A DRIVE AT SUNRISE
The little basket-carriage in which Nina made her excursions, and which
courtesy called a phaeton, would scarcely have been taken as a model at
Long Acre. A massive old wicker-cradle constituted the body, which, from a
slight inequality in the wheels, had got an uncomfortable ‘lurch to port,’
while the rumble was supplied by a narrow shelf, on which her foot-page
sat _dos à dos_ to herself--a position not rendered more dignified by his
invariable habit of playing pitch-and-toss with himself, as a means of
distraction in travel.
Except Bob, the sturdy little pony in the shafts, nothing could be less
schooled or disciplined than Larry himself. At sight of a party at marbles
or hopscotch, he was sure to desert his post, trusting to short cuts and
speed to catch up his mistress later on.
As for Bob, a tuft of clover or fresh grass on the roadside were
temptations to the full as great to him, and no amount of whipping could
induce him to continue his road leaving these dainties untasted. As in Mr.
Gill’s time, he had carried that important personage, he had contracted the
habit of stopping at every cabin by the way, giving to each halt the amount
of time he believed the colloquy should have occupied, and then, without
any admonition, resuming his journey. In fact, as an index to the
refractory tenants on the estate, his mode of progression, with its
interruptions, might have been employed, and the sturdy fashion in which
he would ‘draw up’ at certain doors might be taken as the forerunner of an
ejectment.
The blessed change by which the county saw the beast now driven by a
beautiful young lady, instead of bestrode by an inimical bailiff, added to
a popularity which Ireland in her poorest and darkest hour always accords
to beauty; and they, indeed, who trace points of resemblance between
two distant peoples, have not failed to remark that the Irish, like the
Italians, invariably refer all female loveliness to that type of surpassing
excellence, the Madonna.
Nina had too much of the South in her blood not to like the heartfelt,
outspoken admiration which greeted her as she went; and the ‘God bless
you--but you are a lovely crayture!’ delighted, while it amused her in the
way the qualification was expressed.
It was soon after sunrise on this Friday morning that she drove down the
approach, and made her way across the bog towards Cruhan. Though pretending
to her uncle to be only eager to finish her sketch of Croghan Castle, her
journey was really prompted by very different considerations. By Dick’s
telegram she learned that Walpole was to arrive that day at Kilgobbin,
and as his stay could not be prolonged beyond the evening, she secretly
determined she would absent herself so much as she could from home--only
returning to a late dinner--and thus show her distinguished friend how
cheaply she held the occasion of his visit, and what value she attached to
the pleasure of seeing him at the castle.
She knew Walpole thoroughly--she understood the working of such a nature to
perfection, and she could calculate to a nicety the mortification, and even
anger, such a man would experience at being thus slighted. ‘These men,’
thought she, ‘only feel for what is done to them before the world: it is
the insult that is passed upon them in public, the _soufflet_ that is given
in the street, that alone can wound them to the quick.’ A woman may grow
tired of their attentions, become capricious and change, she may be piqued
by jealousy, or, what is worse, by indifference; but, while she makes no
open manifestation of these, they can be borne: the really insupportable
thing is, that a woman should be able to exhibit a man as a creature that
had no possible concern or interest for her--one might come or go, or stay
on, utterly unregarded or uncared for. To have played this game during
the long hours of a long day was a burden she did not fancy to encounter,
whereas to fill the part for the short space of a dinner, and an hour or so
in the drawing-room, she looked forward to rather as an exciting amusement.
‘He has had a day to throw away,’ said she to herself, ‘and he will give it
to the Greek girl. I almost hear him as he says it. How one learns to know
these men in every nook and crevice of their natures, and how by never
relaxing a hold on the one clue of their vanity, one can trace every
emotion of their lives.’
In her old life of Rome these small jealousies, these petty passions of
spite, defiance, and wounded sensibility, filled a considerable space of
her existence. Her position in society, dependent as she was, exposed her
to small mortifications: the cold semi-contemptuous notice of women who saw
she was prettier than themselves, and the half-swaggering carelessness of
the men, who felt that a bit of flirtation with the Titian Girl was as
irresponsible a thing as might be.
‘But here,’ thought she, ‘I am the niece of a man of recognised station;
I am treated in his family with a more than ordinary deference and
respect--his very daughter would cede the place of honour to me, and
my will is never questioned. It is time to teach this pretentious fine
gentleman that our positions are not what they once were. If I were a man,
I should never cease till I had fastened a quarrel on him; and being a
woman, I could give my love to the man who would avenge me. Avenge me of
what? a mere slight, a mood of impertinent forgetfulness--nothing more--as
if anything could be more to a woman’s heart! A downright wrong can be
forgiven, an absolute injury pardoned--one is raised to self-esteem by such
an act of forgiveness; but there is no elevation in submitting patiently to
a slight. It is simply the confession that the liberty taken with you was
justifiable--was even natural.’
These were the sum of her thoughts as she went, ever recurring to the point
how Walpole would feel offended by her absence, and how such a mark of her
indifference would pique his vanity, even to insult.
Then she pictured to her mind how this fine gentleman would feel the
boredom of that dreary day. True, it would be but a day; but these men were
not tolerant of the people who made time pass heavily with them, and they
revenged their own ennui on all around them. How he would snub the old
man for the son’s pretensions, and sneer at the young man for his
disproportioned ambition; and last of all, how he would mystify poor Kate,
till she never knew whether he cared to fatten calves and turkeys, or was
simply drawing her on to little details, which he was to dramatise one day
in an after-dinner story.
She thought of the closed pianoforte, and her music on the top--the songs
he loved best; she had actually left Mendelssohn there to be seen--a very
bait to awaken his passion. She thought she actually saw the fretful
impatience with which he threw the music aside and walked to the window to
hide his anger.
‘This excursion of Mademoiselle Nina was then a sudden thought, you tell
me; only planned last night? And is the country considered safe enough for
a young lady to go off in this fashion. Is it secure--is it decent? I know
he will ask, “Is it decent?” Kate will not feel--she will not see the
impertinence with which he will assure her that she herself may be
privileged to do these things; that her “Irishry” was itself a safeguard,
but Dick will notice the sneer. Oh, if he would but resent it! How little
hope there is of that. These young Irishmen get so overlaid by the English
in early life, they never resist their dominance: they accept everything in
a sort of natural submission. I wonder does the rebel sentiment make them
any bolder?’ And then she bethought her of some of those national songs Mr.
Daniel had been teaching her, and which seemed to have such an overwhelming
influence over his passionate nature. She had even seen the tears in his
eyes, and twice he could not speak to her with emotion. What a triumph it
would have been to have made the high-bred Mr. Walpole feel in this wise.
Possibly at the moment, the vulgar Fenian seemed the finer fellow. Scarcely
had the thought struck her, than there, about fifty yards in advance, and
walking at a tremendous pace, was the very man himself.
‘Is not that Mr. Daniel, Larry?’ asked she quickly.
But Larry had already struck off on a short cut across the bog, and was
miles away.
Yes, it could be none other than Mr. Daniel. The coat thrown back, the
loose-stepping stride, and the occasional flourish of the stick as he went,
all proclaimed the man. The noise of the wheels on the hard road made him
turn his head; and now, seeing who it was, he stood uncovered till she
drove up beside him.
‘Who would have thought to see you here at this hour?’ said he, saluting
her with deep respect.
‘No one is more surprised at it than myself,’ said she, laughing; ‘but I
have a partly-done sketch of an old castle, and I thought in this fine
autumn weather I should like to throw in the colour. And besides, there are
now and then with me unsocial moments when I fancy I like to be alone. Do
you know what these are?’
‘Do I know?--too well.’
‘These motives then, not to think of others, led me to plan this excursion;
and now will you be as candid, and say what is _your_ project?’
‘I am bound for a little village called Cruhan: a very poor, unenticing
spot; but I want to see the people there, and hear what they say of these
rumours of new laws about the land.’
‘And can _they_ tell you anything that would be likely to interest _you_?’
‘Yes, their very mistakes would convey their hopes; and hopes have come to
mean a great deal in Ireland.’
‘Our roads are then the same. I am on my way to Croghan Castle.’
‘Croghan is but a mile from my village of Cruhan,’ said he.
‘I am aware of that, and it was in your village of Cruhan, as you call it,
I meant to stable my pony till I had finished my sketch; but my gentle
page, Larry, I see, has deserted me; I don’t know if I shall find him
again.’
‘Will you let me be your groom? I shall be at the village almost as soon as
yourself, and I’ll look after your pony.’
‘Do you think you could manage to seat yourself on that shelf at the back?’
‘It is a great temptation you offer me, if I were not ashamed to be a
burden.’
‘Not to me, certainly; and as for the pony, I scarcely think he’ll mind
it.’
‘At all events, I shall walk the hills.’
‘I believe there are none. If I remember aright, it is all through a level
bog.’
‘You were at tea last night when a certain telegram came?’
‘To be sure I was. I was there, too, when one came for you, and saw you
leave the room immediately after.’
‘In evident confusion?’ added he, smiling.
‘Yes, I should say, in evident confusion. At least, you looked like one who
had got some very unexpected tidings.’
‘So it was. There is the message.’ And he drew from his pocket a slip of
paper, with the words,’ Walpole is coming for a day. Take care to be out of
the way till he is gone.’
‘Which means that he is no friend of yours.’
‘He is neither friend nor enemy. I never saw him; but he is the private
secretary, and, I believe, the nephew of the Viceroy, and would find it
very strange company to be domiciled with a rebel.’
‘And you are a rebel?’
‘At your service, Mademoiselle Kostalergi.’
‘And a Fenian, and head-centre?’
‘A Fenian and a head-centre.’
‘And probably ought to be in prison?’
‘I have been already, and as far as the sentence of English law goes,
should be still there.’
‘How delighted I am to know that. I mean, what a thrilling sensation it is
to be driving along with a man so dangerous, that the whole country would
be up and in pursuit of him at a mere word.’
‘That is true. I believe I should be worth a few hundred pounds to any one
who would capture me. I suspect it is the only way I could turn to valuable
account.’
‘What if I were to drive you into Moate and give you up?’
‘You might. I’ll not run away.’
‘I should go straight to the Podestà, or whatever he is, and say, “Here is
the notorious Daniel Donogan, the rebel you are all afraid of.’”
‘How came you by my name?’ asked he curtly.
‘By accident. I overheard Dick telling it to his sister. It dropped from
him unawares, and I was on the terrace and caught the words.’
‘I am in your hands completely,’ said he, in the same calm voice; ‘but I
repeat my words: I’ll not run away.’
‘That is, because you trust to my honour.’
‘It is exactly so--because I trust to your honour.’
‘But how if I were to have strong convictions in opposition to all you were
doing--how if I were to believe that all you intended was a gross wrong and
a fearful cruelty?’
‘Still you would not betray me. You would say, “This man is an
enthusiast--he imagines scores of impossible things--but, at least, he is
not a self-seeker--a fool possibly, but not a knave. It would be hard to
hang him.”’
‘So it would. I have just thought _that_.’
‘And then you might reason thus: “How will it serve the other cause to send
one poor wretch to the scaffold, where there are so many just as deserving
of it?”’
‘And are there many?’
‘I should say close on two millions at home here, and some hundred thousand
in America.’
‘And if you be as strong as you say, what craven creatures you must be not
to assert your own convictions.’
‘So we are--I’ll not deny it--craven creatures; but remember this,
mademoiselle, we are not all like-minded. Some of us would be satisfied
with small concessions, some ask for more, some demand all; and as the
Government higgles with some, and hangs the others, they mystify us all,
and end by confounding us.’
‘That is to say, you are terrified.’
‘Well, if you like that word better, I’ll not quarrel about it.’
‘I wonder how men as irresolute ever turn to rebellion. When our people set
out for Crete, they went in another spirit to meet the enemy.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that. The boldest fellows in that exploit were the
liberated felons: they fought with desperation, for they had left the
hangman behind.’
‘How dare you defame a great people!’ cried she angrily.
‘I was with them, mademoiselle. I saw them and fought amongst them; and to
prove it, I will speak modern Greek with you, if you like it.’
‘Oh! do,’ said she. ‘Let me hear those noble sounds again, though I shall
be sadly at a loss to answer you. I have been years and years away from
Athens.’
‘I know that. I know your story from one who loved to talk of you, all
unworthy as he was of such a theme.’
‘And who was this?’
‘Atlee--Joe Atlee, whom you saw here some months ago.’
‘I remember him,’ said she thoughtfully.
‘He was here, if I mistake not, with that other friend of yours you have so
strangely escaped from to-day.’
‘Mr. Walpole?’
‘Yes, Mr. Walpole; to meet whom would not have involved _you_, at least, in
any contrariety.’
‘Is this a question, sir? Am I to suppose your curiosity asks an answer
here?’
‘I am not so bold; but I own my suspicions have mastered my discretion,
and, seeing you here this morning, I did think you did not care to meet
him.’
‘Well, sir, you were right. I am not sure that _my_ reasons for avoiding
him were exactly as strong as _yours_, but they sufficed for _me_.’
There was something so like reproof in the way these words were uttered
that Donogan had not courage to speak for some time after. At last he said,
‘In one thing, your Greeks have an immense advantage over us here. In your
popular songs you could employ your own language, and deal with your own
wrongs in the accents that became them. _We_ had to take the tongue of the
conqueror, which was as little suited to our traditions as to our feelings,
and travestied both. Only fancy the Greek vaunting his triumphs or
bewailing his defeats in Turkish!’
‘What do you know of Mr. Walpole?’ asked she abruptly.
‘Very little beyond the fact that he is an agent of the Government, who
believes that he understands the Irish people.’
‘Which you are disposed to doubt?’
‘I only know that I am an Irishman, and I do not understand them. An organ,
however, is not less an organ that it has many “stops.”’
‘I am not sure Cecil Walpole does not read you aright. He thinks that you
have a love of intrigue and plot, but without the conspirator element that
Southern people possess; and that your native courage grows impatient at
the delays of mere knavery, and always betrays you.’
‘That distinction was never _his_--that was your own.’
‘So it was; but he adopted it when he heard it.’
‘That is the way the rising politician is educated,’ cried Donogan. ‘It is
out of these petty thefts he makes all his capital, and the poor people
never suspect how small a creature can be their millionaire.’
‘Is not that our village yonder, where I see the smoke?’
‘Yes; and there on the stile sits your little groom awaiting you. I shall
get down here.’
‘Stay where you are, sir. It is by your blunder, not by your presence, that
you might compromise me.’ And this time her voice caught a tone of sharp
severity that suppressed reply.