_O'Neill will keep his Honor_
The admiral had fully matured his plans during the night, and was
prepared to make the assault upon the fortifications of O'Neill's
honor at the most convenient season. In order to have a clear field
for his operations, he had despatched his son upon an errand which
would necessitate his absence until the evening. It had been with his
full knowledge that his captive had been allowed to meet and converse
with his ward. He trusted more to the fascinations of that young woman
to effect his end, than to any other known agency, in fact.
Beauty and affection when allied have ever been most potent weapons,
even when used to promote the cause of treachery and dishonor. Not
that the admiral himself would have done anything he considered
dishonorable. He would rather have cut off his right hand, which had
done such stout service for his king, he would sacrifice his life, his
son's life, anything, rather than jeopard it; but he would not
hesitate to cajole the young Irishman into betraying his leader if he
could. Though he should despise him if he acceded to the terms he
would propose, yet he would not refrain from making use of him, even
to his own undoing, if possible. 'Twas the custom of war, and the
obloquy which in similar instances has ever been heaped upon the
tempted has not seemed to attach itself to the tempter under such
conditions.
Still the admiral did not rejoice in the situation, and he could not
make up his mind just how much it was necessary to offer. He had
rather an uncomfortable feeling that he could go very far, and then
not succeed after all; yet the greatness of the stake for which he
played, he thought, would justify his action, for the person of John
Paul Jones was certainly more coveted than that of any other man who
had ever warred against the English flag. The governor had under his
immediate command two excellent frigates, the Serapis, 44, and the
Scarborough, 28; and if through his planning and foresight they should
capture Jones and his ships, he might aspire to any honor in the gift
of the king.
"Good-morning, my dear marquis," he said pleasantly, as soon as the
young lieutenant was ushered into the office.
"Good-morning to your Lordship," answered O'Neill, bravely.
"I have sent for you to give you the run of the castle to-day,"
continued the admiral, much to his prisoner's surprise. "I shall be
occupied with preparations rendered necessary by the advent of your
friends the Americans, and urgent business required that I despatch
your acquaintance, my son, on an errand which will keep him away until
evening. Meanwhile, I leave you to the tender mercies of my ward, the
Lady Elizabeth. In the evening I shall have something of great
importance to say to you. You will give me your parole, of course, and
I trust that you may have a pleasant day."
"In the presence of Lady Elizabeth, sir, all moments are hours of
pleasure. I can never sufficiently thank you for your indulgence. You
have crowned the victim with a chaplet of roses before offering him
upon the altar," answered the bewildered officer. He suspected
something; but in the thought of another day with his heart's desire,
he resolutely put aside all other things--one day, in the strain of
life, so much gained!
"Never mind about the altar now," said the admiral. "Enjoy the day,
and perhaps the termination of it may fit its beginning."
Such a day as the two young people passed together comes not often in
earthly calendars. There was one subject which was forbidden them by
honor and discretion. They therefore talked of other things and
thought only of that, and the restraint in which each was held made
their true opinions as open to each other as the day itself. They
wandered together about the castle walls, gazed out upon the sparkling
sea, and allowed themselves to dream that the day would never end.
They forgot the black future, and lived only in the fleeting moments
of the present; 'tis the habit of youth and love.
When the night fell they separated reluctantly, to meet again by her
appointment in half an hour in the great hall, for what reason he knew
not; that she wished it was sufficient for him. There had come into
Elizabeth's head a quaint conceit. She wished to surprise him. As she
left him she ran hastily to the ancient wardrobe in her private
apartment in which, with the prudent forethought of our ancestors, her
mother's wedding robe was laid away in sprigs of lavender. Hastily
doffing her own garments, and assisted by the skilful fingers of her
maid, she arrayed herself therein.
The body of the dress was of heavily brocaded white satin, worn over
moderate hoops; the bodice was cut low and square across the neck and
shoulders and terminated in a pointed stomacher of delicate pale blue,
laced over the front with silver cord. The short, rather full sleeves
edged with priceless lace left the sweet young arms bare to the
dimpled elbow. The overdress or panier, looped with gold cord on
either side, was of a fugitive shade of pale wild rose; the dress was
lifted in front to show her dainty feet in their diamond-buckled,
preposterously high-heeled, pointed-toed, blue satin shoes, and
rose-colored, gold-clocked stockings. When she stood up, a little
train swept the floor.
The old-fashioned waist of the gown was very _decolleté_; she blushed
at the thought of it; but as it was in the picture, she draped it with
delicate tulle, less white than her neck itself, and caught here and
there by tiny diamond stars, and so she put it bravely on. To re-dress
her hair was an easy matter; the low coiffure, with the hair
unpowdered and rolled above her broad, low brow, after the style of
the beautiful but venal Pompadour, and adorned with three delicate
white ostrich tips, and with a string of pearls intertwined in its
meshes, was most becoming. With eager hands rummaging among her
mother's jewels, she soon found and twined the brilliant necklace of
the picture about her throat; on her breast she pinned a great
sunburst of diamonds, in the midst of which flashed a gleaming
sapphire. A little black patch or two on her cheeks completed her
preparations.
Then, full of anticipation for her lover, she ran down to the hall. To
her great disappointment, the room was empty; he had not yet come. She
waited a moment; her eyes fell upon the frame from which the remnants
of the tattered painting had been removed, which was leaning on a dais
in front of an alcove against the wall, just beneath the spot where
the picture had hung. A new thought occurred to her. Why not? She
eagerly pushed the old chair behind the frame, arranged it as it had
been in the picture, and sat down in exactly the same position her
mother had assumed when the portrait had been painted. She had often
practised it before the mirror, and had acquired the pose perfectly.
The rich, dark old tapestry of Arras formed an appropriate background,
and life and love and expectation threw a light in her eyes and
painted upon her cheek hues that no skill, however cunning, could have
duplicated, no palette save that of Nature in her rarest mood
supplied. The girl had forgotten, for the moment, her engagement to
another; she had forgotten the impending fate which hung over the man
she truly loved. She was only a woman--loving--beloved--waiting. The
thought of his surprise, the consciousness of her own beauty, deepened
the color on her cheeks, and the palpitation of her bosom told of the
beating of her heart.
She looked hastily about her, and, as the door opened, settled herself
in the position of sweet repose of the picture. Never had earth borne
a fairer woman. The first sound that struck her ear was the somewhat
harsh voice of her guardian. A wave of disappointment swept across
her. She half rose, as if to discover herself, and then, as she heard
her lover's voice, she sank back and waited, motionless and expectant.
"Lieutenant Barry O'Neill, Marquis de Richemont, I bid you good
evening," said the admiral, genially.
"Sir, good evening to you," replied O'Neill, something warning him of
an impending struggle.
"Allow me," said the admiral, passing his snuffbox, from which both
gentlemen helped themselves elaborately.
"I have here," continued the old man, drawing a piece of paper from
the desk as they walked toward the centre of the room, neither of them
noticing the picture at the moment, as it was behind them, "some
account of the life and adventures of one Gerald O'Neill, sometime
gentleman of the County Clare in Ireland, who rebelled against his
gracious Majesty King George II., of blessed memory, in the year 1745.
His lands were escheated to the crown, his life forfeited.
Unfortunately for us, and fortunately for him, he escaped to the
continent, entered the service of Louis XV., and became--"
"You may spare me any further details, my Lord. I know them too well.
He became a marshal of France and my father."
"Two great honors, surely," said the admiral, smiling pleasantly.
"I thank your Lordship for the compliment; pray proceed."
"I have here, also, a brief account of the history of another
gentleman in whom I doubt not you are deeply interested."
"And that is--"
"One Barry O'Neill, Marquis de Richemont."
"Your very humble servant, sir."
"Your discrimination does you honor, marquis," said the admiral,
playfully.
"Faith, sir, you read me an easy riddle."
"I find that you have been concerned in every treasonable plot against
his Majesty which has been hatched on the continent since you were out
of leading strings."
"Rather hard, but true, sir. Ah Irishman, you know, is naturally a
rebel and a conspirator."
"Quite so; and those who are not drowned may expect to be hanged,"
said the admiral, sternly.
"As I am a sailor, I might reasonably have hoped for the former end,
but I have forfeited my rights by coming on shore, I suppose." He
paused, and as the admiral nodded gravely, he continued with
well-simulated indifference: "'Tis not a pleasant mode of death, my
Lord, nor one that I would have chosen, nor one that is becoming a
gentleman; but I trust I shall meet it with equanimity at least,"
replied O'Neill, a little paler than before, but still dauntlessly
smiling.
"I am glad to see that you are a man of such resolution, sir," said
the admiral. "If your discretion equal your courage, the matter may be
arranged."
"It is useless to try it," was the reply; "to have known your ward, to
have seen her, and to know that she is destined for the arms of
another, makes life a hell, and death a pleasure."
"Is it so?" said the admiral, pausing.
"Think of the days of your own youth, sir, and one that you loved, and
you will understand me."
The admiral reflected. The stake he was playing for was so high, his
desire was so great--like the woman who hesitated, he fell. There
would be some way out of it, surely. As he drew near to the moment and
to the goal, his overwhelming desire took possession of him, and
blinded him; desire blinds as well as love.
"Even that," finally he said slowly, looking meaningly at O'Neill the
while, "may be arranged."
"Good God!" said O'Neill, white to the lips. "What is it you would
have me do? Speak! Titles, rank, station, friends, fame,
opportunities, life itself, would I cheerfully give for her who has
taken possession of me. Speak, my Lord!" cried the young man,
entreatingly.
The heart of the girl in the picture frame in the dark corner stopped
its beating. The gates of heaven, as it were, had been opened before
her. What was the proposition?
"Listen!" said the admiral, slowly, at last. He was sure he had him
now.
"I could settle the course of the world while I wait for your reply,
sir. Delay no longer, I pray you; I am in a torture of apprehension,"
said O'Neill, eagerly.
"I design not to take from you rank nor station nor lands nor
position," replied the admiral. "I offer you a free pardon for all
your past offences; nay, it shall cover your father's as well, if you
wish. There shall be a restoration of the ancient lands of your
venerable house. I will put your feet upon a ladder by which you may
rise to the very highest position. I open before you vistas of
honorable advancement in the service of your rightful king in your
native land, in which there is no limit to which a man of courage may
not attain."
"These are nothing," said the young man, impetuously, "beside Lady
Elizabeth Howard; some of the things you mention I now have, some I do
not wish, some are nothing to me. But your ward, sir, what of her?"
"Oh, what a lover is there!" whispered to herself the girl in the
picture frame, forgetting the pose, clasping her white hands and
leaning forward with shining eyes, blushing cheeks, and parted lips,
listening with wildly beating heart. This in her breast now was love,
indeed,--in no way like to the pale affection with which she regarded
the unfortunate Coventry. The admiral spoke again, fixing his eye upon
the young man. His words came slowly.
"Well, sir, I will even agree to interpose no objections to your suit
for the hand of my ward."
"But that is tantamount to giving your consent, my Lord," said
O'Neill, coming nearer to him in great surprise, his heart
bounding--and yet there must be some conditions to the royal gift. The
admiral bowed. "And Major Coventry?" cried the Irishman.
"His desires must give way to--er--reasons of state," said the
admiral, decisively. "I will arrange all that; if you can obtain her
consent to your suit, she is yours, provided--" he paused
significantly. Ah! the conditions!
"My consent!" thought Elizabeth, happiness flooding her like a wave;
and then she remembered that she was a woman, and indignation found a
lodgement in her being. 'Twas not thus she would be wooed and won, not
in this bartering way disposed of. By what right did any one--even her
guardian--presume to-- O'Neill was speaking again.
"What are the conditions--what is it you wish me to do? If it be in
human power, 'tis done. Torment me no more; as you are a man and have
a heart, speak!" In his agitation the younger man seized the elder by
the arm.
"I desire you to go back to your ship and arrange to put in my
possession the person of John Paul Jones," said the admiral, with the
greatest deliberation, concealing his anxiety by an appearance of
great firmness, as he nonchalantly helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
An accurate observer would have noticed that the trembling of his
hands belied his simulated calmness.
It was out now! What would the man say or do? Elizabeth sank back
appalled. So this was the condition; this was the test. He was to
choose between her and black treachery--dishonor! His answer, what
would it be? Had her idol feet of clay, after all? Her fate hung in
the balance; she could never survive his shame if he fell; if not--ah!
O'Neill released the admiral at once, stared at him a long moment in
horrified silence, shrank away from him, and sank down in the chair
and buried his face in his hands for a little space; his two auditors
waited, hope for different results trembling in either heart.
Presently he looked up and rose to his feet.
"Treachery--dishonor--shame! And with her innocence and youth and
beauty you bait your trap!" ejaculated O'Neill, brokenly. The admiral
still played with his snuffbox, his eyes averted, his hands trembling
still. Was it age, or--
"Oh, my God, my God!" continued the sailor, stricken to the very
heart, "to raise my hopes to such a pitch--to put the cup of happiness
to my very lips--to open the gates of heaven in my very presence--and
couple your propositions with this--this infamy! I am a lover, sir,
you know it well; but you should not have forgotten that I am, before
everything else, a gentleman. How could you do it? It ill becomes your
years," he went on impetuously, in mounting indignation. "I am your
prisoner--your captive; but I knew not that misfortune gave you a
right to insult me thus My Lord, my Lord, the ladder upon which you
put my feet leads down, not up; hell, not heaven, is its end!"
"Think!" said the admiral, doggedly, feeling the game was lost, but,
like a desperate gamester, playing on. "The Lady Elizabeth is at the
end, where'er it be."
"I love her, God only knows how much I love her; from the moment I saw
her I have had no thought but for her. I could not look her in the
face and be guilty of this thing." The girl in the picture almost
cried aloud for joy in this triumph of her lover's honor.
"She shall never know," replied the admiral. "I will pledge my word of
honor."
The honor of the tempter, for the dishonor of the tempted! O'Neill
laughed bitterly.
"It has not in forty years of service been called in question,"
replied the old man, stifling his growing shame.
"Nor has mine," said O'Neill, "until this hour. You are her
guardian--an old man--your gray hairs should protect you; but 'tis
well for you that I have no sword, for I swear I would plunge it first
into your heart and then into my own!"
"Think what it is I offer," persisted the other. "Compare it to what
you now have in the way of worldly honor. What do you care for that
bit of striped bunting and those beggarly rebels who have presumed to
declare a republic? What is a republic, anyway, and what function has
it in a gentleman's life, pray? What have we to do with the common
people? What are their aspirations to you? What affiliations have you
for that low-born gardener, turned pirate and buccaneer to ravage our
coasts, dishonor our flag? This is the kingdom in which you were born.
Here your rightful allegiance is due. I offer you, for the giving up
of a--sentiment which possesses you, the favor of your king and the
hand of the woman you love,--every earthly thing to make you happy.
You are an exile, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. I give you a
country again."
"And do you, a man of honor, advise me to--"
"Damnation, sir! I advise nothing, I offer; the decision rests with
you."
"Ah, I thought so; and what would you do in my place, sir?"
"I'm not there, thank God!" said the old man, fervently; "and I
repeat, you must decide yourself."
"Very good, sir. It is true that I like not that republic, its
principles are nothing to me; but I have found that gardener's son a
man--ay, a gentleman! You have called me a landless man, an exile, a
soldier of fortune,--that, too, is true. But to Captain Jones and his
service I have pledged my honor; 'tis all I have; the stars and
stripes are become my flag; I wear the uniform, I eat the bread, of
the United States. You may break my heart, destroy my life; you cannot
break my word. There is not power and place enough in the three
kingdoms, no, not even on their throne, not beauty enough even in
Elizabeth Howard to tempt me--to compel me to do that. Say no more.
You have your answer."