DICK’S REVERIE
When Dick Kearney left his father, he walked from the house, and not
knowing or much caring in what direction he went, turned into the garden.
It was a wild, neglected sort of spot, with fruit-trees of great size, long
past bearing, and close underwood in places that barred the passage. Here
and there little patches of cultivation appeared, sometimes flowering
plants, but oftener vegetables. One long alley, with tall hedges of box,
had been preserved, and led to a little mound planted with laurels and
arbutus, and known as ‘Laurel Hill’; here a little rustic summer-house had
once stood, and still, though now in ruins, showed where, in former days,
people came to taste the fresh breeze above the tree-tops, and enjoy the
wide range of a view that stretched to the Slieve-Bloom Mountains, nearly
thirty miles away.
Young Kearney reached this spot, and sat down to gaze upon a scene every
detail of which was well known to him, but of which he was utterly
unconscious as he looked. ‘I am turned out to starve,’ cried he aloud, as
though there was a sense of relief in thus proclaiming his sorrow to the
winds. ‘I am told to go and work upon the roads, to live by my daily
labour. Treated like a gentleman until I am bound to that condition by
every tie of feeling and kindred, and then bade to know myself as an
outcast. I have not even Joe Atlee’s resource--I have not imbibed the
instincts of the lower orders, so as to be able to give them back to them
in fiction or in song. I cannot either idealise rebellion or make treason
tuneful.
‘It is not yet a week since that same Atlee envied me my station as the son
and heir to this place, and owned to me that there was that in the sense of
name and lineage that more than balanced personal success, and here I am
now, a beggar! I can enlist, however, blessings on the noble career that
ignores character and defies capacity. I don’t know that I’ll bring much
loyalty to Her Majesty’s cause, but I’ll lend her the aid of as broad
shoulders and tough sinews as my neighbours.’ And here his voice grew
louder and harsher, and with a ring of defiance in it. ‘And no cutting off
the entail, my Lord Kilgobbin! no escape from that cruel necessity of
an heir! I may carry my musket in the ranks, but I’ll not surrender my
birthright!’
The thought that he had at length determined on the path he should follow
aroused his courage and made his heart lighter; and then there was that
in the manner he was vindicating his station and his claim that seemed to
savour of heroism. He began to fancy his comrades regarding him with a
certain deference, and treating him with a respect that recognised his
condition. ‘I know the shame my father will feel when he sees to what he
has driven me. What an offence to his love of rank and station to behold
his son in the coarse uniform of a private! An only son and heir, too! I
can picture to myself his shock as he reads the letter in which I shall
say good-bye, and then turn to tell my sister that her brother is a common
soldier, and in this way lost to her for ever!
‘And what is it all about? What terrible things have I done? What
entanglements have I contracted? Where have I forged? Whose name have I
stolen? whose daughter seduced? What is laid to my charge, beyond that I
have lived like a gentleman, and striven to eat and drink and dress like
one? And I’ll wager my life that for one who will blame him, there will
be ten--no, not ten, fifty--to condemn me. I had a kind, trustful,
affectionate father, restricting himself in scores of ways to give me my
education among the highest class of my contemporaries. I was largely
supplied with means, indulged in every way, and if I turned my steps
towards home, welcomed with love and affection.’
‘And fearfully spoiled by all the petting he met with,’ said a soft voice
leaning over his shoulder, while a pair of very liquid grey eyes gazed into
his own.
‘What, Nina!--Mademoiselle Nina, I mean,’ said he, ‘have you been long
there?’
‘Long enough to hear you make a very pitiful lamentation over a condition
that I, in my ignorance, used to believe was only a little short of
Paradise.’
‘You fancied that, did you?’
‘Yes, I did so fancy it.’
‘Might I be bold enough to ask from what circumstance, though? I entreat
you to tell me, what belongings of mine, what resources of luxury or
pleasure, what incident of my daily life, suggested this impression of
yours?’
‘Perhaps, as a matter of strict reasoning, I have little to show for my
conviction, but if you ask me why I thought as I did, it was simply from
contrasting your condition with my own, and seeing that in everything where
my lot has gloom and darkness, if not worse, yours, my ungrateful cousin,
was all sunshine.’
‘Let us see a little of this sunshine, Cousin Nina. Sit down here beside
me, and show me, I pray, some of those bright tints that I am longing to
gaze on.’
‘There’s not room for both of us on that bench.’
‘Ample room; we shall sit the closer.’
‘No, Cousin Dick; give me your arm and we’ll take a stroll together.’
‘Which way shall it be?’
‘You shall choose, cousin.’
‘If I have the choice, then, I’ll carry you off, Nina, for I’m thinking of
bidding good-bye to the old house and all within it.’
‘I don’t think I’ll consent that far,’ said she, smiling. ‘I have had my
experience of what it is to be without a home, or something very nearly
that. I’ll not willingly recall the sensation. But what has put such gloomy
thoughts in your head? What, or rather who is driving you to this?’
‘My father, Nina, my father!’
‘This is past my comprehending.’
‘I’ll make it very intelligible. My father, by way of curbing my
extravagance, tells me I must give up all pretension to the life of a
gentleman, and go into an office as a clerk. I refuse. He insists, and
tells me, moreover, a number of little pleasant traits of my unfitness to
do anything, so that I interrupt him by hinting that I might possibly break
stones on the highway. He seizes the project with avidity, and offers to
supply me with a hammer for my work. All fact, on my honour! I am neither
adding to nor concealing. I am relating what occurred little more than an
hour ago, and I have forgotten nothing of the interview. He, as I said,
offers to give me a stone-hammer. And now I ask you, is it for me to accept
this generous offer, or would it be better to wander over that bog yonder,
and take my chance of a deep pool, or the bleak world where immersion and
death are just as sure, though a little slower in coming?’
‘Have you told Kate of this?’
‘No, I have not seen her. I don’t know, if I had seen her, that I should
have told her. Kate has so grown to believe all my father’s caprices to be
absolute wisdom, that even his sudden gusts of passion seem to her like
flashes of a bright intelligence, too quick and too brilliant for mere
reason. She could give me no comfort nor counsel either.’
‘I am not of your mind,’ said she slowly. ‘She has the great gift of what
people so mistakingly call _common_ sense.’
‘And she’d recommend me, perhaps, not to quarrel with my father, and to go
and break the stones.’
‘Were you ever in love, Cousin Dick?’ asked she, in a tone every accent of
which betokened earnestness and even gravity.
‘Perhaps I might say never. I have spooned or flirted or whatever the name
of it might be, but I was never seriously attached to one girl, and unable
to think of anything but her. But what has your question to do with this?’
‘Everything. If you really loved a girl--that is, if she filled every
corner of your heart, if she was first in every plan and project of your
life, not alone her wishes and her likings, but her very words and the
sound of her voice--if you saw her in everything that was beautiful, and
heard her in every tone that delighted you--if to be moving in the air
she breathed was ecstasy, and that heaven itself without her was
cheerless--if--’
‘Oh, don’t go on, Nina. None of these ecstasies could ever be mine. I have
no nature to be moved or moulded in this fashion. I might be very fond of a
girl, but she’d never drive me mad if she left me for another.’
‘I hope she may, then, if it be with such false money you would buy her,’
said she fiercely. ‘Do you know,’ added she, after a pause, ‘I was almost
on the verge of saying, go and break the stones; the _métier_ is not much
beneath you, after all!’
‘This is scarcely civil, mademoiselle; see what my candour has brought upon
me!’
‘Be as candid as you like upon the faults of your nature. Tell
every wickedness that you have done or dreamed of, but don’t own to
cold-heartedness. For _that_ there is no sympathy!’
‘Let us go back a bit, then,’ said he, ‘and let us suppose that I did love
in the same fervent and insane manner you spoke of, what and how would it
help me here?’
‘Of course it would. Of all the ingenuity that plotters talk of, of all the
imagination that poets dream, there is nothing to compare with love. To
gain a plodding subsistence a man will do much. To win the girl he loves,
to make her his own, he will do everything: he will strive, and strain, and
even starve to win her. Poverty will have nothing mean if confronted for
her, hardship have no suffering if endured for her sake. With her before
him, all the world shows but one goal; without her, life is a mere dreary
task, and himself a hired labourer.’
‘I confess, after all this, that I don’t see how breaking stones would be
more palatable to me because some pretty girl that I was fond of saw me
hammering away at my limestone!’
‘If you could have loved as I would wish you to love, your career had never
fallen to this. The heart that loved would have stimulated the head that
thought. Don’t fancy that people are only better because they are in love,
but they are greater, bolder, brighter, more daring in danger, and more
ready in every emergency. So wonder-working is the real passion that even
in the base mockery of Love men have risen to genius. Look what it made
Petrarch, and I might say Byron too, though he never loved worthy of the
name.’
‘And how came you to know all this, cousin mine? I’m really curious to know
that.’
‘I was reared in Italy, Cousin Dick, and I have made a deep study of nature
through French novels.’
Now there was a laughing devilry in her eye as she said this that terribly
puzzled the young fellow, for just at the very moment her enthusiasm had
begun to stir his breast, her merry mockery wafted it away as with a
storm-wind.
‘I wish I knew if you were serious,’ said he gravely.
‘Just as serious as you were when you spoke of being ruined.’
‘I was so, I pledge my honour. The conversation I reported to you really
took place; and when you joined me, I was gravely deliberating with myself
whether I should take a header into a deep pool or enlist as a soldier.’
‘Fie, fie! how ignoble all that is. You don’t know the hundreds of
thousands of things one can do in life. Do you speak French or Italian?’
‘I can read them, but not freely; but how are they to help me?’
‘You shall see: first of all, let me be your tutor. We shall take two
hours, three if you like, every morning. Are you free now from all your
college studies?’
‘I can be after Wednesday next. I ought to go up for my term examination.’
‘Well, do so; but mind, don’t bring down Mr. Atlee with you.’
‘My chum is no favourite of yours?’
‘That’s as it may be,’ said she haughtily. ‘I have only said let us not
have the embarrassment, or, if you like it, the pleasure of his company.
I’ll give you a list of books to bring down, and my life be on it, but _my_
course of study will surpass what you have been doing at Trinity. Is it
agreed?’
‘Give me till to-morrow to think of it, Nina.’
‘That does not sound like a very warm acceptance; but be it so: till
to-morrow.’
‘Here are some of Kate’s dogs,’ cried he angrily. ‘Down, Fan, down! I say.
I’ll leave you now before she joins us. Mind, not a word of what I told
you.’
And, without another word, he sprang over a low fence, and speedily
disappeared in the copse beyond it.
‘Wasn’t that Dick I saw making his escape?’ cried Kate, as she came up.
‘Yes, we were taking a walk together, and he left me very abruptly.’
‘I wish I had not spoiled a _tête-à-tête_,’ said Kate merrily.
‘It is no great mischief: we can always renew it.’
‘Dear Nina,’ said the other caressingly, as she drew her arm around
her--‘dear, dear Nina, do not, do not, I beseech you.’
‘Don’t what, child?--you must not speak in riddles.’
‘Don’t make that poor boy in love with you. You yourself told me you could
save him from it if you liked.’
‘And so I shall, Kate, if you don’t dictate or order me. Leave me quite to
myself, and I shall be most merciful.’