My Lords of Strogue. Volume 3 of 3

Mr. Curran gave a sigh of thankfulness. Small mercies keep us from breaking down at times. This was good news, at any rate. With courage revived, he could go to the Castle now and demand with a high hand that inquiries as to the fate of Terence should be set afoot. If anything unpleasant was said about Emmett, he could snap his fingers in the Viceroy's face-for the boy was gone, thank goodness, out of his clutches. Moiley would grind her gums for her last morsel in vain. The hungry ogress! She had eaten Ireland and quaffed the best blood of Ireland's children. Her appetite was delicate, it seemed, and clamoured for the best. She declined to lunch off the Battalion of Testimony. The flesh of Sirr and Cassidy was bitter, and she spat it out. She absolutely refused even to nibble, much less to swallow, either of these honest gentlemen.

At mention of Cassidy, Gillin, whose cheeks had puckered into dimples at Curran's badinage, grew grave again. She felt, scarcely knowing why, that Cassidy had something to do with the affair of Terence, who was Earl of Glandore, secret or no secret, now. The difficulty had been solved in a quite unexpected manner; and in her heart of hearts the worthy woman was glad, though she would have to abandon her desire of seeing Norah adorning the assembly of the élite. Ah! deary me, she sighed to herself. There were other fish in the sea. Norah was a comely colleen, who would get a good husband somehow-maybe a better one than Shane would ever have made, though he was lord of broad acres and had a coronet to bestow on the girl who touched his fancy. But where was the new Earl of Glandore? Curran trotted off to make it his business to find out.

This last armed attempt to free Ireland was the vulgarest and weakest of riots, which would never have been recorded, or have occupied any place in history at all, but for the unfortunate murder of the Lord Chief Justice and his nephew. Their fate-especially that of Lord Kilwarden, who was a kindhearted gentleman-demanded a scapegoat. Foolish young Robert was the first cause of the disaster. It was essential that he should be held up as an example. Could anything be more provoking than that he should get away? Perhaps he was not gone-perhaps he had landed somewhere. The town-major was commanded to scour the country in all directions. His battalion was well paid and had been very idle of late. It was time that its members should do some service to earn their bread-and-butter. Such were the orders which issued from the Castle, and Curran knew well that they did not emanate from Lord Cornwallis. He was not much surprised, therefore, after crossing Castle-yard, to be ushered into a morning-room, garnished with a huge bureau, at which was sitting, in handsome black velvet trimmed with sable fur, the Chancellor.

Lord Clare beheld with evident pleasure the entrance of his enemy, the man who had been his stumbling-block through his career; for this was the moment of his triumph. He held out his jewelled fingers with a polished bow; rasped out a welcome in his least pleasant voice; and explained that, in the overflow of labour which sprang from the details of yesterday's Great Measure and last night's deplorable catastrophe, both Viceroy and Chief Secretary were so worked off their legs that they had been delighted to accept of his poor services for the transaction of ordinary business.

Lord Clare was rather sorry for Kilwarden, though he had always despised him as a nincumpoop. But this transient cloud of annoyance was dissipated by the sun of yesterday's success and the new vista of power which it opened to his ambition; and Curran looked at him in wonder as he strutted and fussed about, with the comical majesty of a raven.

It has been observed that the greatest political and religious crimes are due to public spirit out of gear. The Irish chancellor was probably honest in his conviction that union was the best thing for Ireland, and it was not his fault if his duty and his interest jumped in the same direction. His standard of morals was so low that the desperate patriotism of such men as Tone or Terence, or Robert Emmett, were as unknown tongues to him. He despised Kilwarden, though he liked him, because he was weak; but he hated Curran with all his heart, because, while brave as any lion, ho had an inconvenient knack of putting his finger on the chancellor's weak places. But Lord Clare was so jubilant this morning that he was prepared to be generous even to this enemy. Difficulties were over; he could almost feel the flapping of the united banner overhead, almost hear the packing of the trunks of my Lord Cornwallis. He observed, too, that the crab-apple features of the little man before him seemed old and dried; that the eyes were glazed which used to flash with fire and dance with fun. He was one of the fools whose heart was broken over a chimera; of course the successful statesman could afford to be generous to so pitiable a wreck. So he said:

'Delighted to see my respected Curran-friend, I suppose, I may not say? Ah! well. You always wronged me, my good fellow. Civility was never among your faults. But demagogues would lose half their prestige if they were not crabbed. No wonder you are rude, for you have lost all your tricks. Had you not, in a huff, thrown up your seat in parliament, you might have done much to hurt us; and that makes you spiteful, I suppose. What do you gain by this ghastly display of martyrdom? Believe me, Curran, that if you are too good for the world you live in, it will be more comfortable to yourself as well as others to go out of it. That's why Wolfe Tone helped himself out of it, I presume, and I for one am vastly obleeged to him. Talking of that reminds me of last night's folly-a sad affair-a sad affair; but can't be helped, you know. A drop of trouble in the sea of bliss which yesterday's decision gave us. You don't feel quite that way? Ah! well. People's opinions differ, don't they? The one I'm most distressed about is our old friend the countess. She will feel that fellow's fate most terribly, the more so that he was a ne'er-do-well; though there are reasons why it's best as it is. Your protégé is the holder of the family honours now?'

Curran nodded, wondering what his enemy was aiming at; while the latter, scanning his features, perceived with pleasure that my lady's secret had never been divulged to him. It was well that that secret should lie in as few hands as possible.

'Where is Terence?' Curran inquired bluntly.

'Terence! I know not,' replied the other, in his turn surprised. 'Has anything befallen him?'

'You really do not? Then it's Cassidy who's done it,' cried out Curran. 'He's been kidnapped for some hellish purpose!'

Knowing Cassidy as he did, the chancellor looked disturbed. It was quite possible that this worthy might be up to his tricks again. Had not he, Lord Clare, warned the young man against him once, when he was too stupid to take the hint? This scoundrel was still then, with, some dark intent, pursuing him. Why had he not been told of this before? It was most serious. Terence kidnapped, evidently by Cassidy! It would never do. Would the countess have to bewail both sons? Not if her old friend could help it. Touching a gong, he gave rapid directions that every prison in Dublin should be searched immediately for the missing prisoner; that, if found, he was to be taken back at once to Strogue, whither the chancellor would proceed in his coach, in the company of his esteemed friend.

But the proposed drive, during which Lord Clare promised himself to twit his fallen foe, was not to be. At the bottom of the stairs he was assailed by a troop of suitors, who would not be refused. Reluctantly he was compelled to allow Curran to trot off on his pony, promising to follow in an hour, at most.

The lawyer rode along, marvelling at the sphynxlike chancellor. Here was a man who reeked of the blood of the peasantry; who would, if he could, have burned all the Catholics in one vast bonfire, and who yet was capable of feeling emotion on behalf of a white-haired old friend. Then he thought of his dear daughter Sara, who seemed stunned by last night's catastrophe. Did she care so much, then, for this lad? It was fortunate that he should have been able to escape. That would save Sara much agony. She would have to be taken abroad for change of scene, and, peradventure, in a foreign land might find the brook of Lethe. How glad her father would be if he too might find it; but that was past wishing for. He was too old to receive new impressions, while Sara would speedily forget.

With shoulders rounded and head bowed, Mr. Curran trotted back to Strogue. Feeling that he was no longer able to fight as he used to do, it was a wonderful relief to think that Robert was gone away. Time was when it was exhilarating to break a lance with my Lord Clare. But the sturdy advocate had received his passport for the undiscovered country, and, but for Sara's sake, was little inclined to murmur if he were required to use it soon. It was clear to him that there must be an exodus-to America-anywhere. He and Sara should be the first to go; and perhaps he might be permitted to linger on until her future was in some way assured.

He trotted along the road, absorbed in sorrowful considerations, until, just as he passed under the hedge which belonged to the Little House, he was rudely roused from reverie. Madam Gillin was gesticulating like a madwoman.

'Hist!' she whispered. 'The boy's not gone! Whillaloo! 'Twas the baker that escaped! It's at Strogue he is this cursed minute. The candle's there, the moth is booming round it! Maybe there's time still. Bid him be off, jewel, do; and I'll keep watch lest any come. Jug's looking out on the back road.'

'Murther!' ejaculated Curran, wide awake now. 'They're scouring the country for him. Oh, the silly lad!' And beating his pony with unwonted vehemence, the lawyer galloped through the park-gates, along the short turn of avenue which led to the Abbey, and, leaving the astonished animal to recover how he could, hurried up the steps into the hall.

The door was idly swinging, but no one was visible in the vestibule nor in the dining-room, nor in Miss Wolfe's boudoir. Hark! Subdued voices, murmuring further on, in the tapestry-saloon. He moved quickly thither, and, standing on the threshold, stamped his feet in the impotent fury of his wrath. There was Robert-haggard and unkempt-still in the pinchbeck uniform, torn and bespattered now, with a peasant's frieze-coat thrown over it-a ridiculous disguise. He was kneeling by a couch whereon lay Sara, her face turned towards him, her eyes fixed full on his with a wild unreasoning longing, while he chafed her hands and kissed them. The tall and graceful figure of Doreen leaned against the sculptured garlands of the mantelpiece, as she gave the homage of silent sympathy to the voiceless parting of this pair, while her mind wandered in the cypressed graveyard of her own sorrow. That heap of black satin, prone under the carriage-wheels, would never leave her memory so long as life should last. Stroke had succeeded stroke, and she winced no more.

All three looked up when Curran stamped his feet, and Robert advanced towards him timidly.

'I have done wrong, terribly wrong, sir,' he said, with a sigh. 'I can make no atonement, except by laying down my life.'

'A useful sacrifice, truly!' the incensed lawyer rejoined. 'You don't think of her-whom you are killing!'

'The breath of the tomb is on me!' implored the lad, with a dry mouth. 'Spare any addition to my misery. I was infatuated, too certain of success, and knew she would be so glad when I succeeded. Those lives-those lives! Would success have blotted out the recollection of them? I go, and it is well that I should go, though I leave to so many a legacy of sorrow.'

There was a dreamy resignation about the youth, as of one who does wrong and leaves others to bear the brunt, which infuriated Curran. If ever there was a moment for promptitude to the exclusion of dreaminess, this was that moment, for the sake of others as well as himself; and here he stood, soliloquising like a Hamlet-the unpractical dangerous dreamer!

'You might have got away, and did not,' said the lawyer, tartly. 'Do you know that the country is being scoured for you-that if you are taken the scrag-boy will make short work of you? You don't care, maybe. Is it nothing to us-to her?'

'Perhaps there is still time. Get ye gone by the postern in the rosary. The peasantry are staunch. You might lie in a cabin under the bed-furniture till night, and then steal out to sea under cover of the darkness.'

'If I fall into their hands I will speak my own defence, sir,' murmured Emmett, without moving.

'And much good may it do you-fool!' shouted the enraged councillor. 'Don't stand shilly-shallying here like a great goose. Sara, order him to go. If he's hanged you'll have yourself to thank for it.'

Sara took no heed, but lay back, watching the dear youth-as white as wax, like one in a trance.

There was a turmoil in the next room, a rustle of silk, an upsetting of chairs, and Mrs. Gillin darted through the doorway. 'Is he gone?' she asked. 'Then it's too late! There's a body of sodgers marching in. They are surrounding the house.'

Robert passed his hands through his matted hair. His belief in his star was gone. He was plainly not destined to be a Joshua. He panted to join those who had crossed the rubicon. On the boundary-line of the other life we are apt to plunge into a selfish beatitude, forgetting the trouble which our exit may entail on those whom we leave behind.

In a few moments his fate was fixed. The regular tramp of disciplined men was heard on the gravel with a ring of matchlocks. Then a figure darkened the casement. It was Major Sirr demanding admittance. Robert opened the window himself, and the town-major's lambs streamed in. Doreen gave a sharp exclamation of surprise-for one of the group was Cassidy-another, who came forward with arms outstretched, was Terence-safe and sound.

The town-major's bushy eyebrows came down upon his nose, as, grinning, he struck Robert on the shoulder. 'Do you recollect, young fellow,' he railed, 'how anxious you twice were to be arrested? I told you then that your turn would come soon enough. It has come now, and I hope you are satisfied, though I fear I shan't keep you long.'

Robert Emmett bowed absently, as if he but half-heard, and, kneeling by Sara's chair again, muttered-forgetful of lookers-on: 'Oh, my love-my love. Do we part thus? I hoped to have been a prop, round which your affections might have clung; but a rude blast has snapped it-they have fallen across a grave!' Then, twining her fair hair about his fingers with affectionate regret, he fell a dreaming, whilst Madam Gillin gulped down her sobs.

'I go into my cold and silent tomb,' he whispered, as he stroked the baby-fingers of his mistress. My lamp of life is nearly extinguished; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom.'

Major Sirr perceived with his usual tact that this sentimental scene was producing a bad impression, and must be interrupted. The extreme youth and woe-begone appearance of Robert-his half-distracted, half-inspired look-moved the spectators to tears. Surely he was too young-too much of a visionary-to be held really accountable for the storm that he had raised. As to the frail girl, she appeared to be beyond sublunary cares. Lulled by angel-strains, she was gazing upon a world which has nothing in common with ours-what she saw was beautiful, and true, and real-the people flitting round her couch were the unreal shades. The town-major tapped his prisoner's arm, and begged him to make haste. 'I must obey orders,' he said. 'They are straightforward, and concise as Lord Clare's always are. I've brought one prisoner here, and must take another hence. Come along!'

Mrs. Gillin, unhooking a pair of scissors from her girdle, between convulsive hiccups, handed them to Doreen. The one woman understood the other's thought. Doreen gently cut the longest tress from Sara's golden head and pressed it into Robert's palm.

'Thanks,' he said, with a quiver of the lip. 'I will wear this in my bosom when I mount the scaffold. I am ready, gentlemen, and will not detain you. Before I leave the world-and I leave it now when I leave my friends-I have one request to make. May the charity of oblivion be accorded to my memory! Let no one write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dares now to vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed!'

This would never do. Major Sirr grasped him roughly by the coat-tail to drag his prisoner away. The soldiers, accustomed to the business, closed in quickly. But ere Robert went, Mr. Curran, with tears streaming down his rugged features, placed his arms about his neck, and held him in a long embrace.

Then was the last of Moiley's victims marched away under a strong guard, and the rest were left to their own sombre meditations. A stillness of oppression fell on all as Curran, Terence, and Doreen gathered round prostrate Sara. Mr. Cassidy found himself awkwardly situated, for nobody took any notice of him. Vainly his boots creaked, while he coughed behind his hand. Mrs. Gillin was no longer afraid, for she as well as others saw that, the tussle over, the final clearing away of Catholic disabilities was only a matter of time-that even if he launched the thunderbolt at her, in terror of which she had held her peace concerning what she knew of him, it would signify little. With the Union a new era was dawning-all the Catholics felt that-one in which Irish and English interests would grow to be the same in the future, when the sea of blood was bridged-one in which the last vile fragments of the Penal Code must soon be swept away-a relic of the dark ages. Even if Mr. Cassidy were to declare publicly that she took her Protestant daughter with her to the mass, it was possible she might escape tribulation for the enormity. So Mr. Cassidy coughed at her in vain. Curran had never liked him. Doreen knew too much of him. It was a satisfaction to all, himself included, when, with a clumsy excuse, he twirled his fine beaver and backed himself out of the apartment.

The old earl, his parent, smirked from his frame upon the new wearer of the coronet. Was the simper more full of meaning than it used to be, or was it merely the limner's conventional flattery? The desire expressed with such solemnity upon his deathbed was accomplished; the wrong was righted now-at last.

An unconscious mesmeric sympathy beyond their own volition fixed the gaze of three people upon that portrait of the wicked earl, while the same thought struck each of them in turn. Doreen withdrew her eyes, and they fell on Terence, who nodded, and striding towards his mother's bedchamber, opened the door softly and entered. Though the day was bright and mild there was a large fire on the hearth, before which crouched my lady, wrapped in a loose white wrapper, supported by many pillows. The windows were dimmed to twilight. Shane's favourite hounds, Aileach and Eblana, sat on their haunches with their muzzles on her lap, in wistful expectancy of that which they might never see. She took no notice of the intruder, supposing that it was Doreen, till recognising a heavier footstep and a dreaded voice, she shrank away from him with a moan, as if she had received a blow.

'Mother!' Terence began.

My lady crawled along the carpet on her knees-a bundle of loose draperies-her head bent down, her white hair straggling, towards her son, who recoiled. The aspect of this piteous ruin-this soul-stricken wreck, the mainspring of whose life was broken, whose courage had ebbed quite away-suffused the heart of Terence with unutterable pity. He raised his mother in his stalwart arms, and pressing his warm lips to hers, whispered:

'Hush, hush! I know all. You have but one child now. Bless me!'

* * * * *

But little more remains to be told. Evil, though it seemeth to flourish like the bay-tree, doth not always prosper in the long run. Lord Cornwallis turned his back on Ireland, glad to depart. Cassidy and Sirr came to blows, and fought a duel on the subject of Terence's release. For those worthies had arranged to share together the reward which Shane was to have given for their little service. But Shane's murder altered the face of matters, and Cassidy, with a presence of mind which did him honour, flew off at once to set free the new Lord Glandore and claim the merit of having done so. The town-major, however, knew his man. The giant's endeavours were fruitless, and Sirr found him blustering at the provost-gate when, in obedience to Lord Clare's behest, he came, with feigned surprise, to carry the new lord back to his ancestral home. Sirr saw through his crony's intention, and branded him hotly with being 'no gintleman,' and a 'mean fellow;' whereupon the two met on Stephen's Green, and, after a few passes, declared 'honour satisfied.' The nests of both were well feathered. One became noted for pious works; the other set up as a patron of art, and formed the finest collection of snuff-boxes in the three kingdoms.

Robert Emmett was hanged in Thomas Street, and met his fate with fortitude. The same enthusiasm which allured him to his doom enabled him to support with serene courage its utmost rigour. His extreme youth and well-known talents filled the spectators with grief. He sang 'The Sword' with a firm and mellow voice, which never quailed till, the board on which he stood being tilted up, he was set free to join the band that were impatiently awaiting him beyond the Styx.

Lord Clare's ambition was not gratified. He who had been so unprincipled and arrogant, so insolent and overbearing, his cleverness no longer needed, was tossed aside by his employers. He carried his pretensions into the English senate, and was ignominiously insulted there by his Grace the Duke of Bedford. Pitt gave him no comfort, observing with a yawn that he was sorry his lordship was a failure; that he would do well, perhaps, to return to Ireland. He who had so deceived was himself betrayed. For a few years he lingered in obscurity, being heard on one occasion, when near his end, to mutter with sombre meaning: 'Earl and Lord Chancellor! It would have been better for Ireland if I had lived a sweep!' He died-some said of chagrin, and some of remorse. Showers of dead cats were thrown upon his coffin. His last eager directions were that his papers should be carefully destroyed unread.

Lord Castlereagh, as all the world knows, cut his throat.

Government, acting on the advice of the Marquis Cornwallis, accorded a free pardon to the new Lord Glandore, whose romantic history softened King George's heart-even though he added yet another to his sins by marrying a Catholic. It is possible that his Majesty's ire might have found vent in a seizure of the property of the incorrigible traitor; but, happily for the latter and for the nation, the King's few wits deserted him, and he was shut up-as he should have been many years before.

Lord and Lady Glandore sojourned abroad awhile, basking in the softness of a kindlier clime. They had suffered too much in Ireland to feel aught but pain in dwelling there. Moreover, they had those under their care whose sorrow hung over them, whilst theirs was at length assuaged.

The old countess and the Currans travelled over Europe with them. My lady never fully rallied. Though her son and daughter lavished every attention upon her which affection could dictate, the ghost was never laid, the startled expression never departed from her face. When they were present she tried to assume cheerfulness; but if one or other came on her unawares, it was to feel that her heart was not with them-that it was buried in the vault on the verge of Dublin Bay, by the side of the unlucky Shane.

Curran did rally to a certain extent, and returned to Ireland to win new esteem as Master of the Rolls. But that was long after gentle Sara died, an event which caused Doreen deep grief, though Terence reminded her that it was for the best. Her reason went from her, so that she never knew of Robert's fate, but would sit crooning the weird ditties of her native land for hours together, and hearken for his coming with a vacant glee that was heartrending to those who loved her: and all who knew her loved gentle Sara. Slowly she faded and sank to rest-peacefully, serenely, with no last buffeting against the trammels of this life-as an infant sinks into refreshing slumber. To her, if not to others, was Heaven kind. Though she was given a cross to bear, yet she never felt its weight, nor knew that she stood in the ranks of the bereaved. It was of her that a gifted poet sang: