Volume Ii Part 15 (1/2)

The owner of the treasures began to look grave. Who would steal his things--things moreover which were not worth stealing? None of the peasantry about. Irish peasants, though they will pick off their man blithely from behind a stone, are little given to petty pilfering.

Terence looked around, and his heart beat fast. Nothing had been taken except--his papers! Rough drafts of manifestoes, over which, in the hot zeal of youth, he had consumed the oil of midnight. Projects for the capture of the gaols--rough plans; the very doc.u.ments which, being compromising and not particularly useful, he had come hither to destroy. How silly and imprudent not to have destroyed them sooner!

Sirr for months past had been in the habit of making forcible entries into houses, on the chance of unearthing treason. What more likely than that he should think of making a perquisition upon Councillor Crosbie, who flaunted his opinions before the world in the outward form of a green tabinet neckerchief? Fool--babyish dolt! Idiot! Every one had spoken about that necktie. In a pa.s.sion he tore it from his throat, and hurled it out of the open window. Conduct more childish still! The evil was done. Could it be remedied? His smooth forehead puckered itself into wrinkles as he strove to remember what the bundle of doc.u.ments contained. Three forms of manifesto--to be printed and placarded so soon as Dublin should be taken. The rules and regulations of the society. A memorandum of prominent members--oh, horror! He knew he had been suspected of treachery by some. This list, incautiously kept, might bring about the death of many. Would he not be guilty, by gross carelessness, of their murder? Would they not have a right to curse him as they swung?

For a while his spirit was invaded by the same rush of unworthiness which had so unnerved Tom Emmett when he was arrested. He too felt the bitter sense of upbraiding humiliation with which Tom had asked himself what right had one, who was incapable of common prudence, to traffic thus rashly with the lives of other men? Do his duty! Was it his duty to put himself forward in this affair, or was it merely a culpable personal vanity disguised as self-sacrifice? He strove earnestly to settle that question--so earnestly that Phil, who watched him, was aghast at his distress, and endeavoured by humble barks and frolicking: to cheer his master from the dumps. To no purpose. With grief be it admitted that his master cursed him roundly, abused him with such unnecessary harshness that the poor fellow slunk away with tears in his eyes, under pretence of fetching the green kerchief. Big drops of sweat stood on the young man's brow. His brains had never in all his years been so tried as during the last few months. Only those usually unused to thought can tell of the dreadful addled feeling of helplessness which comes upon the muddled intellect during its first feeble struggles into work.

After a time he grew calmer, as the one bright point stood out distinctly. It was not the vanity of power--the attribute of Jack-in-office, which had galvanised his careless nature into serious purpose. Look at it how he would, he was clearly above such meanness.

He had no personal ambition--that was what Doreen had constantly dinned into his ears with scorn--and he had wished that, to please her, he could have become ambitious. But it was out of the question.

He liked the world--its bright sun, its flowers, its myriad life--but with no desire for exclusive possession of its delights. He was not discontented with his lot, even though his brother was rude sometimes, and his mother cold and unaffectionate. His only troubles had been his trivial debts; they alone had stirred his brains to scheming, and he had borne them good-humouredly as his share of the ills of life. He thought Doreen bewitching--deliriously delightful. Her he would fain possess as his own--his very own. There was nothing specially ambitious in that; for the lowly sparrow, as well as the stately fowl of Cochin, is justified in seeking out a mate--the best who will accept him. No; he was indolently, comfortably content to take the world as he found it, making excuses for its b.u.mps, palliating its disagreeables--until that time when his eyes had been opened as though scales had fallen from them. Since then he was an altered man; sobered by the shock of suddenly perceiving the precipice on which his country stood. At first he had refused to gauge the depth of the abyss; it was so much pleasanter to turn aside to dally with the flowers. Then the upright courage which had hitherto lain dormant spoke, bidding him mark Erin's loveliness--commanding him to stretch out his hand to stay her tottering form, whispering sternly that if she fell before his eyes without an effort made to save, the guilt of her shattered limbs would haunt him for evermore.

No! His conscience absolved him of personal ambition. If Erin were saved through his agency he would be content to retire again into the background--well-paid by her grateful smile. His error had been great, because its consequences might be serious. But humanity is p.r.o.ne to error. Youth must learn experience by stumbling. A man must expect to receive many stabs who fights with a concealed enemy. He must practise prudence, make no movement without exceeding caution; but at the best what a disheartening conflict--what a one-sided fight!

Terence had received two blows this very day. France could not be depended on for help. Twice within less than a year had she made herself a laughing-stock. And now--this capture of his papers, which, if the foe were relentless, would compromise him hopelessly. It was more than ever needful to conceal himself, if his life were to be of real use before he laid it down. Trouble seasons the character quickly. The young man was already beginning to calculate expediencies with gravity and precision. If he was spared, time might make of him a valuable champion.

He whistled Phil, who came up fawning like a hound that is forgiven.

'Follow me. And whatever you do, keep your tongue within your teeth,'

he said. Then calling Kathy, he flung to her the key of his little door, remarking that he was called to Cork on business, and might be long detained. If my lady should write (alas! she never wrote) the letters might wait.

Then, followed by his faithful henchman who shouldered his fire-iron as though meaning business, he turned out of the great gate up the by-lane which led, before meandering elsewhere, to the back-entrance of the Little House; rung the bell, and waited to see the mistress.

Madam Gillin answered it in person, bedizened in a weird wrapper, a wisp of soiled c.r.a.pe wound over the curl-papers about her head and under her chin like a cerecloth. Her sleeves were tucked up above the elbow. In her hand she bore a rolling-pin; her fingers wore a cuticle of dough. Expressing no surprise, she remarked simply:

'I expected you before this. There is no one in the house but myself, Norah, and the collough, my ould nurse. She's to be trusted. Ye're welcome, and your man. Come here, Norah; kiss your brother-in-law as will be some day. You may kiss me too, for I mean to be your aunt-in-law. Look me in the eyes. A handsome fellar! I know more of you than ye'll ever know yourself, unless the Holy Mother wills it.

Come in, for we may be watched; and bar the door.'

CHAPTER XI.

THE RISING OP THE TEMPEST.

Nothing could be kinder than the stout homely lady's treatment of her guest. He seemed to have a sad sort of fascination for her. He caught her watching him sometimes with a queer expression of pity, which broke into amicable grins and head-shakings so soon as she found herself detected. Norah, too, turned out to be a good-natured, unpretentious creature.

On the whole, Terence was not surprised at his brother's choice, considering what a terror that truculent individual betrayed for high-bred damosels, and how little he was able to appreciate the refined fascinations of the haughty, calm Doreen.

'It stood to reason,' so Terence argued, 'that if he were blind to the existence of a divinity who, in semblance of a mortal maid, abode by his fireside, then, of course, his senses must be gross, and nothing would suit him but a house-wench.'

Despite the draggled ball-room finery in which Norah elected to array herself for breakfast, in honour of the guest, he could not but perceive that she was no better than a serving-wench in mistress's attire. But then she was a cheery, pleasant house-wench, instead of a designing, cross one, as might have been the case. So he clasped her to his bosom, and the twain were soon fast friends.

In the kitchen things did not go so smoothly. Phil's orders were that he must never go out by daylight; so he sat in the kitchen all day long, staring at Jug Coyle, the collough, who sat muttering and growling as she stared at him.

For many years, when mistress of the 'Irish Slave,' Jug had nourished a resentment against this unoffending youth, shaking a lean fist at him as he pa.s.sed her door, muttering a curse when he called in for 'the laste taste in life of the crayther.'

Why? Because she was a collough and he a farrier; or, if he wasn't, why should he wield a firing-iron? Colloughs have always hated farriers, time out of mind, because they are rival pract.i.tioners in the art of medicine, and the colloughs nourish a vague belief that, in the days of the Bound Towers, the herbalists were lady-doctors, and that they enjoyed an undisputed sway over both kine and gentlefolk until Crummell introduced the veterinary as a special branch of aesculapian science.

He tried to ingratiate himself with the old dame by playing Peter to her Nurse; but she scorned to be so wheedled, remarking curtly, when he was particularly civil:

'The curse of Crummell light on yez, breed, seed, and branch, ye villainous cow-doctor. The Lord planted our cures in the fields before there was no 'pothecaries.'