Lord Kilgobbin

‘I said more or less of one, Mr. Atlee, since there are some who have not the courage of their opinions.’

‘I hope you are gratified by the emendation,’ whispered Dick; and then added aloud, ‘Donogan is not one of these.’

‘He’s a consummate fool,’ cried Curtis bluntly. ‘He thinks the attack of a police-barrack or the capture of a few firelocks will revolutionise Ireland.’

‘He forgets that there are twelve thousand police, officered by such men as yourself, captain,’ said Nina gravely.

‘Well, there might be worse,’ rejoined Curtis doggedly, for he was not quite sure of the sincerity of the speaker.

‘What will you be the better of taking him?’ said Kilgobbin. ‘If the whole tree be pernicious, where’s the use of plucking one leaf off it?’

‘The captain has nothing to do with that,’ said Atlee, ‘any more than a hound has to discuss the morality of foxhunting – his business is the pursuit.’

‘I don’t like your simile, Mr. Atlee,’ said Nina, while she whispered some words to the captain, and drew him in this way into a confidential talk.

‘I don’t mind him at all, Miss Nina,’ said Curtis; ‘he’s one of those fellows on the press, and they are always saying impertinent things to keep their talents in wind. I’ll tell you, in confidence, how wrong he is. I have just had a meeting with the Chief Secretary, who told me that the popish bishops are not at all pleased with the leniency of the Government; that whatever “healing measures” Mr. Gladstone contemplates, ought to be for the Church and the Catholics; that the Fenians or the Nationalists are the enemies of the Holy Father; and that the time has come for the Government to hunt them down, and give over the rule of Ireland to the Cardinal and his party.’

‘That seems to me very reasonable, and very logical,’ said Nina.

‘Well, it is and it is not. If you want peace in the rabbit-warren, you must banish either the rats or the rabbits; and I suppose either the Protestants or the Papists must have it their own way here.’

‘Then you mean to capture this man?’

‘We do – we are determined on that. And, what’s more, I’d hang him if I had the power.’

‘And why?’

‘Just because he isn’t a bad fellow! There’s no use in hanging a bad fellow in Ireland – it frightens nobody; but if you hang a respectable man, a man that has done generous and fine things, it produces a great effect on society, and is a terrible example.’

‘There may be a deep wisdom in what you say.’

‘Not that they’ll mind me for all that. It’s the men like myself, Miss Nina, who know Ireland well, who know every assize town in the country, and what the juries will do in each, are never consulted in England. They say, “Let Curtis catch him – that’s his business.”’

‘And how will you do it?’

‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t men enough to watch all the roads; but I’ll take care to have my people where he’s least likely to go, that is, to the north. He’s a cunning fellow is Dan, and he’d make for the Shannon if he could; but now that he knows we ‘re after him, he’ll turn to Antrim or Derry. He’ll cut across Westmeath, and make north, if he gets away from this.’

‘That is a very acute calculation of yours; and where do you suspect he may be now – I mean, at this moment we’re talking?’

‘He’s not three miles from where we’re sitting,’ said he, in a low whisper, and a cautious glance round the table. ‘He’s hid in the bog outside. There’s scores of places there a man could hide in, and never be tracked; and there’s few fellows would like to meet Donogan single-handed. He’s as active as a rope-dancer, and he’s as courageous as the devil.’

‘It would be a pity to hang such a fellow.’

‘There’s plenty more of the same sort – not exactly as good as him, perhaps, for Dan was a gentleman once.’

‘And is, probably, still?’

‘It would be hard for him, with the rapscallions he has to live with, and not five shillings in his pocket, besides.’

‘I don’t know, after all, if you’ll be happier for giving him up to the law. He may have a mother, a sister, a wife, or a sweetheart.’

‘He may have a sweetheart, but I know he has none of the others. He said, in the dock, that no man could quit life at less cost – that there wasn’t one to grieve after him.’

‘Poor fellow! that was a sad confession.’

‘We’re not all to turn Fenians, Miss Nina, because we’re only children and unmarried.’

‘You are too clever for me to dispute with,’ said she, in affected humility; ‘but I like greatly to hear you talk of Ireland. Now, what number of people have you here?’

‘I have my orderly, and two men to patrol the demesne; but to-morrow we’ll draw the net tighter. We’ll call in all the party from Moate, and from information I have got, we’re sure to track him.’

‘What confidences is Curtis making with Mademoiselle Nina?’ said Atlee, who, though affecting to join the general conversation, had never ceased to watch them.

‘The captain is telling me how he put down the Fenians in the rising of ‘61,’ said Nina calmly.

‘And did he? I say, Curtis, have you really suppressed rebellion in Ireland?’

‘No; nor won’t, Mr. Joe Atlee, till we put down the rascally press – the unprincipled penny-a-liners, that write treason to pay for their dinner.’

‘Poor fellows!’ replied Atlee. ‘Let us hope it does not interfere with their digestion. But seriously, mademoiselle, does it not give you a great notion of our insecurity here in Ireland when you see to what we trust, law and order.

‘Never mind him, Curtis,’ said Kilgobbin. ‘When these fellows are not saying sharp things, they have to be silent.’

While the conversation went briskly on, Nina contrived to glance unnoticed at her watch, and saw that it wanted only a quarter of an hour to nine. Nine was the hour she had named to Donogan to be in the garden, and she already trembled at the danger to which she had exposed him. She reasoned thus: so reckless and fearless is this man, that, if he should have come determined to see me, and I do not go to meet him, he is quite capable of entering the house boldly, even at the cost of being captured. The very price he would have to pay for his rashness would be its temptation.’

A sudden cast of seriousness overcame her as she thus thought, and Kate, perceiving it, rose at once to retire.

‘You were not ill, dearest Nina? I saw you grow pale, and I fancied for a moment you seemed faint.’

‘No; a mere passing weakness. I shall lie down and be better presently.’

‘And then you’ll come up to aunt’s room – I call godmother aunt now – and take tea with Gorman and us all.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that after a little rest. I’ll take half an hour or so of quiet,’ said she, in broken utterances. ‘I suppose the gentlemen will sit over their wine; there’s no fear of their breaking-up.’

‘Very little fear, indeed,’ said Kate, laughing at the word. ‘Papa made me give out some of his rare old ‘41 wine to-day, and they’re not likely to leave it.’

‘Bye-bye, then, for a little while,’ said Nina dreamily, for her thoughts had gone off on another track. ‘I shall join you later on.’

Kate tripped gaily up the stairs, singing pleasantly as she went, for hers was a happy heart and a hopeful.

Nina lingered for a moment with her hand on the banister, and then hurried to her room.

It was a still cold night of deep winter, a very faint crescent of a new moon was low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, slightly crisped with frost, covered the ground. Nina opened her window and looked out. All was still and quiet without – not a twig moved. She bent her ear to listen, thinking that on the frozen ground a step might perhaps be heard, and it was a relief to her anxiety when she heard nothing. The chill cold air that came in through the window warned her to muffle herself well, and she drew the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head. Strong-booted, and with warm gloves, she stood for a moment at her door to listen, and finding all quiet, she slowly descended the stairs and gained the hall. She started affrighted as she entered, thinking there was some one seated at the table, but she rallied in an instant, as she saw it was only the loose horseman’s coat or cloak of the chief constable, which, lined with red, and with the gold-laced cap beside it, made up the delusion that alarmed her.

It was not an easy task to withdraw the heavy bolts and bars that secured the massive door, and even to turn the heavy key in the lock required an effort; but she succeeded at length, and issued forth into the open.

‘How I hope he has not come! how I pray he has not ventured!’ said she to herself as she walked along. ‘Leave-takings are sad things, and why incur one so full of peril and misery too? When I wrote to him, of course I knew nothing of his danger, and it is exactly his danger will make him come!’ She knew of others to whom such reasonings would not have applied, and a scornful shake of the head showed that she would not think of them at such a moment. The sound of her own footsteps on the crisp ground made her once or twice believe she heard some one coming, and as she stopped to listen, the strong beating of her heart could be counted. It was not fear – at least not fear in the sense of a personal danger – it was that high tension which great anxiety lends to the nerves, exalting vitality to a state in which a sensation is as powerful as a material influence.