THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT
There was but one heavy heart at the dinner-table that day; but Nina’s
pride was proof against any disclosure of suffering, and though she was
tortured by anxiety and fevered with doubt, none--not even Kate--suspected
that any care weighed on her.
As for Kate herself, her happiness beamed in every line and lineament
of her handsome face. The captain--to give him the name by which he was
known--had been up that day, and partaken of an afternoon tea with his aunt
and Kate. Her spirits were excellent, and all the promise of the future was
rose-coloured and bright. The little cloud of what trouble the trial might
bring was not suffered to darken the cheerful meeting, and it was the one
only bitter in their cup.
To divert Curtis from this theme, on which, with the accustomed _mal à
propos_ of an awkward man, he wished to talk, the young men led him to the
subject of Donogan and his party.
‘I believe we’ll take him this time,’ said Curtis. ‘He must have some close
relations with some one about Moate or Kilbeggan, for it is remarked he
cannot keep away from the neighbourhood; but who are his friends, or what
they are meditating, we cannot guess.’
‘If what Mademoiselle Kostalergi said this morning be correct,’ remarked
Atlee, ‘conjecture is unnecessary. She told Dick and myself that every
Irishman is at heart a rebel.’
‘I said more or less of one, Mr. Atlee, since there are some who have not
the courage of their opinions.’
‘I hope you are gratified by the emendation,’ whispered Dick; and then
added aloud, ‘Donogan is not one of these.’
‘He’s a consummate fool,’ cried Curtis bluntly. ‘He thinks the attack of
a police-barrack or the capture of a few firelocks will revolutionise
Ireland.’
‘He forgets that there are twelve thousand police, officered by such men as
yourself, captain,’ said Nina gravely.
‘Well, there might be worse,’ rejoined Curtis doggedly, for he was not
quite sure of the sincerity of the speaker.
‘What will you be the better of taking him?’ said Kilgobbin. ‘If the whole
tree be pernicious, where’s the use of plucking one leaf off it?’
‘The captain has nothing to do with that,’ said Atlee, ‘any more than
a hound has to discuss the morality of foxhunting--his business is the
pursuit.’
‘I don’t like your simile, Mr. Atlee,’ said Nina, while she whispered some
words to the captain, and drew him in this way into a confidential talk.
‘I don’t mind him at all, Miss Nina,’ said Curtis; ‘he’s one of those
fellows on the press, and they are always saying impertinent things to keep
their talents in wind. I’ll tell you, in confidence, how wrong he is. I
have just had a meeting with the Chief Secretary, who told me that the
popish bishops are not at all pleased with the leniency of the Government;
that whatever “healing measures” Mr. Gladstone contemplates, ought to be
for the Church and the Catholics; that the Fenians or the Nationalists
are the enemies of the Holy Father; and that the time has come for the
Government to hunt them down, and give over the rule of Ireland to the
Cardinal and his party.’
‘That seems to me very reasonable, and very logical,’ said Nina.
‘Well, it is and it is not. If you want peace in the rabbit-warren, you
must banish either the rats or the rabbits; and I suppose either the
Protestants or the Papists must have it their own way here.’
‘Then you mean to capture this man?’
‘We do--we are determined on that. And, what’s more, I’d hang him if I had
the power.’
‘And why?’
‘Just because he isn’t a bad fellow! There’s no use in hanging a bad fellow
in Ireland--it frightens nobody; but if you hang a respectable man, a man
that has done generous and fine things, it produces a great effect on
society, and is a terrible example.’
‘There may be a deep wisdom in what you say.’
‘Not that they’ll mind me for all that. It’s the men like myself, Miss
Nina, who know Ireland well, who know every assize town in the country, and
what the juries will do in each, are never consulted in England. They say,
“Let Curtis catch him--that’s his business.”’
‘And how will you do it?’
‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t men enough to watch all the roads; but I’ll take
care to have my people where he’s least likely to go, that is, to the
north. He’s a cunning fellow is Dan, and he’d make for the Shannon if he
could; but now that he knows we ‘re after him, he’ll turn to Antrim or
Derry. He’ll cut across Westmeath, and make north, if he gets away from
this.’
‘That is a very acute calculation of yours; and where do you suspect he may
be now--I mean, at this moment we’re talking?’
‘He’s not three miles from where we’re sitting,’ said he, in a low whisper,
and a cautious glance round the table. ‘He’s hid in the bog outside.
There’s scores of places there a man could hide in, and never be tracked;
and there’s few fellows would like to meet Donogan single-handed. He’s as
active as a rope-dancer, and he’s as courageous as the devil.’
‘It would be a pity to hang such a fellow.’
‘There’s plenty more of the same sort--not exactly as good as him, perhaps,
for Dan was a gentleman once.’
‘And is, probably, still?’
‘It would be hard for him, with the rapscallions he has to live with, and
not five shillings in his pocket, besides.’
‘I don’t know, after all, if you’ll be happier for giving him up to the
law. He may have a mother, a sister, a wife, or a sweetheart.’
‘He may have a sweetheart, but I know he has none of the others. He said,
in the dock, that no man could quit life at less cost--that there wasn’t
one to grieve after him.’
‘Poor fellow! that was a sad confession.’
‘We’re not all to turn Fenians, Miss Nina, because we’re only children and
unmarried.’
‘You are too clever for me to dispute with,’ said she, in affected
humility; ‘but I like greatly to hear you talk of Ireland. Now, what number
of people have you here?’
‘I have my orderly, and two men to patrol the demesne; but to-morrow we’ll
draw the net tighter. We’ll call in all the party from Moate, and from
information I have got, we’re sure to track him.’
‘What confidences is Curtis making with Mademoiselle Nina?’ said Atlee,
who, though affecting to join the general conversation, had never ceased to
watch them.
‘The captain is telling me how he put down the Fenians in the rising of
‘61,’ said Nina calmly.
‘And did he? I say, Curtis, have you really suppressed rebellion in
Ireland?’
‘No; nor won’t, Mr. Joe Atlee, till we put down the rascally press--the
unprincipled penny-a-liners, that write treason to pay for their dinner.’
‘Poor fellows!’ replied Atlee. ‘Let us hope it does not interfere with
their digestion. But seriously, mademoiselle, does it not give you a great
notion of our insecurity here in Ireland when you see to what we trust, law
and order.
‘Never mind him, Curtis,’ said Kilgobbin. ‘When these fellows are not
saying sharp things, they have to be silent.’
While the conversation went briskly on, Nina contrived to glance unnoticed
at her watch, and saw that it wanted only a quarter of an hour to nine.
Nine was the hour she had named to Donogan to be in the garden, and she
already trembled at the danger to which she had exposed him. She reasoned
thus: so reckless and fearless is this man, that, if he should have come
determined to see me, and I do not go to meet him, he is quite capable of
entering the house boldly, even at the cost of being captured. The very
price he would have to pay for his rashness would be its temptation.’
A sudden cast of seriousness overcame her as she thus thought, and Kate,
perceiving it, rose at once to retire.
‘You were not ill, dearest Nina? I saw you grow pale, and I fancied for a
moment you seemed faint.’
‘No; a mere passing weakness. I shall lie down and be better presently.’
‘And then you’ll come up to aunt’s room--I call godmother aunt now--and
take tea with Gorman and us all.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that after a little rest. I’ll take half an hour or so of
quiet,’ said she, in broken utterances. ‘I suppose the gentlemen will sit
over their wine; there’s no fear of their breaking-up.’
‘Very little _fear_, indeed,’ said Kate, laughing at the word. ‘Papa made
me give out some of his rare old ‘41 wine to-day, and they’re not likely to
leave it.’
‘Bye-bye, then, for a little while,’ said Nina dreamily, for her thoughts
had gone off on another track. ‘I shall join you later on.’
Kate tripped gaily up the stairs, singing pleasantly as she went, for hers
was a happy heart and a hopeful.
Nina lingered for a moment with her hand on the banister, and then hurried
to her room.
It was a still cold night of deep winter, a very faint crescent of a new
moon was low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, slightly crisped with frost,
covered the ground. Nina opened her window and looked out. All was still
and quiet without--not a twig moved. She bent her ear to listen, thinking
that on the frozen ground a step might perhaps be heard, and it was a
relief to her anxiety when she heard nothing. The chill cold air that came
in through the window warned her to muffle herself well, and she drew the
hood of her scarlet cloak over her head. Strong-booted, and with warm
gloves, she stood for a moment at her door to listen, and finding all
quiet, she slowly descended the stairs and gained the hall. She started
affrighted as she entered, thinking there was some one seated at the table,
but she rallied in an instant, as she saw it was only the loose horseman’s
coat or cloak of the chief constable, which, lined with red, and with the
gold-laced cap beside it, made up the delusion that alarmed her.
It was not an easy task to withdraw the heavy bolts and bars that secured
the massive door, and even to turn the heavy key in the lock required an
effort; but she succeeded at length, and issued forth into the open.
‘How I hope he has not come! how I pray he has not ventured!’ said she to
herself as she walked along. ‘Leave-takings are sad things, and why incur
one so full of peril and misery too? When I wrote to him, of course I knew
nothing of his danger, and it is exactly his danger will make him come!’
She knew of others to whom such reasonings would not have applied, and a
scornful shake of the head showed that she would not think of them at such
a moment. The sound of her own footsteps on the crisp ground made her once
or twice believe she heard some one coming, and as she stopped to listen,
the strong beating of her heart could be counted. It was not fear--at least
not fear in the sense of a personal danger--it was that high tension which
great anxiety lends to the nerves, exalting vitality to a state in which a
sensation is as powerful as a material influence.
She ascended the steps of the little terraced mound of the rendezvous one
by one, overwhelmed almost to fainting by some imagined analogy with the
scaffold, which might be the fate of him she was going to meet.
He was standing under a tree, his arms crossed on his breast, as she came
up. The moment she appeared, he rushed to meet her, and throwing himself on
one knee, he seized her hand and kissed it.
‘Do you know your danger in being here?’ she asked, as she surrendered her
hand to his grasp.
‘I know it all, and this moment repays it tenfold.’
‘You cannot know the full extent of the peril; you cannot know that Captain
Curtis and his people are in the castle at this moment, that they are in
full cry after you, and that every avenue to this spot is watched and
guarded.’
‘What care I! Have I not this?’ And he covered her hand with kisses.
‘Every moment that you are here increases your danger, and if my absence
should become known, there will be a search after me. I shall never forgive
myself if my folly should lead to your being captured.’
‘If I could but feel my fate was linked with yours, I’d give my life for it
willingly.’
‘It was not to listen to such words as these I came here.’
‘Remember, dearest, they are the last confessions of one you shall never
see more. They are the last cry of a heart that will soon be still for
ever.’
‘No, no, no!’ cried she passionately. ‘There is life enough left for you to
win a worthy name. Listen to me calmly now: I have heard from Curtis within
the last hour all his plans for your capture; I know where his patrols are
stationed, and the roads they are to watch.’
‘And did you care to do this?’ said he tenderly.
‘I would do more than that to save you.’
‘Oh, do not say so!’ cried he wildly, ‘or you will give me such a desire to
live as will make a coward of me.’
‘Curtis suspects you will go northward; either he has had information, or
computes it from what you have done already.’
‘He is wrong, then. When I go hence, it shall be to the court-house at
Tullamore, where I mean to give myself up.’
‘As what?’
‘As what I am--a rebel, convicted, sentenced, and escaped, and still a
rebel.’
‘You do not, then, care for life?’
‘Do I not, for such moments of life as this!’ cried he, as, with a wild
rapture, he kissed her hand again and again.
‘And were I to ask you, you would not try to save your life?’
‘To share that life with you there is not anything I would not dare. To
live and know you were another’s is more than I can face. Tell me, Nina, is
it true you are to be the wife of this soldier? I cannot utter his name.’
‘I am to be married to Mr. Walpole.’
‘What! to that contemptuous young man you have already told me so much of.
How have they brought you down to this?’
‘There is no thought of bringing down; his rank and place are above my
own--he is by family and connection superior to us all.’
‘And what is he, or how does he aspire to you? Is the vulgar security
of competence to live on--is that enough for one like you? is the
well-balanced good-breeding of common politeness enough to fill a heart
that should be fed on passionate devotion? You may link yourself to
mediocrity, but can you humble your nature to resemble it. Do you believe
you can plod on the dreary road of life without an impulse or an ambition,
or blend your thoughts with those of a man who has neither?’
She stood still and did not utter a word.
‘There are some--I do not know if you are one of them--who have an almost
shrinking dread of poverty.’
‘I am not afraid of poverty.’
‘It has but one antidote, I know--intense love! The all-powerful sense of
living for another begets indifference to the little straits and trials of
narrow fortune, till the mind at last comes to feel how much there is to
live for beyond the indulgence of vulgar enjoyments; and if, to crown all,
a high ambition be present, there will be an ecstasy of bliss no words can
measure.’
‘Have you failed in Ireland?’ asked she suddenly.
‘Failed, so far as to know that a rebellion will only ratify the subjection
of the country to England; a reconquest would be slavery. The chronic
discontent that burns in every peasant heart will do more than the appeal
to arms. It is slow, but it is certain.’
‘And where is your part?’
‘My part is in another land; my fortune is linked with America--that is, if
I care to have a fortune.’
‘Come, come, Donogan,’ cried she, calling him inadvertently by his name,
‘men like you do not give up the battle of life so easily. It is the very
essence of their natures to resist pressure and defy defeat.’
‘So I could; so I am ready to show myself. Give me but hope. There are high
paths to be trodden in more than one region of the globe. There are great
prizes to be wrestled for, but it must be by him who would share them with
another. Tell me, Nina,’ said he suddenly, lowering his voice to a tone
of exquisite tenderness, ‘have you never, as a little child, played at
that game of what is called seeking your fortune, wandered out into some
thick wood or along a winding rivulet, to meet whatever little incident
imagination might dignify into adventure; and in the chance heroism of your
situation have you not found an intense delight? And if so in childhood,
why not see if adult years cannot renew the experience? Why not see if the
great world be not as dramatic as the small one? I should say it is still
more so. I know you have courage.’
‘And what will courage do for me?’ asked she, after a pause.
‘For you, not much; for me, everything.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘I mean this--that if that stout heart could dare the venture and trust its
fate to me--to me, poor, outlawed, and doomed--there would be a grander
heroism in a girl’s nature than ever found home in a man’s.’
‘And what should I be?’
‘My wife within an hour; my idol while I live.’
‘There are some who would give this another name than courage,’ said she
thoughtfully.
‘Let them call it what they will, Nina. Is it not to the unbounded trust of
a nature that is above all others that I, poor, unknown, ignoble as I
am, appeal when I ask, Will you be mine? One word--only one--or, better
still--’
He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and drawing her head towards his,
kissed her cheek rapturously.
With wild and fervent words, he now told her rapidly that he had come
prepared to make her the declaration, and had provided everything, in the
event of her compliance, for their flight. By an unused path through the
bog they could gain the main road to Maryborough, where a priest, well
known in the Fenian interest, would join them in marriage. The officials
of the railroad were largely imbued with the Nationalist sentiment, and
Donogan could be sure of safe crossing to Kilkenny, where the members of
the party were in great force.
In a very few words he told her how, by the mere utterance of his name, he
could secure the faithful services and the devotion of the people in every
town or village of the kingdom. ‘The English have done this for us,’ cried
he, ‘and we thank them for it. They have popularised rebellion in a way
that all our attempts could never have accomplished. How could I, for
instance, gain access to those little gatherings at fair or market, in the
yard before the chapel, or the square before the court-house--how could
I be able to explain to those groups of country-people what we mean by a
rising in Ireland? what we purpose by a revolt against England? how it is
to be carried on, or for whose benefit? what the prizes of success, what
the cost of failure? Yet the English have contrived to embody all these in
one word, and that word _my_ name!’
There was a certain artifice, there is no doubt, in the way in which this
poorly-clad and not distinguished-looking man contrived to surround himself
with attributes of power and influence; and his self-reliance imparted to
his voice as he spoke a tone of confidence that was actually dignified. And
besides this, there was personal daring--for his life was on the hazard,
and it was the very contingency of which he seemed to take the least heed.
Not less adroit, too, was the way in which he showed what a shock
and amazement her conduct would occasion in that world of her
acquaintances--that world which had hitherto regarded her as essentially a
pleasure-seeker, self-indulgent and capricious. ‘“Which of us all,” will
they say, “could have done what that girl has done? Which of us, having the
world at her feet, her destiny at her very bidding, would go off and brave
the storms of life out of the heroism of her own nature? How we all misread
her nature! how wrongfully and unfairly we judged her! In what utter
ignorance of her real character was every interpretation we made! How
scornfully has she, by one act, replied to all our misconstruction of her!
What a sarcasm on all our worldliness is her devotion!”’
He was eloquent, after a fashion, and he had, above most men, the charm of
a voice of singular sweetness and melody. It was clear as a bell, and he
could modulate its tones till, like the drip, drip of water on a rock, they
fell one by one upon the ear. Masses had often been moved by the power of
his words, and the mesmeric influence of persuasiveness was a gift to do
him good service now.
There was much in the man that she liked. She liked his rugged boldness and
determination; she liked his contempt for danger and his self-reliance;
and, essentially, she liked how totally different he was to all other men.
He had not their objects, their hopes, their fears, and their ways. To
share the destiny of such a man was to ensure a life that could not pass
unrecorded. There might be storm, and even shipwreck, but there was
notoriety--perhaps even fame!
And how mean and vulgar did all the others she had known seem by comparison
with him--how contemptible the polished insipidity of Walpole, how
artificial the neatly-turned epigrams of Atlee. How would either of these
have behaved in such a moment of danger as this man’s? Every minute he
passed there was another peril to his life, and yet he had no thought for
himself--his whole anxiety was to gain time to appeal to her. He told her
she was more to him than his ambition--she saw herself she was more to
him than life. The whirlwind rapidity of his eloquence also moved her,
and the varied arguments he addressed--now to her heroism, now to her
self-sacrifice, now to the power of her beauty, now to the contempt she
felt for the inglorious lives of commonplace people--the ignoble herd who
passed unnoticed. All these swayed her; and after a long interval, in which
she heard him without a word, she said, in a low murmur to herself, ‘I will
do it.’
Donogan clasped her to his heart as she said it, and held her some seconds
in a fast embrace. ‘At last I know what it is to love,’ cried he, with
rapture.
‘Look there!’ cried she, suddenly disengaging herself from his arm. ‘They
are in the drawing-room already. I can see them as they pass the windows. I
must go back, if it be for a moment, as I should be missed.’
‘Can I let you leave me now?’ he said, and the tears were in his eyes as he
spoke.
‘I have given you my word, and you may trust me,’ said she, as she held out
her hand.
‘I was forgetting this document: this is the lease or the agreement I told
you of.’ She took it, and hurried away.
In less than five minutes afterwards she was among the company in the
drawing-room.
‘Here have I been singing a rebel ballad, Nina,’ said Kate, ‘and not
knowing the while it was Mr. Atlee who wrote it.’
‘What, Mr. Atlee,’ cried Nina, ‘is the “Time to begin” yours?’ And then,
without waiting for an answer, she seated herself at the piano, and
striking the chords of the accompaniment with a wild and vigorous hand, she
sang--
‘If the moment is come and the hour to need us,
If we stand man to man, like kindred and kin;
If we know we have one who is ready to lead us,
What want we for more than the word to begin?’
The wild ring of defiance in which her clear, full voice gave out these
words, seemed to electrify all present, and to a second or two of perfect
silence a burst of applause followed, that even Curtis, with all his
loyalty, could not refrain from joining.
‘Thank God, you’re not a man, Miss Nina!’ cried he fervently.
‘I’m not sure she’s not more dangerous as she is,’ said Lord Kilgobbin.
‘There’s people out there in the bog, starving and half-naked, would face
the Queen’s Guards if they only heard her voice to cheer them on. Take my
word for it, rebellion would have died out long ago in Ireland if there
wasn’t the woman’s heart to warm it.’
‘If it were not too great a liberty, Mademoiselle Kostalergi,’ said Joe,’
I should tell you that you have not caught the true expression of my song.
The brilliant bravura in which you gave the last line, immensely exciting
as it was, is not correct. The whole force consists in the concentrated
power of a fixed resolve--the passage should be subdued.’
An insolent toss of the head was all Nina’s reply, and there was a
stillness in the room, as, exchanging looks with each other, the different
persons there expressed their amazement at Atlee’s daring.
‘Who’s for a rubber of whist?’ said Lord Kilgobbin, to relieve the awkward
pause. ‘Are you, Curtis? Atlee, I know, is ready.’
‘Here is all prepared,’ said Dick. ‘Captain Curtis told me before dinner
that he would not like to go to bed till he had his sergeant’s report, and
so I have ordered a broiled bone to be ready at one o’clock, and we’ll sit
up as late as he likes after.’
‘Make the stake pounds and fives,’ cried Joe, ‘and I should pronounce your
arrangements perfection.’
‘With this amendment,’ interposed my lord, ‘that nobody is expected to
pay!’
‘I say, Joe,’ whispered Dick, as they drew nigh the table, ‘my cousin is
angry with you; why have you not asked her to sing?’
‘Because she expects it; because she’s tossing over the music yonder to
provoke it; because she’s in a furious rage with me: that will be nine
points of the game in my favour,’ hissed he out between his teeth.
‘You are utterly wrong--you mistake her altogether.’
‘Mistake a woman! Dick, will you tell me what I _do_ know, if I do not read
every turn and trick of their tortuous nature? They are occasionally hard
to decipher when they’re displeased. It’s very big print indeed when
they’re angry.’
‘You’re off, are you?’ asked Nina, as Kate was about to leave.
‘Yes; I’m going to read to him.’
‘To read to him!’ said Nina, laughing. ‘How nice it sounds, when one sums
up all existence in a pronoun. Good-night, dearest--good-night,’ and she
kissed her twice. And then, as Kate reached the door, she ran towards her,
and said, ‘Kiss me again, my dearest Kate!’
‘I declare you have left a tear upon my cheek,’ said Kate.
‘It was about all I could give you as a wedding-present,’ muttered Nina, as
she turned away.
‘Are you come to study whist, Nina?’ said Lord Kilgobbin, as she drew nigh
the table.
[Illustration: ‘I declare you have left a tear upon my cheek,’ said Kate]
‘No, my lord; I have no talent for games, but I like to look at the
players.’
Joe touched Dick with his foot, and shot a cunning glance towards him, as
though to say, ‘Was I not correct in all I said?’
‘Couldn’t you sing us something, my dear? we’re not such infatuated
gamblers that we’ll not like to hear you--eh, Atlee?’
‘Well, my lord, I don’t know, I’m not sure--that is, I don’t see how a
memory for trumps is to be maintained through the fascinating charm of
mademoiselle’s voice. And as for cards, it’s enough for Miss Kostalergi to
be in the room to make one forget not only the cards, but the Fenians.’
‘If it was only out of loyalty, then, I should leave you!’ said she, and
walked proudly away.