, and
drinking that frightful pledge to meet them all again in one hundred
years. Had he kept his appointment already? He would have a long while
to wait. The act had seemed to him nothing, the recollection of it now
made him shudder. All at once, the scene stood out to him in a lurid
light, and through this he seemed to see a horror in Elizabeth Royal's
face. For one moment the whirl of anguish and remorse blinded him. The
next, that Archdale pride, so grand in a worthy cause, so fatal when in
the hands of caprice and passion, was driving him on again. But as he
was about to speak, the surgeon's voice by his bed commanded him to
stop, for his own sake and for others. "Not another word," it said.
"One,--I must speak one," returned Edmonson. "Then I have done, I
promise you. Stand back and count off one minute." He leaned close to
Harwin as the doctor yielded. "I give you a chance of honorable duel,"
he said. "You'll take it, or there's no place on earth where my sword is
too short to reach you. You've taught me how to stab in the back; I
shall not forget it. But I give you your chance. You'll fight?"
"Yes."
"Weapons?"
"Swords."
Edmonson smiled derisively.
"You think my sword arm will not be strong enough?" he asked. "I
shouldn't advise you to depend upon that. Time--when I am able.
Place--we'll settle that afterward. We can't find seconds here--too much
Puritanism; they would interfere. But we can arrange it; we're honorable
men," he sneered. "I may depend upon you?"
"Yes."
"If not--beware! Now, surgeon, only one thing more," as Harwin left the
tent. "How much have I hurt Mistress Royal?"
"Lovell has gone with them. When he returns you shall hear."
"You will certainly tell me?"
"Certainly."
"Then I have done with you to-night." And he threw himself back on his
pillow, and lay silent and watchful until the other surgeon entered.
Hours after, he fell into an uneasy sleep.