Lord Kilgobbin

‘What would you have – marriages cannot be all alike. There must be many marriages for things besides love: for ambition, for interest, for money, for convenience.’

‘Convenience is exactly the phrase I wanted and could not catch.’

‘It is not the word I wanted, nor do I think we mean the same thing by it.’

‘What I mean is this,’ said Atlee, with a firm voice, ‘that when a young girl has decided in her own mind that she has had enough of that social bondage of the daughter, and cannot marry the man she would like, she will marry the man that she can.’

‘And like him too,’ added Nina, with a strange, dubious sort of smile.

‘Yes, and like him too; for there is a curious feature in the woman’s nature that, without any falsehood or disloyalty, permits her to like different people in different ways, so that the quiet, gentle, almost impassive woman might, if differently mated, have been a being of fervid temper, headstrong and passionate. If it were not for this species of accommodation, marriage would be a worse thing than it is.’

‘I never suspected you of having made a study of the subject. Since when have you devoted your attention to the theme?’

‘I could answer in the words of Wilkes – since I have had the honour to know your Royal Highness; but perhaps you might be displeased with the flippancy.’

‘I should think that very probable,’ said she gravely.

‘Don’t look so serious. Remember that I did not commit myself after all.’

‘I thought it was possible to discuss this problem without a personality.’

‘Don’t you know that, let one deal in abstractions as long as he will, he is only skirmishing around special instances. It is out of what I glean from individuals I make up my generalities.’

‘Am I to understand by this that I have supplied you with the material of one of these reflections?’

‘You have given me the subject of many. If I were to tell you how often I have thought of you, I could not answer for the words in which I might tell it.’

‘Do not tell it, then.’

‘I know – I am aware – I have heard since I came here that there is a special reason why you could not listen to me.’

‘And being so, why do you propose that I should hear you?’

‘I will tell you,’ said he, with an earnestness that almost startled her: ‘I will tell you, because there are things on which a doubt or an equivocation are actually maddening; and I will not, I cannot, believe that you have accepted Cecil Walpole.’

‘Will you please to say why it should seem so incredible?’

‘Because I have seen you not merely in admiration, and that admiration would be better conveyed by a stronger word; and because I have measured you with others infinitely beneath you in every way, and who are yet soaring into very high regions indeed; because I have learned enough of the world to know that alongside of – often above – the influence that men are wielding in life by their genius and their capacity, there is another power exercised by women of marvellous beauty, of infinite attractions, and exquisite grace, which sways and moulds the fate of mankind far more than Cabinets and Councils. There are not above half a dozen of these in Europe, and you might be one added to the number.’

‘Even admitting all this – and I don’t see that I should go so far – it is no answer to my question.’

‘Must I then say there can be no – not companionship, that’s not the word; no, I must take the French expression, and call it solidarité– there can be no solidarité of interests, of objects, of passions, or of hopes, between people so widely dissevered as you and Walpole. I am so convinced of this, that still I can dare to declare I cannot believe you could marry him.’

‘And if I were to tell you it were true?’

‘I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the mere mention of to-morrow would offend you. It is no disparagement of Walpole to say he is unworthy of you, for who would be worthy? but the presumption of his daring is enough to excite indignation – at least, I feel it such. How he could dare to link his supreme littleness with consummate perfection; to freight the miserable barque of his fortunes with so precious a cargo; to encounter the feeling – and there is no escape for it – “I must drag that woman down, not alone into obscurity, but into all the sordid meanness of a small condition, that never can emerge into anything better.” He cannot disguise from himself that it is not within his reach to attain power, or place, or high consideration. Such men make no name in life; they leave no mark on their time. They are heaven-born subordinates, and never refute their destiny. Does a woman with ambition – does a woman conscious of her own great merits – condescend to ally herself, not alone with small fortune – that might be borne – but with the smaller associations that make up these men’s lives? with the peddling efforts to mount even one rung higher of that crazy little ladder of their ambition – to be a clerk of another grade – a creature of some fifty pounds more – a being in an upper office?’

‘And the prince – for he ought to be at least a prince who should make me the offer of his name – whence is he to come, Mr. Atlee?’

‘There are men who are not born to princely station, who by their genius and their determination are just as sure to become famous, and who need but the glorious prize of such a woman’s love – No, no, don’t treat what I say as rant and rodomontade; these are words of sober sense and seriousness.’

‘Indeed!’ said she, with a faint sigh. ‘So that it really amounts to this – that I shall actually have missed my whole fortune in life – thrown myself away – all because I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.’

Nothing less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self-possession could have sustained this speech unabashed.

‘You have only said what my heart has told me many a day since.’

‘But you seem to forget,’ added she, with a very faint curl of scorn on her lip, ‘that I had no more to guide me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s affection than that of his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily believe in the latter than the former.’

‘Believe in both,’ cried he warmly. ‘If I have conquered difficulties in life, if I have achieved some successes – now for a passing triumph, now for a moment of gratified vanity, now for a mere caprice – try me by a mere hope – I only plead for a hope – try me by hope of being one day worthy of calling that hand my own.’

As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand; but she withdrew it coldly and slowly, saying, ‘I have no fancy to make myself the prize of any success in life, political or literary; nor can I believe that the man who reasons in this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,’ added she, more gravely, ‘your memory may not be as good as mine, and you will pardon me if I remind you that, almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of friendship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. We agreed that each of us claimed for their native land the mythical Bohemia, and we agreed, besides, that the natives of that country are admirable colleagues, but not good partners.’

‘You are not quite fair in this,’ he began; but before he could say more Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and cried out, ‘It’s all true. The people are in wild excitement, and all declare that they will not let him be taken. Oh! I forgot,’ added he. ‘You were not here when my father and I were called away by the despatch from the police-station, to say that Donogan has been seen at Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog. Of course, this is mere rumour; but the constabulary are determined to capture him, and Curtis has written to inform my father that a party of police will patrol the grounds here this evening.’

‘And if they should take him, what would happen – to him, I mean?’ asked Nina coldly.

‘An escaped convict is usually condemned to death; but I suppose they would not hang him,’ said Dick.

‘Hang him!’ cried Atlee; ‘nothing of the kind. Mr. Gladstone would present him with a suit of clothes, a ten-pound note, and a first-class passage to America. He would make a “healing measure” of him.’

‘I must say, gentlemen,’ said Nina scornfully, ‘you can discuss your friend’s fate with a marvellous equanimity.’

‘So we do,’ rejoined Atlee. ‘He is another Bohemian.’

‘Don’t say so, sir,’ said she passionately. ‘The men who put their lives on a venture – and that venture not a mere gain to themselves – are in nowise the associates of those poor adventurers who are gambling for their daily living. He is a rebel, if you like; but he believes in rebellion. How much do you believe in, Mr. Atlee?’

‘I say, Joe, you are getting the worst of this discussion. Seriously, however, I hope they’ll not catch poor Donogan; and my father has asked Curtis to come over and dine here, and I trust to a good fire and some old claret to keep him quiet for this evening, at least. We must not molest the police; but there’s no great harm done if we mislead them.’

‘Once in the drawing-room, if Mademoiselle Kostalergi will only condescend to aid us,’ added Atlee, ‘I think Curtis will be more than a chief constable if he will bethink him of his duty.’

‘You are a strange set of people, you Irish,’ said Nina, as she walked away. ‘Even such of you as don’t want to overthrow the Government are always ready to impede its march and contribute to its difficulties.’

‘She only meant that for an impertinence,’ said Atlee, after she left the room; ‘but she was wonderfully near the truth, though not truthfully expressed.’

CHAPTER LXXXIII

THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT

There was but one heavy heart at the dinner-table that day; but Nina’s pride was proof against any disclosure of suffering, and though she was tortured by anxiety and fevered with doubt, none – not even Kate – suspected that any care weighed on her.

As for Kate herself, her happiness beamed in every line and lineament of her handsome face. The captain – to give him the name by which he was known – had been up that day, and partaken of an afternoon tea with his aunt and Kate. Her spirits were excellent, and all the promise of the future was rose-coloured and bright. The little cloud of what trouble the trial might bring was not suffered to darken the cheerful meeting, and it was the one only bitter in their cup.

To divert Curtis from this theme, on which, with the accustomed mal à propos of an awkward man, he wished to talk, the young men led him to the subject of Donogan and his party.

‘I believe we’ll take him this time,’ said Curtis. ‘He must have some close relations with some one about Moate or Kilbeggan, for it is remarked he cannot keep away from the neighbourhood; but who are his friends, or what they are meditating, we cannot guess.’

‘If what Mademoiselle Kostalergi said this morning be correct,’ remarked Atlee, ‘conjecture is unnecessary. She told Dick and myself that every Irishman is at heart a rebel.’