Lord Kilgobbin

It was on Atlee’s lip to ask, ‘Who were our people?’ but he forbore by a mighty effort, and was silent.

‘I don’t know if I have any other cautions to give you. Do you?’

‘No, sir. I could not even have reminded you of these, if you had not yourself remembered them.’

‘Oh, I had almost forgotten it. If his Excellency should give you anything to write out, or to copy, don’t smoke while you are over it: he abhors tobacco. I should have given you a warning to be equally careful as regards Lady Maude’s sensibilities; but, on the whole, I suspect you’ll scarcely see her.’

‘Is that all, sir?’ said the other, rising.

‘Well, I think so. I shall be curious to hear how you acquit yourself – how you get on with his Excellency, and how he takes you; and you must write it all to me. Ain’t you much too early? it’s scarcely ten o’clock.’

‘A quarter past ten; and I have some miles to drive to Kingstown.’

‘And not yet packed, perhaps?’ said the other listlessly.

‘No, sir; nothing ready.’

‘Oh! you’ll be in ample time; I’ll vouch for it. You are one of the rough-and-ready order, who are never late. Not but in this same flurry of yours you have made me forget something I know I had to say; and you tell me you can’t remember it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And yet,’ said the other sententiously, ‘the crowning merit of a private secretary is exactly that sort of memory. Your intellects, if properly trained, should be the complement of your chief’s. The infinite number of things that are too small and too insignificant for him, are to have their place, duly docketed and dated, in your brain; and the very expression of his face should be an indication to you of what he is looking for and yet cannot remember. Do you mark me?’

‘Half-past ten,’ cried Atlee, as the clock chimed on the mantel-piece; and he hurried away without another word.

It was only as he saw the pitiable penury of his own scanty wardrobe that he could persuade himself to accept of Walpole’s offer.

‘After all,’ he said, ‘the loan of a dress-coat may be the turning-point of a whole destiny. Junot sold all he had to buy a sword, to make his first campaign; all I have is my shame, and here it goes for a suit of clothes!’ And, with these words, he rushed down to Walpole’s dressing-room, and not taking time to inspect and select the contents, carried off the box, as it was, with him. ‘I’ll tell him all when I write,’ muttered he, as he drove away.

CHAPTER XXVI

DICK KEARNEY’S CHAMBERS

When Dick Kearney quitted Kilgobbin Castle for Dublin, he was very far from having any projects in his head, excepting to show his cousin Nina that he could live without her.

‘I believe,’ muttered he to himself, ‘she counts upon me as another “victim.” These coquettish damsels have a theory that the “whole drama of life” is the game of their fascinations and the consequences that come of them, and that we men make it our highest ambition to win them, and subordinate all we do in life to their favour. I should like to show her that one man at least refuses to yield this allegiance, and that whatever her blandishments do with others, with him they are powerless.’

These thoughts were his travelling-companions for nigh fifty miles of travel, and, like most travelling-companions, grew to be tiresome enough towards the end of the journey.

When he arrived in Dublin, he was in no hurry to repair to his quarters in Trinity; they were not particularly cheery in the best of times, and now it was long vacation, with few men in town, and everything sad and spiritless; besides this, he was in no mood to meet Atlee, whose free-and-easy jocularity he knew he would not endure, even with his ordinary patience. Joe had never condescended to write one line since he had left Kilgobbin, and Dick, who felt that in presenting him to his family he had done him immense honour, was proportionately indignant at this show of indifference. But, by the same easy formula with which he could account for anything in Nina’s conduct by her ‘coquetry,’ he was able to explain every deviation from decorum of Joe Atlee’s by his ‘snobbery.’ And it is astonishing how comfortable the thought made him, that this man, in all his smartness and ready wit, in his prompt power to acquire, and his still greater quickness to apply knowledge, was after all a most consummate snob.

He had no taste for a dinner at commons, so he ate his mutton-chop at a tavern, and went to the play. Ineffably bored, he sauntered along the almost deserted streets of the city, and just as midnight was striking, he turned under the arched portal of the college. Secretly hoping that Atlee might be absent, he inserted the key and entered his quarters.

The grim old coal-bunker in the passage, the silent corridor, and the dreary room at the end of it, never looked more dismal than as he surveyed them now by the light of a little wax-match he had lighted to guide his way. There stood the massive old table in the middle, with its litter of books and papers – memories of many a headache; and there was the paper of coarse Cavendish, against which he had so often protested, as well as a pewter-pot – a new infraction against propriety since he had been away. Worse, however, than all assaults on decency, were a pair of coarse highlows, which had been placed within the fender, and had evidently enjoyed the fire so long as it lingered in the grate.

‘So like the fellow! so like him!’ was all that Dick could mutter, and he turned away in disgust.

As Atlee never went to bed till daybreak, it was quite clear that he was from home, and as the college gates could not reopen till morning, Dick was not sorry to feel that he was safe from all intrusion for some hours. With this consolation, he betook him to his bedroom, and proceeded to undress. Scarcely, however, had he thrown off his coat than a heavy, long-drawn respiration startled him. He stopped and listened: it came again, and from the bed. He drew nigh, and there, to his amazement, on his own pillow, lay the massive head of a coarse-looking, vulgar man of about thirty, with a silk handkerchief fastened over it as nightcap. A brawny arm lay outside the bedclothes, with an enormous hand of very questionable cleanness, though one of the fingers wore a heavy gold ring.

Wishing to gain what knowledge he might of his guest before awaking him, Dick turned to inspect his clothes, which, in a wild disorder, lay scattered through the room. They were of the very poorest; but such still as might have belonged to a very humble clerk, or a messenger in a counting-house. A large black leather pocket-book fell from a pocket of the coat, and, in replacing it, Dick perceived it was filled with letters. On one of these, as he closed the clasp, he read the name, ‘Mr. Daniel Donogan, Dartmouth Gaol.’

‘What!’ cried he, ‘is this the great head-centre, Donogan, I have read so much of? and how is he here?’

Though Dick Kearney was not usually quick of apprehension, he was not long here in guessing what the situation meant: it was clear enough that Donogan, being a friend of Joe Atlee, had been harboured here as a safe refuge. Of all places in the capital, none were so secure from the visits of the police as the college; indeed, it would have been no small hazard for the public force to have invaded these precincts. Calculating therefore that Kearney was little likely to leave Kilgobbin at present, Atlee had installed his friend in Dick’s quarters. The indiscretion was a grave one; in fact, there was nothing – even to expulsion itself – might not have followed on discovery.

‘So like him! so like him!’ was all he could mutter, as he arose and walked about the room.

While he thus mused, he turned into Atlee’s bedroom, and at once it appeared why Mr. Donogan had been accommodated in his room. Atlee’s was perfectly destitute of everything: bed, chest of drawers, dressing-table, chair, and bath were all gone. The sole object in the chamber was a coarse print of a well-known informer of the year ‘98, ‘Jemmy O’Brien,’ under whose portrait was written, in Atlee’s hand, ‘Bought in at fourpence-halfpenny, at the general sale, in affectionate remembrance of his virtues, by one who feels himself to be a relative. – J.A.’ Kearney tore down the picture in passion, and stamped upon it; indeed, his indignation with his chum had now passed all bounds of restraint.

‘So like him in everything!’ again burst from him in utter bitterness.

Having thus satisfied himself that he had read the incident aright, he returned to the sitting-room, and at once decided that he would leave Donogan to his rest till morning.

‘It will be time enough then to decide what is to be done,’ thought he.

He then proceeded to relight the fire, and drawing a sofa near, he wrapped himself in a railway-rug, and lay down to sleep. For a long time he could not compose himself to slumber: he thought of Nina and her wiles – ay, they were wiles; he saw them plainly enough. It was true he was no prize – no ‘catch,’ as they call it – to angle for, and such a girl as she was could easily look higher; but still he might swell the list of those followers she seemed to like to behold at her feet offering up every homage to her beauty, even to their actual despair. And he thought of his own condition – very hopeless and purposeless as it was.

‘What a journey, to be sure, was life without a goal to strive for. Kilgobbin would be his one day; but by that time would it be able to pay off the mortgages that were raised upon it? It was true Atlee was no richer, but Atlee was a shifty, artful fellow, with scores of contrivances to go windward of fortune in even the very worst of weather. Atlee would do many a thing he would not stoop to.’

And as Kearney said this to himself, he was cautious in the use of his verb, and never said ‘could,’ but always ‘would’ do; and oh dear! is it not in this fashion that so many of us keep up our courage in life, and attribute to the want of will what we well know lies in the want of power.

Last of all he bethought himself of this man Donogan, a dangerous fellow in a certain way, and one whose companionship must be got rid of at any price. Plotting over in his mind how this should be done in the morning, he at last fell fast asleep.

So overcome was he by slumber, that he never awoke when that venerable institution called the college woman – the hag whom the virtue of unerring dons insists o imposing as a servant on resident students – entered, made up the fire, swept up the room, and arranged the breakfast-table. It was only as she jogged his arm to ask him for an additional penny to buy more milk, that he awoke and remembered where he was.

‘Will I get yer honour a bit of bacon?’ asked she, in a tone intended to be insinuating.

‘Whatever you like,’ said he drowsily.

‘It’s himself there likes a rasher – when he can get it,’ said she, with a leer, and a motion of her thumb towards the adjoining room.

‘Whom do you mean?’ asked he, half to learn what and how much she knew of his neighbour.

‘Oh! don’t I know him well? – Dan Donogan,’ replied she, with a grin. ‘Didn’t I see him in the dock with Smith O’Brien in ‘48, and wasn’t he in trouble again after he got his pardon; and won’t he always be in trouble?’

‘Hush! don’t talk so loud,’ cried Dick warningly.

‘He’d not hear me now if I was screechin’; it’s the only time he sleeps hard; for he gets up about three or half-past – before it’s day – and he squeezes through the bars of the window, and gets out into the park, and he takes his exercise there for two hours, most of the time running full speed and keeping himself in fine wind. Do you know what he said to me the other day? “Molly,” says he, “when I know I can get between those bars there, and run round the college park in three minutes and twelve seconds, I feel that there’s not many a gaol in Ireland can howld, and the divil a policeman in the island could catch, me.”’ And she had to lean over the back of a chair to steady herself while she laughed at the conceit.

‘I think, after all,’ said Kearney, ‘I’d rather keep out of the scrape than trust to that way of escaping it.’

‘He wouldn’t,’ said she. ‘He’d rather be seducin’ soldiers in Barrack Street, or swearing in a new Fenian, or nailing a death-warnin’ on a hall door, than he’d be lord mayor! If he wasn’t in mischief he’d like to be in his grave.’

‘And what comes of it all?’ said Kearney, scarcely giving any exact meaning to his words.

‘That’s what I do be saying myself,’ cried the hag. ‘When they can transport you for singing a ballad, and send you to pick oakum for a green cravat, it’s time to take to some other trade than patriotism!’ And with this reflection she shuffled away, to procure the materials for breakfast.

The fresh rolls, the watercress, a couple of red herrings devilled as those ancient damsels are expert in doing, and a smoking dish of rashers and eggs, flanked by a hissing tea-kettle, soon made their appearance, the hag assuring Kearney that a stout knock with the poker on the back of the grate would summon Mr. Donogan almost instantaneously – so rapidly, indeed, and with such indifference as to raiment, that, as she modestly declared, ‘I have to take to my heels the moment I call him,’ and the modest avowal was confirmed by her hasty departure.

The assurance was so far correct, that scarcely had Kearney replaced the poker, when the door opened, and one of the strangest figures he had ever beheld presented itself in the room. He was a short, thick-set man with a profusion of yellowish hair, which, divided in the middle of the head, hung down on either side to his neck – beard and moustache of the same hue, left little of the face to be seen but a pair of lustrous blue eyes, deep-sunken in their orbits, and a short wide-nostrilled nose, which bore the closest resemblance to a lion’s. Indeed, a most absurd likeness to the king of beasts was the impression produced on Kearney as this wild-looking fellow bounded forward, and stood there amazed at finding a stranger to confront him.

His dress was a flannel-shirt and trousers, and a pair of old slippers which had once been Kearney’s own.

‘I was told by the college woman how I was to summon you, Mr. Donogan,’ said Kearney good-naturedly. ‘You are not offended with the liberty?’

‘Are you Dick?’ asked the other, coming forward.

‘Yes. I think most of my friends know me by that name.’

‘And the old devil has told you mine?’ asked he quickly.

‘No, I believe I discovered that for myself. I tumbled over some of your things last night, and saw a letter addressed to you.’

‘You didn’t read it?’

‘Certainly not. It fell out of your pocket-book, and I put it back there.’

‘So the old hag didn’t blab on me? I’m anxious about this, because it’s got out somehow that I’m back again. I landed at Kenmare in a fishing-boat from the New York packet, the Osprey, on Tuesday fortnight, and three of the newspapers had it before I was a week on shore.’

‘Our breakfast is getting cold; sit down here and let me help you. Will you begin with a rasher?’

Not replying to the invitation, Donogan covered his plate with bacon, and leaning his arm on the table, stared fixedly at Kearney.

‘I’m as glad as fifty pounds of it,’ muttered he slowly to himself.

‘Glad of what?’

‘Glad that you’re not a swell, Mr. Kearney,’ said he gravely. ‘“The Honourable Richard Kearney,” whenever I repeated that to myself, it gave me a cold sweat. I thought of velvet collars and a cravat with a grand pin in it, and a stuck-up creature behind both, that wouldn’t condescend to sit down with me.’

‘I’m sure Joe Atlee gave you no such impression of me.’

A short grunt that might mean anything was all the reply.

‘He was my chum, and knew me better,’ reiterated the other.

‘He knows many a thing he doesn’t say, and he says plenty that he doesn’t know. “Kearney will be a swell,” said I, “and he’ll turn upon me just out of contempt for my condition.’”

‘That was judging me hardly, Mr. Donogan.’

‘No, it wasn’t; it’s the treatment the mangy dogs meet all the world over. Why is England insolent to us, but because we’re poor – answer me that? Are we mangy? Don’t you feel mangy? – I know I do!’

Dick smiled a sort of mild contradiction, but said nothing.

‘Now that I see you, Mr. Kearney,’ said the other, ‘I’m as glad as a ten-pound note about a letter I wrote you – ’

‘I never received a letter from you.’

‘Sure I know you didn’t! haven’t I got it here?’ And he drew forth a square-shaped packet and held it up before him. ‘I never said that I sent it, nor I won’t send it now: here’s its present address,’ added he, as he threw it on the fire and pressed it down with his foot.

‘Why not have given it to me now?’ asked the other.

‘Because three minutes will tell you all that was in it, and better than writing; for I can reply to anything that wants an explanation, and that’s what a letter cannot. First of all, do you know that Mr. Claude Barry, your county member, has asked for the Chiltern, and is going to resign?’

‘No, I have not heard it.’

‘Well, it’s a fact. They are going to make him a second secretary somewhere, and pension him off. He has done his work: he voted an Arms Bill and an Insurrection Act, and he had the influenza when the amnesty petition was presented, and sure no more could be expected from any man.’

‘The question scarcely concerns me; our interest in the county is so small now, we count for very little.’

‘And don’t you know how to make your influence greater?’

‘I cannot say that I do.’

‘Go to the poll yourself, Richard Kearney, and be the member.’

‘You are talking of an impossibility, Mr. Donogan. First of all, we have no fortune, no large estates in the county, with a wide tenantry and plenty of votes; secondly, we have no place amongst the county families, as our old name and good blood might have given us; thirdly, we are of the wrong religion, and, I take it, with as wrong politics; and lastly, we should not know what to do with the prize if we had won it.’

‘Wrong in every one of your propositions – wholly wrong,’ cried the other. ‘The party that will send you in won’t want to be bribed, and they’ll be proud of a man who doesn’t overtop them with his money. You don’t need the big families, for you’ll beat them. Your religion is the right one, for it will give you the Priests; and your politics shall be Repeal, and it will give you the Peasants; and as to not knowing what to do when you’re elected, are you so mighty well off in life that you’ve nothing to wish for?’

‘I can scarcely say that,’ said Dick, smiling.

‘Give me a few minutes’ attention,’ said Donogan, ‘and I think I’ll show you that I’ve thought this matter out and out; indeed, before I sat down to write to you, I went into all the details.’

And now, with a clearness and a fairness that astonished Kearney, this strange-looking fellow proceeded to prove how he had weighed the whole difficulty, and saw how, in the nice balance of the two great parties who would contest the seat, the Repealer would step in and steal votes from both.

He showed not only that he knew every barony of the county, and every estate and property, but that he had a clear insight into the different localities where discontent prevailed, and places where there was something more than discontent.

‘It is down there,’ said he significantly, ‘that I can be useful. The man that has had his foot in the dock, and only escaped having his head in the noose, is never discredited in Ireland. Talk Parliament and parliamentary tactics to the small shopkeepers in Moate, and leave me to talk treason to the people in the bog.’

‘But I mistake you and your friends greatly,’ said Kearney, ‘if these were the tactics you always followed; I thought that you were the physical-force party, who sneered at constitutionalism and only believed in the pike.’

‘So we did, so long as we saw O’Connell and the lawyers working the game of that grievance for their own advantage, and teaching the English Government how to rule Ireland by a system of concession to them and to their friends. Now, however, we begin to perceive that to assault that heavy bastion of Saxon intolerance, we must have spies in the enemy’s fortress, and for this we send in so many members to the Whig party. There are scores of men who will aid us by their vote who would not risk a bone in our cause. Theirs is a sort of subacute patriotism; but it has its use. It smashes an Established Church, breaks down Protestant ascendency, destroys the prestige of landed property, and will in time abrogate entail and primogeniture, and many another fine thing; and in this way it clears the ground for our operations, just as soldiers fell trees and level houses lest they interfere with the range of heavy artillery.’

‘So that the place you would assign me is that very honourable one you have just called a “spy in the camp”?’

‘By a figure I said that, Mr. Kearney; but you know well enough what I meant was, that there’s many a man will help us on the Treasury benches that would not turn out on Tallaght; and we want both. I won’t say,’ added he, after a pause, ‘I’d not rather see you a leader in our ranks than a Parliament man. I was bred a doctor, Mr. Kearney, and I must take an illustration from my own art. To make a man susceptible of certain remedies, you are often obliged to reduce his strength and weaken his constitution. So it is here. To bring Ireland into a condition to be bettered by Repeal, you must crush the Church and smash the bitter Protestants. The Whigs will do these for us, but we must help them. Do you understand me now?’

‘I believe I do. In the case you speak of, then, the Government will support my election.’

‘Against a Tory, yes; but not against a pure Whig – a thorough-going supporter, who would bargain for nothing for his country, only something for his own relations.’

‘If your project has an immense fascination for me at one moment, and excites my ambition beyond all bounds, the moment I turn my mind to the cost, and remember my own poverty, I see nothing but hopelessness.’

‘That’s not my view of it, nor when you listen to me patiently, will it, I believe, be yours. Can we have another talk over this in the evening?’

‘To be sure! we’ll dine here together at six.’

‘Oh, never mind me, think of yourself, Mr. Kearney, and your own engagements. As to the matter of dining, a crust of bread and a couple of apples are fully as much as I want or care for.’

‘We’ll dine together to-day at six,’ said Dick, ‘and bear in mind, I am more interested in this than you are.’

CHAPTER XXVII

A CRAFTY COUNSELLOR

As they were about to sit down to dinner on that day, a telegram, re-directed from Kilgobbin, reached Kearney’s hand. It bore the date of that morning from Plmnuddm Castle, and was signed ‘Atlee.’ Its contents were these: ‘H. E. wants to mark the Kilgobbin defence with some sign of approval. What shall it be? Reply by wire.’

‘Read that, and tell us what you think of it.’

‘Joe Atlee at the Viceroy’s castle in Wales!’ cried the other. ‘We’re going up the ladder hand over head, Mr. Kearney! A week ago his ambition was bounded on the south by Ship Street, and on the east by the Lower Castle Yard.’

‘How do you understand the despatch?’ asked Kearney quickly.

‘Easily enough. His Excellency wants to know what you’ll have for shooting down three – I think they were three – Irishmen.’

‘The fellows came to demand arms, and with loaded guns in their hands.’

‘And if they did! Is not the first right of a man the weapon that defends him? He that cannot use it or does not possess it, is a slave. By what prerogative has Kilgobbin Castle within its walls what can take the life of any, the meanest, tenant on the estate?’

‘I am not going to discuss this with you; I think I have heard most of it before, and was not impressed when I did so. What I asked was, what sort of a recognition one might safely ask for and reasonably expect?’

‘That’s not long to look for. Let them support you in the county. Telegraph back, “I’m going to stand, and, if I get in, will be a Whig whenever I am not a Nationalist. Will the party stand by me?”’

‘Scarcely with that programme.’

‘And do you think that the priests’ nominees, who are three-fourths of the Irish members, offer better terms? Do you imagine that the men that crowd the Whig lobby have not reserved their freedom of action about the Pope, and the Fenian prisoners, and the Orange processionists? If they were not free so far, I’d ask you with the old Duke, How is Her Majesty’s Government to be carried on?’