The Grip of Honor

"Come now, sir, be a soldier."

"You can give no worse advice than that to a sailor, my friend," replied O'Neill, rising and smiling in spite of his misery. "Lead on, I will follow," he added.

As they passed down the great hall, the eyes of the wretched lieutenant fell upon a large picture hanging rather low on the wall in a far corner above a dais near the doorway. It was the portrait of a beautiful woman in the fashion of some fifty years back. She was seated in a great carved oak chair, the counterpart of and evidently painted from one sitting beneath it. In face and feature the portrait was a striking likeness of Lady Elizabeth Howard. The skill of the painter had been so great, the colors had been so nicely chosen, so delicately laid on, that in the flickering, uncertain candle-light, which left this part of the room in a rather deep shadow, the picture actually seemed to breathe. O'Neill stopped as if petrified.

"Come along, sir," said the sergeant, gruffly.

"A moment, if you please, my friend-a moment. What sort of a man are you to pass by such as this without notice? It should be Lady Elizabeth, but the fashion of the dress-"

"It's her mother, sir, a cousin of the admiral's. I pass it every day, sir, an' I've got so I don't take no notice on it, no more. She was a young thing, scarce older than her young Leddyship when she set for that paintin', an' they had no children for years, leastaways they all died till this baby was born, an' then she died too. I've been attached to the admiral's service in one way or another sence I was a boy, an' dandled her many a time on my knee. Yes, and her young Leddyship, Lady Elizabeth that is, too, wen she was a little girl."

"My regard for you goes up a thousand-fold, my friend," said O'Neill, smiling; "I could almost envy you your opportunities. Would I had been you!"

"'Tain't no use wishin' that," said the old sergeant, shaking his head; "there never was no Frenchman could ever take my place."

"Quite right," replied O'Neill, smiling; "'twould be clearly impossible."

"Come along, then, yer Honor."

"Stay a moment," returned the enraptured Irishman; "a year at gaze would not sate me with the beauty of this picture. How like is the fair image!" murmured the entranced young man, approaching nearer and fairly holding his breath under the influence of the moment. He stretched out his hand toward the painting with a little reverential gesture.

"Look out, sir!" said the sergeant, warningly; "the picture hangs very loose, an' the frame-"

What evil fate was it that determined its fall at that moment? There was a tremendous crash, something gave way, and the great frame dropped from its place on the wall and fell across the heavy oaken chair which stood beneath it, and the picture was impaled upon its Gothic points. The two men sprang to seize it and lift it up. Alas! it had been literally torn to pieces. The canvas had evidently been originally a defective one, for it had split in every direction. Restoration was clearly impossible.

"Good Heaven!" said the Irishman, "what a misfortune!"

"It had to come, an' it's too late to be mended now," said the sergeant, philosophically, "so we must get on."

"Very good," said O' Neill, tenderly lifting the frame, with the rags of the tattered canvas hanging to it, back against the wall; "there is nothing to keep us here now. Unlucky fool that I am, even the semblance of the original is not for me!"

CHAPTER X

Lady Elizabeth will keep her Word

The night fell on three of the most unhappy people in the world; yet to each had been vouchsafed a partial realization of a cherished hope. Coventry should have been luxuriating in the thought of his approaching marriage to the girl he loved; Elizabeth should have been overwhelmed with joy at the reappearance of O'Neill, after his long absence; and O'Neill during that time had asked for nothing but an opportunity to stand once more in the presence of his divinity. The desire of each had been granted, and yet all three were completely miserable.

Coventry, because he more than suspected that Elizabeth loved O'Neill; Elizabeth, because she felt that honor compelled her to marry Coventry, to whom she was deeply attached, but toward whom her feelings, she now found, were vastly different from those which had flooded her being with new life at the sight of the young Irishman. Her period of waiting and dreaming had unconsciously developed a passion for him which had broken all barriers at the mere sound of his voice, the sight of his face. As for O'Neill, he found her fairer than he had ever thought even in his most extravagant dreams, and it was in an agony of despair that he contemplated her as the bride of another. There was this saving grace in his position, however: he would probably be condemned to death forthwith, and he was in no mood to balk the executioner; if ever death be welcome, it would be so to him.

The only one who was completely at his ease, and who, in fact, extracted a certain satisfaction from the situation, was the admiral. Naturally he did not enter very deeply into the matrimonial schemes of the young, and with the indifference of the aged and the present, he doubted that it would be a matter of any great difficulty either to make Elizabeth forget, if necessary, the Irishman in whom even his obtuse vision had detected that she was greatly interested; or, in case it suited his purpose better, to make his son forget Elizabeth in the presence of some other charmer whom he might select. His purpose was, as ever, the paramount consideration with the admiral.

He had conceived a brilliant idea, which he fondly hoped would result, were it to be realized, in the capture of the notorious Paul Jones, who was the object of consuming desire on the part of every military and naval man in the three kingdoms. So enchanted was the old man with his own idea, and so desirous was he of bagging the game, that he would not have hesitated to sacrifice the affections of his son, the happiness of his ward, or to brush aside almost anything, save his honor, which might stand in his way.

The young Irishman had clearly forfeited his life by his action; nay, more, now that he recalled his name he remembered that he had been found guilty of high treason, and, like his father, was under sentence of death for that as well; he had a double hold upon him, therefore. The powers of the admiral, who was one of the leading men of the realm, were unusually large, and as a state of martial law had been proclaimed on the coast, he was supreme as to life and death, in matters where any military exigency could be urged.

He chuckled to himself at the thought that he held in his hand two of the master cards, – love of life and love of woman; the third, love of honor, which O'Neill was possessed of, was a high one, to be sure, but he trusted by clever play to win the game, since the odds were with him. Elizabeth had become a State paper-a pledge in pawn-to him; O'Neill another piece, or player. He had not yet formulated any plan for carrying out his great idea, but one was already germinating in his mind, so that in the end, under the stimulus of the splendid opportunity he saw before him for rounding out an already brilliant career in the service of his country, by effecting the capture of the famous Paul Jones, his hours were as sleepless as were those of the others.

The poor Irish lieutenant had caused a great deal of trouble to every one with whom he had come in contact. Even Paul Jones himself, who loved and cherished the young man with all his generous heart, was filled with deep anxiety as to his probable fate, when he heard the report of old Price the next day, especially as the hours fled away and his lieutenant did not rejoin the ship. In spite of the absence of the rest of his squadron, the commodore at once hastened to the rendezvous with the Richard alone, and there determined to take a small hand in the game himself while waiting for the Pallas, the Alliance, and the others to assemble. Cautious inquiries which he caused to be made on shore had informed him that, as he expected, O'Neill had been apprehended. A less kindly man than Paul Jones would have left him to his fate-but that was not his way.

Early the next morning, being Wednesday, September the twenty-second, O'Neill had arisen and gone down on the terrace of the castle overlooking the ocean and the ships in the harbor, where he met Lady Elizabeth. She was gazing listlessly over the causeway at a horseman galloping along the road.

"Do I interrupt reminiscences of a tête-à-tête, madam?" said he, saluting her with a profound bow.

"Reminiscences such as mine are better interrupted," she replied.

"You were-"

"Saying good-bye to my-my-cousin."

"Has your ladyship no dearer title than that by which to designate him?"

"Not yet," she answered wearily.

"Ah, I perceive," he continued jealously, "the natural regret at the absence of your betrothed, for-"

"No, no, not that! How can you trifle so with me at this moment? He reproached me because I-why do I tell you these things? You constrain me, sir; I-"

"Forgive me; you need not finish, Lady Elizabeth," he said with a sudden gravity. "As for me, I must needs trifle, or die. Life in the freshness of the morning, the white-capped ocean stretching before us in the sunlight, the gentle breeze playing across our faces, is sweet to think on; with youth and rank and station, it would be heavenly spent with you. Without you I welcome the death your guardian will undoubtedly inflict upon me."

"Yet you waited so long-a year and a half-why did you not come? I-" She stopped. She had spoken in a low, tender whisper, looking down at the sea beneath them, and plucking nervously at the loose plaster of the old walk. Death so imminent for love and lover-nay, not for love; that were eternal-broke down petty convention. Where were death and love, there, too, should truth and honesty be-and honor.

He laid his strong hand gently down on the small white one outlined upon the gray weather-beaten rock of the parapet; with upturned palm she met his grasp. Her eyes were lifted now; she drew strength from his strength; a dawning hope flickered into being in her torn heart. He was so strong and true, he surely could do something-there must be some other way. It was the tribute woman pays to man.

He read aright, with eyes keen from affection, the mute, piteous appeal in her sweetly lifted face. But he could only smile sadly in answer, with a silent shake of the head. There was no other way, then, in the marked path she must walk. Have mercy, Lord!

"Was it long to you, dearest?" he queried, his dark face aflame. "To me-I have been a fool. Nothing should have kept me from you. To trust to messengers, letters-a fool-too late!" Silence. The hands unclasped; ties were broken. "Too late!" He turned bitterly away.

"Would that we had met in happier days!" she murmured sadly, making a brave effort at self-control.

"No reproaches, Lady Elizabeth," he answered, the touch of formality in the address showing his own equal strife. "What must be, must be! At least I have met you before I die, and for a year and a half I have thought of you, and dreamed of you, and held you the lady of my heart. E'en death itself cannot rob me of that sweet joy-for it is past."

They looked apart, and heard above the voice of the great deep, the unfathomable sound of the moaning surge far beneath them, chafing against the pebbles in the still morning, the wild beating of their hearts; after a little pause he continued more softly, -

"And you-you will forget the young Irishman, the soldier of fortune, whom untoward fate threw across your pathway; and in your own English home, and in the love of your noble husband, may you be happy."

"Nay, not so," she said softly, taking his hand again, her eyes filling with tears; this time she was the stronger. "My heart is not made of such fickle stuff. I shall do my duty, keep my plighted word-even you would have me do no less than that-but not more steadfastly than I shall keep you within my recollection. But do not talk of death, you must not; I know the admiral-he has a kindly heart-"

"I would not live," replied the young man, quietly, "for life is death when the heart is dead."

"Tell me," asked the girl, nervously breaking the almost insupportable silence, "were you there when my mother's picture fell last night?"

"Yes, so near to it that it almost fell into my arms," he answered, smiling.

"A bad omen!" she murmured, shaking her head.

"What, that it should fall into my arms?"

"No, that it should fall at all."

"Well, I do not believe in omens, and 'tis in the arms of another that you fall, at any rate. He gets the substance, I the shadow, the illusion-and even that is broken!"

"And so even the shadow is lost," said Elizabeth.

"Not yet. Open my heart, you will find it there," he answered quickly. "But how like you the portrait was!"

"Yes, I am said to look like my mother," she answered, striving, as we all do in tragic moments, to reach the height of the commonplace. "In the dress I now wear, under the changing fashions, the likeness is not so striking; but when I am gowned as she was, in the identical costume, which is still in existence, by the way, and sit as she did, in the dim light in that old chair, the resemblance is even more striking."

"Would that I might see you thus-in that dress of the olden time! Nothing except your actual presence in the hall has ever startled me so much as that image of the past did last night. You are so like the picture, but more beautiful, I think."

"Ah, yes, youth and the present are always the more beautiful. The admiral says I am not to be mentioned beside her-he loved her, I think-she was his cousin; they tell me she married very young, unhappily, too, and died when I was born, many years after. My father, too, died; I can scarcely remember him at all; I am alone."

"There should be a warning in this, should there not?" he asked softly; an idle question, fate had determined.

"I suppose so," replied the girl, wearily; "but what was I to do? The arrangement was made when I was a child. I have grown up with Edward Coventry, he loves me, he is a noble fellow, I respect-esteem him highly. It is a long-cherished wish of the admiral's; it was my mother's wish as well. I put him off, in spite of the engagement, for a year-for six months again," she said, with a glance the fond reproach of which cut him to the heart. "I promised him, on my word of honor, if he would only wait that time I would make no further objections. I cannot break that word now."

"Not even for me?"

"No, not even for you."

"But you do not love him?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," she answered slowly; "I do-in a way, that is."

"But not like-"

"Enough, Lieutenant O'Neill!" she answered proudly, resuming, perforce, her erstwhile haughty air, which was belied by a deep flush on her cheeks. "'Tis not generous of you to press me further. I-we have decided. I can stand no more. Forgive me- Have mercy!"

"I respect your decision; nay, more, I honor you for it, Lady Elizabeth," he answered gravely. "I kiss your hand and go to my death smiling. Forget me."

"Your death!" she cried in alarm. "What mean you?"

"The admiral, sir, would speak with you in the office at once," interrupted the sergeant, who had approached with a file of soldiers.

"You see-the summons," replied O'Neill, calmly, to Elizabeth. "Friend, I attend you-good-bye."

CHAPTER XI

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."