THE BREAKFAST-ROOM
‘Strange house this,’ said Joseph Atlee, as Nina entered the room the next
morning where he sat alone at breakfast. ‘Lord Kilgobbin and Dick were here
a moment ago, and disappeared suddenly; Miss Kearney for an instant, and
also left as abruptly; and now you have come, I most earnestly hope not to
fly away in the same fashion.’
‘No; I mean to eat my breakfast, and so far to keep you company.’
‘I thank the tea-urn for my good fortune,’ said he solemnly.
‘A _tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Atlee is a piece of good-luck,’ said Nina, as she
sat down. ‘Has anything occurred to call our hosts away?’
‘In a house like this,’ said he jocularly, ‘where people are marrying or
giving in marriage at every turn, what may not happen? It may be a question
of the settlement, or the bridecake, or white satin “slip”--if that’s the
name for it--the orange-flowers, or the choice of the best man--who knows?’
‘You seem to know the whole bead-roll of wedding incidents.’
‘It is a dull _répertoire_ after all, for whether the piece be melodrama,
farce, genteel comedy, or harrowing tragedy, it has to be played by the
same actors.’
‘What would you have--marriages cannot be all alike. There must be many
marriages for things besides love: for ambition, for interest, for money,
for convenience.’
‘Convenience is exactly the phrase I wanted and could not catch.’
‘It is not the word _I_ wanted, nor do I think we mean the same thing by
it.’
‘What I mean is this,’ said Atlee, with a firm voice, ‘that when a young
girl has decided in her own mind that she has had enough of that social
bondage of the daughter, and cannot marry the man she would like, she will
marry the man that she can.’
‘And like him too,’ added Nina, with a strange, dubious sort of smile.
‘Yes, and like him too; for there is a curious feature in the woman’s
nature that, without any falsehood or disloyalty, permits her to like
different people in different ways, so that the quiet, gentle, almost
impassive woman might, if differently mated, have been a being of fervid
temper, headstrong and passionate. If it were not for this species of
accommodation, marriage would be a worse thing than it is.’
‘I never suspected you of having made a study of the subject. Since when
have you devoted your attention to the theme?’
‘I could answer in the words of Wilkes--since I have had the honour to
know your Royal Highness; but perhaps you might be displeased with the
flippancy.’
‘I should think that very probable,’ said she gravely.
‘Don’t look so serious. Remember that I did not commit myself after all.’
‘I thought it was possible to discuss this problem without a personality.’
‘Don’t you know that, let one deal in abstractions as long as he will, he
is only skirmishing around special instances. It is out of what I glean
from individuals I make up my generalities.’
‘Am I to understand by this that I have supplied you with the material of
one of these reflections?’
‘You have given me the subject of many. If I were to tell you how often I
have thought of you, I could not answer for the words in which I might tell
it.’
‘Do not tell it, then.’
‘I know--I am aware--I have heard since I came here that there is a special
reason why you could not listen to me.’
‘And being so, why do you propose that I should hear you?’
‘I will tell you,’ said he, with an earnestness that almost startled
her: ‘I will tell you, because there are things on which a doubt or an
equivocation are actually maddening; and I will not, I cannot, believe that
you have accepted Cecil Walpole.’
‘Will you please to say why it should seem so incredible?’
‘Because I have seen you not merely in admiration, and that admiration
would be better conveyed by a stronger word; and because I have measured
you with others infinitely beneath you in every way, and who are yet
soaring into very high regions indeed; because I have learned enough of the
world to know that alongside of--often above--the influence that men are
wielding in life by their genius and their capacity, there is another power
exercised by women of marvellous beauty, of infinite attractions, and
exquisite grace, which sways and moulds the fate of mankind far more than
Cabinets and Councils. There are not above half a dozen of these in Europe,
and you might be one added to the number.’
‘Even admitting all this--and I don’t see that I should go so far--it is no
answer to my question.’
‘Must I then say there can be no--not companionship, that’s not the word;
no, I must take the French expression, and call it _solidarité_--there can
be no _solidarité_ of interests, of objects, of passions, or of hopes,
between people so widely dissevered as you and Walpole. I am so convinced
of this, that still I can dare to declare I cannot believe you could marry
him.’
‘And if I were to tell you it were true?’
‘I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the mere mention of
to-morrow would offend you. It is no disparagement of Walpole to say he is
unworthy of you, for who would be worthy? but the presumption of his daring
is enough to excite indignation--at least, I feel it such. How he could
dare to link his supreme littleness with consummate perfection; to freight
the miserable barque of his fortunes with so precious a cargo; to encounter
the feeling--and there is no escape for it--“I must drag that woman down,
not alone into obscurity, but into all the sordid meanness of a small
condition, that never can emerge into anything better.” He cannot disguise
from himself that it is not within his reach to attain power, or place,
or high consideration. Such men make no name in life; they leave no
mark on their time. They are heaven-born subordinates, and never refute
their destiny. Does a woman with ambition--does a woman conscious of
her own great merits--condescend to ally herself, not alone with small
fortune--that might be borne--but with the smaller associations that make
up these men’s lives? with the peddling efforts to mount even one rung
higher of that crazy little ladder of their ambition--to be a clerk of
another grade--a creature of some fifty pounds more--a being in an upper
office?’
‘And the prince--for he ought to be at least a prince who should make me
the offer of his name--whence is he to come, Mr. Atlee?’
‘There are men who are not born to princely station, who by their genius
and their determination are just as sure to become famous, and who need but
the glorious prize of such a woman’s love--No, no, don’t treat what I say
as rant and rodomontade; these are words of sober sense and seriousness.’
‘Indeed!’ said she, with a faint sigh. ‘So that it really amounts to
this--that I shall actually have missed my whole fortune in life--thrown
myself away--all because I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.’
Nothing less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self-possession could
have sustained this speech unabashed.
‘You have only said what my heart has told me many a day since.’
‘But you seem to forget,’ added she, with a very faint curl of scorn on
her lip, ‘that I had no more to guide me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s
affection than that of his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily
believe in the latter than the former.’
‘Believe in both,’ cried he warmly. ‘If I have conquered difficulties in
life, if I have achieved some successes--now for a passing triumph, now
for a moment of gratified vanity, now for a mere caprice--try me by a mere
hope--I only plead for a hope--try me by hope of being one day worthy of
calling that hand my own.’
As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand; but she withdrew it coldly and
slowly, saying, ‘I have no fancy to make myself the prize of any success in
life, political or literary; nor can I believe that the man who reasons
in this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,’ added she, more
gravely, ‘your memory may not be as good as mine, and you will pardon me
if I remind you that, almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of
friendship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. We agreed
that each of us claimed for their native land the mythical Bohemia, and we
agreed, besides, that the natives of that country are admirable colleagues,
but not good partners.’
‘You are not quite fair in this,’ he began; but before he could say more
Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and cried out, ‘It’s all true. The people
are in wild excitement, and all declare that they will not let him be
taken. Oh! I forgot,’ added he. ‘You were not here when my father and I
were called away by the despatch from the police-station, to say that
Donogan has been seen at Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog.
Of course, this is mere rumour; but the constabulary are determined to
capture him, and Curtis has written to inform my father that a party of
police will patrol the grounds here this evening.’
‘And if they should take him, what would happen--to him, I mean?’ asked
Nina coldly.
‘An escaped convict is usually condemned to death; but I suppose they would
not hang him,’ said Dick.
‘Hang him!’ cried Atlee; ‘nothing of the kind. Mr. Gladstone would present
him with a suit of clothes, a ten-pound note, and a first-class passage to
America. He would make a “healing measure” of him.’
‘I must say, gentlemen,’ said Nina scornfully, ‘you can discuss your
friend’s fate with a marvellous equanimity.’
‘So we do,’ rejoined Atlee. ‘He is another Bohemian.’
‘Don’t say so, sir,’ said she passionately. ‘The men who put their lives on
a venture--and that venture not a mere gain to themselves--are in nowise
the associates of those poor adventurers who are gambling for their daily
living. He is a rebel, if you like; but he believes in rebellion. How much
do you believe in, Mr. Atlee?’
‘I say, Joe, you are getting the worst of this discussion. Seriously,
however, I hope they’ll not catch poor Donogan; and my father has asked
Curtis to come over and dine here, and I trust to a good fire and some old
claret to keep him quiet for this evening, at least. We must not molest the
police; but there’s no great harm done if we mislead them.’
‘Once in the drawing-room, if Mademoiselle Kostalergi will only condescend
to aid us,’ added Atlee, ‘I think Curtis will be more than a chief
constable if he will bethink him of his duty.’
‘You are a strange set of people, you Irish,’ said Nina, as she walked
away. ‘Even such of you as don’t want to overthrow the Government are
always ready to impede its march and contribute to its difficulties.’
‘She only meant that for an impertinence,’ said Atlee, after she left
the room; ‘but she was wonderfully near the truth, though not truthfully
expressed.’