AT ‘TRINITY’
It was while the two young men were seated at breakfast that the post
arrived, bringing a number of country newspapers, for which, in one shape
or other, Joe Atlee wrote something. Indeed, he was an ‘own correspondent,’
dating from London, or Paris, or occasionally from Rome, with an easy
freshness and a local colour that vouched for authenticity. These journals
were of a very political tint, from emerald green to the deepest orange;
and, indeed, between two of them--the _Tipperary Pike_ and the _Boyne
Water_, hailing from Carrickfergus--there was a controversy of such
violence and intemperance of language, that it was a curiosity to see the
two papers on the same table: the fact being capable of explanation, that
they were both written by Joe Atlee--a secret, however, that he had not
confided even to his friend Kearney.
‘Will that fellow that signs himself Terry O’Toole in the _Pike_ stand
this?’ cried Kearney, reading aloud from the _Boyne Water_:--
‘“We know the man who corresponds with you under the signature of Terry
O’Toole, and it is but one of the aliases under which he has lived since
he came out of the Richmond Bridewell, filcher, forger, and false witness.
There is yet one thing he has never tried, which is to behave with a little
courage. If he should, however, be able to persuade himself, by the aid
of his accustomed stimulants, to accept the responsibility of what he has
written, we bind ourselves to pay his expenses to any part of France or
Belgium, where he will meet us, and we shall also bind ourselves to give
him what his life little entitles him to, a Christian burial afterwards.
‘“No SURRENDER.”’
‘I am just reading the answer,’ said Joe. ‘It is very brief: here it is:--
“‘If ‘No Surrender’--who has been a newsvender in your establishment since
you yourself rose from that employ to the editor’s chair--will call at this
office any morning after distributing his eight copies of your daily issue,
we promise to give him such a kicking as he has never experienced during
his literary career. TERRY O’TOOLE.’”
‘And these are the amenities of journalism,’ cried Kearney.
‘For the matter of that, you might exclaim at the quack doctor of a fair,
and ask, Is this the dignity of medicine?’ said Joe. ‘There’s a head and a
tail to every walk in life: even the law has a Chief-Justice at one end and
a Jack Ketch at the other.’
‘Well, I sincerely wish that those blackguards would first kick and then
shoot each other.’
‘They’ll do nothing of the kind! It’s just as likely that they wrote the
whole correspondence at the same table and with the same jug of punch
between them.’
‘If so, I don’t envy you your career or your comrades.’
‘It’s a lottery with big prizes in the wheel all the same! I could tell you
the names of great swells, Master Dick, who have made very proud places for
themselves in England by what you call “journalism.” In France it is the
one road to eminence. Cannot you imagine, besides, what capital fun it is
to be able to talk to scores of people you were never introduced to? to
tell them an infinity of things on public matters, or now and then about
themselves; and in so many moods as you have tempers, to warn them, scold,
compassionate, correct, console, or abuse them? to tell them not to be
over-confident or bumptious, or purse-proud--’
‘And who are _you_, may I ask, who presume to do all this?’
‘That’s as it may be. We are occasionally Guizot, Thiers, Prévot Paradol,
Lytton, Disraeli, or Joe Atlee.’
‘Modest, at all events.’
‘And why not say what I feel--not what I have done, but what is in me to
do? Can’t you understand this: it would never occur to me that I could
vault over a five-bar gate if I had been born a cripple? but the conscious
possession of a little pliant muscularity might well tempt me to try it.’
‘And get a cropper for your pains.’
‘Be it so. Better the cropper than pass one’s life looking over the top
rail and envying the fellow that had cleared it; but what’s this? here’s a
letter here: it got in amongst the newspapers. I say, Dick, do you stand
this sort of thing?’ said he, as he read the address.
‘Stand what sort of thing?’ asked the other, half angrily.
‘Why, to be addressed in this fashion? The Honourable Richard Kearney,
Trinity College, Dublin.’
‘It is from my sister,’ said Kearney, as he took the letter impatiently
from his hand; ‘and I can only tell you, if she had addressed me otherwise,
I’d not have opened her letter.’
‘But come now, old fellow, don’t lose temper about it. You have a right to
this designation, or you have not--’
‘I’ll spare all your eloquence by simply saying, that I do not look on
you as a Committee of Privilege, and I’m not going to plead before you.
Besides,’ added he, ‘it’s only a few minutes ago you asked me to credit you
for something you have not shown yourself to be, but that you intended and
felt that the world should see you were, one of these days.’
‘So, then, you really mean to bring your claim before the Lords?’
Kearney, if he heard, did not heed this question, but went on to read his
letter. ‘Here’s a surprise!’ cried he. ‘I was telling you, the other day,
about a certain cousin of mine we were expecting from Italy.’
‘The daughter of that swindler, the mock prince?’
‘The man’s character I’ll not stand up for, but his rank and title are
alike indisputable,’ said Kearney haughtily.
‘With all my heart. We have soared into a high atmosphere all this day, and
I hope my respiration will get used to it in time. Read away!’
It was not till after a considerable interval that Kearney had recovered
composure enough to read, and when he did so it was with a brow furrowed
with irritation:--
‘KILGOBBIN.
‘My dear Dick,--We had just sat down to tea last night, and papa was
fidgeting about the length of time his letter to Italy had remained
unacknowledged, when a sharp ring at the house-door startled us. We had
been hearing a good deal of searches for arms lately in the neighbourhood,
and we looked very blankly at each other for a moment. We neither of us
said so, but I feel sure our thoughts were on the same track, and that we
believed Captain Rock, or the head-centre, or whatever be his latest title,
had honoured us with a call. Old Mathew seemed of the same mind too, for
he appeared at the door with that venerable blunderbuss we have so often
played with, and which, if it had any evil thoughts in its head, I must
have been tried for a murder years ago, for I know it was loaded since I
was a child, but that the lock has for the same space of time not been
on speaking terms with the barrel. While, then, thus confirmed in our
suspicions of mischief by Mat’s warlike aspect, we both rose from the
table, the door opened, and a young girl rushed in, and fell--actually
threw herself into papa’s arms. It was Nina herself, who had come all the
way from Rome alone, that is, without any one she knew, and made her way to
us here, without any other guidance than her own good wits.
‘I cannot tell you how delighted we are with her. She is the loveliest
girl I ever saw, so gentle, so nicely mannered, so soft-voiced, and so
winning--I feel myself like a peasant beside her. The least thing she
says--her laugh, her slightest gesture, the way she moves about the room,
with a sort of swinging grace, which I thought affected at first, but now I
see is quite natural--is only another of her many fascinations.
‘I fancied for a while that her features were almost too beautifully
regular for expression, and that even when she smiled and showed her lovely
teeth, her eyes got no increase of brightness; but, as I talked more with
her, and learned to know her better, I saw that those eyes have meanings of
softness and depths in them of wonderful power, and, stranger than all, an
archness that shows she has plenty of humour.
‘Her English is charming, but slightly foreign; and when she is at a loss
for a word, there is just that much of difficulty in finding it which gives
a heightened expression to her beautifully calm face, and makes it lovely.
You may see how she has fascinated me, for I could go on raving about her
for hours.
‘She is very anxious to see you, and asks me over and over again, Shall you
like her? I was almost candid enough to say “too well.” I mean that you
could not help falling in love with her, my dear Dick, and she is so much
above us in style, in habit, and doubtless in ambition, that such would
be only madness. When she saw your photo she smiled, and said, “Is he not
superb?--I mean proud?” I owned you were, and then she added, “I hope he
will like me.” I am not perhaps discreet if I tell you she does not like
the portrait of your chum, Atlee. She says “he is very good-looking, very
clever, very witty, but isn’t he false?” and this she says over and over
again. I told her I believed not; that I had never seen him myself, but
that I knew that you liked him greatly, and felt to him as a brother. She
only shook her head, and said, “_Badate bene a quel che dico_. I mean,”
said she, “_I’m right,_ but he’s very nice for all that!” If I tell you
this, Dick, it is just because I cannot get it out of my head, and I will
keep saying over and over to myself--“If Joe Atlee be what she suspects,
why does she call him very nice for all that?” I said you intended to ask
him down here next vacation, and she gave the drollest little laugh in
the world--and does she not look lovely when she shows those small pearly
teeth? Heaven help you, poor Dick, when you see her! but, if I were you,
I should leave Master Joe behind me, for she smiles as she looks at his
likeness in a way that would certainly make me jealous, if I were only
Joe’s friend, and not himself.
‘We sat up in Nina’s room till nigh morning, and to-day I have scarcely
seen her, for she wants to be let sleep, after that long and tiresome
journey, and I take the opportunity to write you this very rambling
epistle; for you may feel sure I shall be less of a correspondent now than
when I was without companionship, and I counsel you to be very grateful if
you hear from me soon again.
‘Papa wants to take Duggan’s farm from him, and Lanty Moore’s meadows,
and throw them into the lawn; but I hope he won’t persist in the plan;
not alone because it is a mere extravagance, but that the county is very
unsettled just now about land-tenure, and the people are hoping all
sorts of things from Parliament, and any interference with them at
this time would be ill taken. Father Cody was here yesterday, and told
me confidentially to prevent papa--not so easy a thing as he thinks,
particularly if he should come to suspect that any intimidation was
intended--and Miss O’Shea unfortunately said something the other day that
papa cannot get out of his head, and keeps on repeating. “So, then, it’s
our turn now,” the fellows say; “the landlords have had five hundred years
of it; it’s time we should come in.” And this he says over and over with a
little laugh, and I wish to my heart Miss Betty had kept it to herself. By
the way, her nephew is to come on leave, and pass two months with her; and
she says she hopes you will be here at the same time, to keep him company;
but I have a notion that another playfellow may prove a dangerous rival to
the Hungarian hussar; perhaps, however, you would hand over Joe Atlee to
him.
‘Be sure you bring us some new books, and some music, when you come, or
send them, if you don’t come soon. I am terrified lest Nina should think
the place dreary, and I don’t know how she is to live here if she does not
take to the vulgar drudgeries that fill my own life. When she abruptly
asked me, “What do you do here?” I was sorely puzzled to know what to
answer, and then she added quickly: “For my own part, it’s no great matter,
for I can always dream. I’m a great dreamer!” Is it not lucky for her,
Dick? She’ll have ample time for it here.
‘I suppose I never wrote so long a letter as this in my life; indeed I
never had a subject that had such a fascination for myself. Do you know,
Dick, that though I promised to let her sleep on till nigh dinner-time, I
find myself every now and then creeping up gently to her door, and only
bethink me of my pledge when my hand is on the lock; and sometimes I even
doubt if she is here at all, and I am half crazy at fearing it may be all a
dream.
‘One word for yourself, and I have done. Why have you not told us of the
examination? It was to have been on the 10th, and we are now at the 18th.
Have you got--whatever it was? the prize, or the medal, or--the reward, in
short, we were so anxiously hoping for? It would be such cheery tidings
for poor papa, who is very low and depressed of late, and I see him always
reading with such attention any notice of the college he can find in the
newspaper. My dear, dear brother, how you would work hard if you only knew
what a prize success in life might give you. Little as I have seen of her,
I could guess that she will never bestow a thought on an undistinguished
man. Come down for one day, and tell me if ever, in all your ambition, you
had such a goal before you as this?
‘The hoggets I sent in to Tullamore fair were not sold; but I believe Miss
Betty’s steward will take them; and, if so, I will send you ten pounds next
week. I never knew the market so dull, and the English dealers now are only
eager about horses, and I’m sure I couldn’t part with any if I had them.
With all my love, I am your ever affectionate sister,
‘KATE KEARNEY.’
‘I have just stepped into Nina’s room and stolen the photo I send you. I
suppose the dress must have been for some fancy ball; but she is a hundred
million times more beautiful. I don’t know if I shall have the courage to
confess my theft to her.’
‘Is that your sister, Dick?’ said Joe Atlee, as young Kearney withdrew the
carte from the letter, and placed it face downwards on the breakfast-table.
‘No,’ replied he bluntly, and continued to read on; while the other, in the
spirit of that freedom that prevailed between them, stretched out his hand
and took up the portrait.
‘Who is this?’ cried he, after some seconds. ‘She’s an actress. That’s
something like what the girl wears in _Don Cæsar de Bazan_. To be sure, she
is Maritana. She’s stunningly beautiful. Do you mean to tell me, Dick, that
there’s a girl like that on your provincial boards?’
‘I never said so, any more than I gave you leave to examine the contents of
my letters,’ said the other haughtily.
‘Egad, I’d have smashed the seal any day to have caught a glimpse of such
a face as that. I’ll wager her eyes are blue grey. Will you have a bet on
it?’
‘When you have done with your raptures, I’ll thank you to hand the likeness
to me.’
‘But who is she? what is she? where is she? Is she the Greek?’
‘When a fellow can help himself so coolly to his information as you do, I
scarcely think he deserves much aid from others; but, I may tell you, she
is not Maritana, nor a provincial actress, nor any actress at all, but a
young lady of good blood and birth, and my own first cousin.’
‘On my oath, it’s the best thing I ever knew of you.’
Kearney laughed out at this moment at something in the letter, and did not
hear the other’s remark.
‘It seems, Master Joe, that the young lady did not reciprocate the
rapturous delight you feel, at sight of _your_ picture. My sister
says--I’ll read you her very words--“she does not like the portrait of your
friend Atlee; he may be clever and amusing, she says, but he is undeniably
false.” Mind that--undeniably false.’
‘That’s all the fault of the artist. The stupid dog would place me in so
strong a light that I kept blinking.’
‘No, no. She reads you like a book,’ said the other.
‘I wish to Heaven she would, if she would hold me like one.’
‘And the nice way she qualifies your cleverness, by calling you amusing.’
‘She could certainly spare that reproach to her cousin Dick,’ said he,
laughing; ‘but no more of this sparring. When do you mean to take me down
to the country with you? The term will be up on Tuesday.’
‘That will demand a little consideration now. In the fall of the year,
perhaps. When the sun is less powerful the light will be more favourable to
your features.’
‘My poor Dick, I cram you with good advice every day; but one counsel I
never cease repeating, “Never try to be witty.” A dull fellow only cuts his
finger with a joke; he never catches it by the handle. Hand me over that
letter of your sister’s; I like the way she writes. All that about the pigs
and the poultry is as good as the _Farmer’s Chronicle_.’
The other made no other reply than by coolly folding up the letter and
placing it in his pocket; and then, after a pause, he said--
‘I shall tell Miss Kearney the favourable impression her epistolary powers
have produced on my very clever and accomplished chum, Mr. Atlee.’
‘Do so; and say, if she’d take me for a correspondent instead of you, she’d
be “exchanging with a difference.” On my oath,’ said he seriously, ‘I
believe a most finished education might be effected in letter-writing. I’d
engage to take a clever girl through a whole course of Latin and Greek,
and a fair share of mathematics and logic, in a series of letters, and her
replies would be the fairest test of her acquirement.’
‘Shall I propose this to my sister?’
‘Do so, or to your cousin. I suspect Maritana would be an apter pupil.’
‘The bell has stopped. We shall be late in the hall,’ said Kearney,
throwing on his gown hurriedly and hastening away; while Atlee, taking some
proof-sheets from the chimney-piece, proceeded to correct them, a slight
flicker of a smile still lingering over his dark but handsome face.
Though such little jarring passages as those we have recorded were nothing
uncommon between these two young men, they were very good friends on the
whole, the very dissimilarity that provoked their squabbles saving them
from any more serious rivalry. In reality, no two people could be less
alike: Kearney being a slow, plodding, self-satisfied, dull man, of
very ordinary faculties; while the other was an indolent, discursive,
sharp-witted fellow, mastering whatever he addressed himself to with ease,
but so enamoured of novelty that he rarely went beyond a smattering of
anything. He carried away college honours apparently at will, and might,
many thought, have won a fellowship with little effort; but his passion
was for change. Whatever bore upon the rogueries of letters, the frauds of
literature, had an irresistible charm for him; and he once declared that he
would almost rather have been Ireland than Shakespeare; and then it was his
delight to write Greek versions of a poem that might attach the mark of
plagiarism to Tennyson, or show, by a Scandinavian lyric, how the laureate
had been poaching from the Northmen. Now it was a mock pastoral in most
ecclesiastical Latin that set the whole Church in arms; now a mock despatch
of Baron Beust that actually deceived the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and
caused quite a panic at the Tuileries. He had established such relations
with foreign journals that he could at any moment command insertion for
a paper, now in the _Mémorial Diplomatique_, now in the _Golos_ of St.
Petersburg, or the _Allgemeine Zeitung_; while the comment, written also
by himself, would appear in the _Kreuz Zeitung_ or the _Times_; and the
mystification became such that the shrewdest and keenest heads were
constantly misled, to which side to incline in a controversy where all the
wires were pulled by one hand. Many a discussion on the authenticity of a
document, or the veracity of a conversation, would take place between the
two young men; Kearney not having the vaguest suspicion that the author of
the point in debate was then sitting opposite to him, sometimes seeming to
share the very doubts and difficulties that were then puzzling himself.
While Atlee knew Kearney in every fold and fibre of his nature, Kearney had
not the very vaguest conception of him with whom he sat every day at meals,
and communed through almost every hour of his life. He treated Joe, indeed,
with a sort of proud protection, thinking him a sharp, clever, idle fellow,
who would never come to anything higher than a bookseller’s hack or an
‘occasional correspondent.’ He liked his ready speech, and his fun, but he
would not consent to see in either evidences of anything beyond the amusing
qualities of a very light intelligence. On the whole, he looked down upon
him, as very properly the slow and ponderous people in life do look down
upon their more volatile brethren, and vote them triflers. Long may it be
so! There would be more sunstrokes in the world, if it were not that the
shadows of dull men made such nice cool places for the others to walk in!