Lord Kilgobbin

‘He says, “There will be no more a fear of bribery in your case than of a debauch at Father Mathew’s.”’

‘He is right there,’ said Kearney. ‘The only difference is that our forbearance will be founded on something stronger than a pledge.’

Walpole looked at the speaker, and was evidently struck by the calm command he had displayed of his passion.

‘If we could forget Joe Atlee for a few minutes, Mr. Walpole, we might possibly gain something. I, at least, would be glad to know how far I might count on the Government aid in my project.’

‘Ah, you want to – in fact, you would like that we should give you something like a regular – eh? – that is to say, that you could declare to certain people – naturally enough, I admit; but here is how we are, Kearney. Of course what I say now is literally between ourselves, and strictly confidential.’

‘I shall so understand it,’ said the other gravely.

‘Well, now, here it is. The Irish vote, as the Yankees would call it, is of undoubted value to us, but it is confoundedly dear! With Cardinal Cullen on one side and Fenianism on the other, we have no peace. Time was when you all pulled the one way, and a sop to the Pope pleased you all. Now that will suffice no longer. The “Sovereign Pontiff dodge” is the surest of all ways to offend the Nationals; so that, in reality, what we want in the House is a number of Liberal Irishmen who will trust the Government to do as much for the Catholic Church as English bigotry will permit, and as much for the Irish peasant as will not endanger the rights of property over the Channel.’

‘There’s a wide field there, certainly,’ said Dick, smiling.

‘Is there not?’ cried the other exultingly. ‘Not only does it bowl over the Established Church and Protestant ascendency, but it inverts the position of landlord and tenant. To unsettle everything in Ireland, so that anybody might hope to be anything, or to own Heaven knows what – to legalise gambling for existence to a people who delight in high play, and yet not involve us in a civil war – was a grand policy, Kearney, a very grand policy. Not that I expect a young, ardent spirit like yourself, fresh from college ambitions and high-flown hopes, will take this view.’

Dick only smiled and shook his head.

‘Just so,’ resumed Walpole. ‘I could not expect you to like this programme, and I know already all that you allege against it; but, as B. says, Kearney, the man who rules Ireland must know how to take command of a ship in a state of mutiny, and yet never suppress the revolt. There’s the problem – as much discipline as you can, as much indiscipline as you can bear. The brutal old Tories used to master the crew and hang the ringleaders; and for that matter, they might have hanged the whole ship’s company. We know better, Kearney; and we have so confused and addled them by our policy, that, if a fellow were to strike his captain, he would never be quite sure whether he was to be strung up at the gangway or made a petty-officer. Do you see it now?’

‘I can scarcely say that I do see it – I mean, that I see it as you do.’

‘I scarcely could hope that you should, or, at least, that you should do so at once; but now, as to this seat for King’s County, I believe we have already found our man. I’ll not be sure, nor will I ask you to regard the matter as fixed on, but I suspect we are in relations – you know what I mean – with an old supporter, who has been beaten half-a-dozen times in our interest, but is coming up once more. I’ll ascertain about this positively, and let you know. And then’ – here he drew breath freely and talked more at ease – ‘if we should find our hands free, and that we see our way clearly to support you, what assurance could you give us that you would go through with the contest, and fight the battle out?’

‘I believe, if I engage in the struggle, I shall continue to the end,’ said Dick, half doggedly.

‘Your personal pluck and determination I do not question for a moment. Now, let us see’ – here he seemed to ruminate for some seconds, and looked like one debating a matter with himself. ‘Yes,’ cried he at last, ‘I believe that will be the best way. I am sure it will. When do you go back, Mr. Kearney – to Kilgobbin, I mean?’

‘My intention was to go down the day after to-morrow.’

‘That will be Friday. Let us see, what is Friday? Friday is the 15th, is it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friday’ – muttered the other – ‘Friday? There’s the Education Board, and the Harbour Commissioners, and something else at – to be sure, a visit to the Popish schools with Dean O’Mahony. You couldn’t make it Saturday, could you?’

‘Not conveniently. I had already arranged a plan for Saturday. But why should I delay here – to what end?’

‘Only that, if you could say Saturday, I would like to go down with you.’

From the mode in which he said these words, it was clear that he looked for an almost rapturous acceptance of his gracious proposal; but Dick did not regard the project in that light, nor was he overjoyed in the least at the proposal.

‘I mean,’ said Walpole, hastening to relieve the awkwardness of silence – ‘I mean that I could talk over this affair with your father in a practical business fashion, that you could scarcely enter into. Still, if Saturday could not be managed, I’ll try if I could not run down with you on Friday. Only for a day, remember, I must return by the evening train. We shall arrive by what hour?’

‘By breakfast-time,’ said Dick, but still not over-graciously.

‘Nothing could be better; that will give us a long day, and I should like a full discussion with your father. You’ll manage to send me on to – what’s the name?’

‘Moate.’

‘Moate. Yes; that’s the place. The up-train leaves at midnight, I remember. Now that’s all settled. You’ll take me up, then, here on Friday morning, Kearney, on your way to the station, and meanwhile I’ll set to work, and put off these deputations and circulars till Saturday, when, I remember, I have a dinner with the provost. Is there anything more to be thought of?’

‘I believe not,’ muttered Dick, still sullenly.

‘Bye-bye, then, till Friday morning,’ said he, as he turned towards his desk, and began arranging a mass of papers before him.

‘Here’s a jolly mess with a vengeance,’ muttered Kearney, as he descended the stair. ‘The Viceroy’s private secretary to be domesticated with a “head-centre” and an escaped convict. There’s not even the doubtful comfort of being able to make my family assist me through the difficulty.’

CHAPTER XXXIII

PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES

Among the articles of that wardrobe of Cecil Walpole’s of which Atlee had possessed himself so unceremoniously, there was a very gorgeous blue dress-coat, with the royal button and a lining of sky-blue silk, which formed the appropriate costume of the gentlemen of the viceregal household. This, with a waistcoat to match, Atlee had carried off with him in the indiscriminating haste of a last moment, and although thoroughly understanding that he could not avail himself of a costume so distinctively the mark of a condition, yet, by one of the contrarieties of his strange nature, in which the desire for an assumption of any kind was a passion, he had tried on that coat fully a dozen times, and while admiring how well it became him, and how perfectly it seemed to suit his face and figure, he had dramatised to himself the part of an aide-de-camp in waiting, rehearsing the little speeches in which he presented this or that imaginary person to his Excellency, and coining the small money of epigram in which he related the news of the day.

‘How I should cut out those dreary subalterns with their mess-room drolleries, how I should shame those tiresome cornets, whose only glitter is on their sabretaches!’ muttered he, as he surveyed himself in his courtly attire. ‘It is all nonsense to say that the dress a man wears can only impress the surrounders. It is on himself, on his own nature and temper, his mind, his faculties, his very ambition, there is a transformation effected; and I, Joe Atlee, feel myself, as I move about in this costume, a very different man from that humble creature in grey tweed, whose very coat reminds him he is a “cad,” and who has but to look in the glass to read his condition.’

On the morning he learned that Lady Maude would join him that day at dinner, Atlee conceived the idea of appearing in this costume. It was not only that she knew nothing of the Irish Court and its habits, but she made an almost ostentatious show of her indifference to all about it, and in the few questions she asked, the tone of interrogation might have suited Africa as much as Ireland. It was true, she was evidently puzzled to know what place or condition Atlee occupied; his name was not familiar to her, and yet he seemed to know everything and everybody, enjoyed a large share of his Excellency’s confidence, and appeared conversant with every detail placed before him.

That she would not directly ask him what place he occupied in the household he well knew, and he felt at the same time what a standing and position that costume would give him, what self-confidence and ease it would also confer, and how, for once in his life, free from the necessity of asserting a station, he could devote all his energies to the exercise of agreeability and those resources of small-talk in which he knew he was a master.

Besides all this, it was to be his last day at the castle – he was to start the next morning for Constantinople, with all instructions regarding the spy Speridionides, and he desired to make a favourable impression on Lady Maude before he left. Though intensely, even absurdly vain, Atlee was one of those men who are so eager for success in life that they are ever on the watch lest any weakness of disposition or temper should serve to compromise their chances, and in this way he was led to distrust what he would in his puppyism have liked to have thought a favourable effect produced by him on her ladyship. She was intensely cold in manner, and yet he had made her more than once listen to him with interest. She rarely smiled, and he had made her actually laugh. Her apathy appeared complete, and yet he had so piqued her curiosity that she could not forbear a question.

Acting as her uncle’s secretary, and in constant communication with him, it was her affectation to imagine herself a political character, and she did not scruple to avow the hearty contempt she felt for the usual occupation of women’s lives. Atlee’s knowledge, therefore, actually amazed her: his hardihood, which never forsook him, enabled him to give her the most positive assurances on anything he spoke; and as he had already fathomed the chief prejudices of his Excellency, and knew exactly where and to what his political wishes tended, she heard nothing from her uncle but expressions of admiration for the just views, the clear and definite ideas, and the consummate skill with which that ‘young fellow’ distinguished himself.

‘We shall have him in the House one of these days,’ he would say; ‘and I am much mistaken if he will not make a remarkable figure there.’

When Lady Maude sailed proudly into the library before dinner, Atlee was actually stunned by amazement at her beauty. Though not in actual evening-dress, her costume was that sort of demi-toilet compromise which occasionally is most becoming; and the tasteful lappet of Brussels lace, which, interwoven with her hair, fell down on either side so as to frame her face, softened its expression to a degree of loveliness he was not prepared for.

It was her pleasure – her caprice, perhaps – to be on this occasion unusually amiable and agreeable. Except by a sort of quiet dignity, there was no coldness, and she spoke of her uncle’s health and hopes just as she might have discussed them with an old friend of the house.

When the butler flung wide the folding-doors into the dining-room and announced dinner, she was about to move on, when she suddenly stopped, and said, with a faint smile, ‘Will you give me your arm?’ Very simple words, and commonplace too, but enough to throw Atlee’s whole nature into a convulsion of delight. And as he walked at her side it was in the very ecstasy of pride and exultation.

Dinner passed off with the decorous solemnity of that meal, at which the most emphatic utterances were the butler’s ‘Marcobrunner,’ or ‘Johannisberg.’ The guests, indeed, spoke little, and the strangeness of their situation rather disposed to thought than conversation.

‘You are going to Constantinople to-morrow, Mr. Atlee, my uncle tells me,’ said she, after a longer silence than usual.

‘Yes; his Excellency has charged me with a message, of which I hope to acquit myself well, though I own to my misgivings about it now.’

‘You are too diffident, perhaps, of your powers,’ said she; and there was a faint curl of the lip that made the words sound equivocally.

‘I do not know if great modesty be amongst my failings,’ said he laughingly. ‘My friends would say not.’

‘You mean, perhaps, that you are not without ambitions?’

‘That is true. I confess to very bold ones.’ And as he spoke he stole a glance towards her; but her pale face never changed.

‘I wish, before you had gone, that you had settled that stupid muddle about the attack on – I forget the place.’