Kitabı oku: «Lord Kilgobbin», sayfa 37

CHAPTER LXXI

THE DRIVE

Sunday came, and with it the visit to South Kensington, where Aunt Jerningham lived; and Atlee found himself seated beside Lady Maude in a fine roomy barouche, whirling along at a pace that our great moralist himself admits to be amongst the very pleasantest excitements humanity can experience.

‘I hope you will add your persuasions to mine, Mr. Atlee, and induce my uncle to take these horses with him to Turkey. You know Constantinople, and can say that real carriage-horses cannot be had there.’

‘Horses of this size, shape, and action the Sultan himself has not the equals of.’

‘No one is more aware than my lord,’ continued she, ‘that the measure of an ambassador’s influence is, in a great degree, the style and splendour in which he represents his country, and that his household, his equipage, his retinue, and his dinners, should mark distinctly the station he assumes to occupy. Some caprice of Mr. Walpole’s about Arab horses – Arabs of bone and blood he used to talk of – has taken hold of my uncle’s mind, and I half fear that he may not take the English horses with him.’

‘By the way,’ said Atlee, half listlessly, ‘where is Walpole? What has become of him?’

‘He is in Ireland at this moment.’

‘In Ireland! Good heavens! has he not had enough of Ireland?’

‘Apparently not. He went over there on Tuesday last.’

‘And what can he possibly have to do in Ireland?’

‘I should say that you are more likely to furnish the answer to that question than I. If I’m not much mistaken, his letters are forwarded to the same country-house where you first made each other’s acquaintance.’

‘What, Kilgobbin Castle?’

‘Yes, it is something Castle, and I think the name you mentioned.’

‘And this only puzzles me the more,’ added Atlee, pondering. ‘His first visit there, at the time I met him, was a mere accident of travel – a tourist’s curiosity to see an old castle supposed to have some historic associations.’

‘Were there not some other attractions in the spot?’ interrupted she, smiling.

‘Yes, there was a genial old Irish squire, who did the honours very handsomely, if a little rudely, and there were two daughters, or a daughter and a niece, I’m not very clear which, who sang Irish melodies and talked rebellion to match very amusingly.’

‘Were they pretty?’

‘Well, perhaps courtesy would say “pretty,” but a keener criticism would dwell on certain awkwardnesses of manner – Walpole called them Irishries.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yes, he confessed to have been amused with the eccentric habits and odd ways, but he was not sparing of his strictures afterwards.’

‘So that there were no “tendernesses?”’

‘Oh, I’ll not go that far. I rather suspect there were “tendernesses,” but only such as a fine gentleman permits himself amongst semi-savage peoples – something that seems to say, “Be as fond of me as you like, and it is a great privilege you enjoy; and I, on my side, will accord you such of my affections as I set no particular store by.” Just as one throws small coin to a beggar.’

‘Oh, Mr. Atlee!’

‘I am ashamed to own that I have seen something of this kind myself.’

‘It is not like my cousin Cecil to behave in that fashion.’

‘I might say, Lady Maude, that your home experiences of people would prove a very fallacious guide as to what they might or might not do in a society of whose ways you know nothing.’

‘A man of honour would always be a man of honour.’

‘There are men, and men of honour, as there are persons of excellent principles with delicate moral health, and they – I say it with regret – must be satisfied to be as respectably conducted as they are able.’

‘I don’t think you like Cecil,’ said she, half-puzzled by his subtlety, but hitting what she thought to be a ‘blot.’

‘It is difficult for me to tell his cousin what I should like to say in answer to this remark.’

‘Oh, have no embarrassment on that score. There are very few people less trammelled by the ties of relationship than we are. Speak out, and if you want to say anything particularly severe, have no fears of wounding my susceptibilities.’

‘And do you know, Lady Maude,’ said he, in a voice of almost confidential meaning, ‘this was the very thing I was dreading? I had at one time a good deal of Walpole’s intimacy – I’ll not call it friendship, for somehow there were certain differences of temperament that separated us continually. We could commonly agree upon the same things; we could never be one-minded about the same people. In my experiences, the world is by no means the cold-hearted and selfish thing he deems it; and yet I suppose, Lady Maude, if there were to be a verdict given upon us both, nine out of ten would have fixed on me as the scoffer. Is not this so?’

The artfulness with which he had contrived to make himself and his character a question of discussion achieved only a half-success, for she only gave one of her most meaningless smiles as she said, ‘I do not know; I am not quite sure.’

‘And yet I am more concerned to learn what you would think on this score than for the opinion of the whole world.’

Like a man who has taken a leap and found a deep ‘drop’ on the other side, he came to a dead halt as he saw the cold and impassive look her features had assumed. He would have given worlds to recall his speech and stand as he did before it was uttered; for though she did not say one word, there was that in her calm and composed expression which reproved all that savoured of passionate appeal. A now-or-never sort of courage nerved him, and he went on: ‘I know all the presumption of a man like myself daring to address such words to you, Lady Maude; but do you remember that though all eyes but one saw only fog-bank in the horizon, Columbus maintained there was land in the distance; and so say I, “He who would lay his fortunes at your feet now sees high honours and great rewards awaiting him in the future. It is with you to say whether these honours become the crowning glories of a life, or all pursuit of them be valueless!” May I – dare I hope?’

‘This is Lebanon,’ said she; ‘at least I think so’; and she held her glass to her eye. ‘Strange caprice, wasn’t it, to call her house Lebanon because of those wretched cedars? Aunt Jerningham is so odd!’

‘There is a crowd of carriages here,’ said Atlee, endeavouring to speak with unconcern.

‘It is her day; she likes to receive on Sundays, as she says she escapes the bishops. By the way, did you tell me you were an old friend of hers, or did I dream it?’

‘I’m afraid it was the vision revealed it?’

‘Because, if so, I must not take you in. She has a rule against all presentations on Sundays – they are only her intimates she receives on that day. We shall have to return as we came.’

‘Not for worlds. Pray let me not prove an embarrassment. You can make your visit, and I will go back on foot. Indeed, I should like a walk.’

‘On no account! Take the carriage, and send it back for me. I shall remain here till afternoon tea.’

‘Thanks, but I hold to my walk.’

‘It is a charming day, and I’m sure a walk will be delightful.’

‘Am I to suppose, Lady Maude,’ said he, in a low voice, as he assisted her to alight, ‘that you will deign me a more formal answer at another time to the words I ventured to address you? May I live in the hope that I shall yet regard this day as the most fortunate of my life?’

‘It is wonderful weather for November – an English November, too. Pray let me assure you that you need not make yourself uneasy about what you were speaking of. I shall not mention it to any one, least of all to “my lord”; and as for myself, it shall be as completely forgotten as though it had never been uttered.’

And she held out her hand with a sort of cordial frankness that actually said, ‘There, you are forgiven! Is there any record of generosity like this?’

Atlee bowed low and resignedly over that gloved hand, which he felt he was touching for the last time, and turned away with a rush of thoughts through his brain, in which certainly the pleasantest were not the predominating ones.

He did not dine that day at Bruton Street, and only returned about ten o’clock, when he knew he should find Lord Danesbury in his study.

‘I have determined, my lord,’ said he, with somewhat of decision in his tone that savoured of a challenge, ‘to go over to Ireland by the morning mail.’

Too much engrossed by his own thoughts to notice the other’s manner, Lord Danesbury merely turned from the papers before him to say, ‘Ah, indeed! it would be very well done. We were talking about that, were we not, yesterday? What was it?’

‘The Greek – Kostalergi’s daughter, my lord?’

‘To be sure. You are incredulous about her, ain’t you?’

‘On the contrary, my lord, I opine that the fellow has told us the truth. I believe he has a daughter, and destines this money to be her dowry.’

‘With all my heart; I do not see how it should concern me. If I am to pay the money, it matters very little to me whether he invests it in a Greek husband or the Double Zero – speculations, I take it, pretty much alike. Have you sent a telegram?’

‘I have, my lord. I have engaged your lordship’s word that you are willing to treat.’

‘Just so; it is exactly what I am! Willing to treat, willing to hear argument, and reply with my own, why I should give more for anything than it is worth.’

‘We need not discuss further what we can only regard from one point of view, and that our own.’

Lord Danesbury started. The altered tone and manner struck him now for the first time, and he threw his spectacles on the table and stared at the speaker with astonishment.

‘There is another point, my lord,’ continued Atlee, with unbroken calm, ‘that I should like to ask your lordship’s judgment upon, as I shall in a few hours be in Ireland, where the question will present itself. There was some time ago in Ireland a case brought under your lordship’s notice of a very gallant resistance made by a family against an armed party who attacked a house, and your lordship was graciously pleased to say that some recognition should be offered to one of the sons – something to show how the Government regarded and approved his spirited conduct.’

‘I know, I know; but I am no longer the Viceroy.’

‘I am aware of that, my lord, nor is your successor appointed; but any suggestion or wish of your lordship’s would be accepted by the Lords Justices with great deference, all the more in payment of a debt. If, then, your lordship would recommend this young man for the first vacancy in the constabulary, or some place in the Customs, it would satisfy a most natural expectation, and, at the same time, evidence your lordship’s interest for the country you so late ruled over.’

‘There is nothing more pernicious than forestalling other people’s patronage, Atlee. Not but if this thing was to be done for yourself – ’

‘Pardon me, my lord, I do not desire anything for myself.’

‘Well, be it so. Take this to the Chancellor or the Commander-in-Chief’ – and he scribbled a few hasty lines as he talked – ‘and say what you can in support of it. If they give you something good, I shall be heartily glad of it, and I wish you years to enjoy it.’

Atlee only smiled at the warmth of interest for him which was linked with such a shortness of memory; but was too much wounded in his pride to reply. And now, as he saw that his lordship had replaced his glasses and resumed his work, he walked noiselessly to the door and withdrew.

CHAPTER LXXII

THE SAUNTER IN TOWN

As Atlee sauntered along towards Downing Street, whence he purposed to despatch his telegram to Greece, he thought a good deal of his late interview with Lord Danesbury. There was much in it that pleased him. He had so far succeeded in re Kostalergi, that the case was not scouted out of court; the matter, at least, was to be entertained, and even that was something. The fascination of a scheme to be developed, an intrigue to be worked out, had for his peculiar nature a charm little short of ecstasy. The demand upon his resources for craft and skill, concealment and duplicity, was only second in his estimation to the delight he felt at measuring his intellect with some other, and seeing whether, in the game of subtlety, he had his master.

Next to this, but not without a long interval, was the pleasure he felt at the terms in which Lord Danesbury spoke of him. No orator accustomed to hold an assembly enthralled by his eloquence – no actor habituated to sway the passions of a crowded theatre – is more susceptible to the promptings of personal vanity than your ‘practised talker.’ The man who devotes himself to be a ‘success’ in conversation glories more in his triumphs, and sets a greater value on his gifts, than any other I know of.

That men of mark and station desired to meet him – that men whose position secured to them the advantage of associating with the pleasantest people and the freshest minds – men who commanded, so to say, the best talking in society – wished to confer with and to hear him, was an intense flattery, and he actually longed for the occasion of display. He had learned a good deal since he had left Ireland. He had less of that fluency which Irishmen cultivate, seldom ventured on an epigram, never on an anecdote, was guardedly circumspect as to statements of fact, and, on the whole, liked to understate his case, and affect distrust of his own opinion. Though there was not one of these which were not more or less restrictions on him, he could be brilliant and witty when occasion served, and there was an incisive neatness in his repartee in which he had no equal. Some of those he was to meet were well known amongst the most agreeable people of society, and he rejoiced that at least, if he were to be put upon his trial, he should be judged by his peers.

With all these flattering prospects, was it not strange that his lordship never dropped a word, nor even a hint, as to his personal career? He had told him, indeed, that he could not hope for success at Cradford, and laughingly said, ‘You have left Odger miles behind you in your Radicalism. Up to this, we have had no Parliament in England sufficiently advanced for your opinions.’ On the whole, however, if not followed up – which Lord Danesbury strongly objected to its being – he said there was no great harm in a young man making his first advances in political life by something startling. They are only fireworks, it is true; the great requisite is, that they be brilliant, and do not go out with a smoke and a bad smell!

Beyond this, he had told him nothing. Was he minded to take him out to Turkey, and as what? He had already explained to him that the old days in which a clever fellow could be drafted at once into a secretaryship of embassy were gone by; that though a parliamentary title was held to supersede all others, whether in the case of a man or a landed estate, it was all-essential to be in the House for that, and that a diplomatist, like a sweep, must begin when he is little.

‘As his private secretary,’ thought he, ‘the position is at once fatal to all my hopes with regard to Lady Maude.’ There was not a woman living more certain to measure a man’s pretensions by his station. ‘Hitherto I have not been “classed.” I might be anybody, or go anywhere. My wide capabilities seemed to say that if I descended to do small things, it would be quite as easy for me to do great ones; and though I copied despatches, they would have been rather better if I had drafted them also.’

Lady Maude knew this. She knew the esteem in which her uncle held him. She knew how that uncle, shrewd man of the world as he was, valued the sort of qualities he saw in him, and could, better than most men, decide how far such gifts were marketable, and what price they brought to their possessor.

‘And yet,’ cried he, ‘they don’t know one-half of me! What would they say if they knew that it was I wrote the great paper on Turkish Finance in the Mémorial Diplomatique, and the review of it in the Quarterly; that it was I who exposed the miserable compromise of Thiers with Gambetta in the Débuts, and defended him in the Daily News; that the hysterical scream of the Kreuz Zeitung, and the severe article on Bismarck in the Fortnightly, were both mine; and that at this moment I am urging in the Pike how the Fenian prisoners must be amnestied, and showing in a London review that if they are liberated, Mr. Gladstone should be attainted for high treason? I should like well to let them know all this; and I’m not sure I would not risk all the consequences to do it.’

And then he as suddenly bethought him how little account men of letters were held in by the Lady Maudes of this world; what a humble place they assigned them socially; and how small they estimated their chances of worldly success!

‘It is the unrealism of literature as a career strikes them; and they cannot see how men are to assure themselves of the quoi vivre by providing what so few want, and even they could exist without.’

It was in a reverie of this fashion he walked the streets, as little cognisant of the crowd around him as if he were sauntering along some rippling stream in a mountain gorge.

CHAPTER LXXIII

A DARKENED KOOM

The ‘comatose’ state, to use the language of the doctors, into which Gorman O’Shea had fallen, had continued so long as to excite the greatest apprehensions of his friends; for although not amounting to complete insensibility, it left him so apathetic and indifferent to everything and every one, that the girls Kate and Nina, in pure despair, had given up reading or talking to him, and passed their hours of ‘watching’ in perfect silence in the half-darkened room.

The stern immobility of his pale features, the glassy and meaningless stare of his large blue eyes, the unvarying rhythm of a long-drawn respiration, were signs that at length became more painful to contemplate than evidences of actual suffering; and as day by day went on, and interest grew more and more eager about the trial, which was fixed for the coming assize, it was pitiable to see him, whose fate was so deeply pledged on the issue, unconscious of all that went on around him, and not caring to know any of those details the very least of which might determine his future lot.

The instructions drawn up for the defence were sadly in need of the sort of information which the sick man alone could supply; and Nina and Kate had both been entreated to watch for the first favourable moment that should present itself, and ask certain questions, the answers to which would be of the last importance.

Though Gill’s affidavit gave many evidences of unscrupulous falsehood, there was no counter-evidence to set against it, and O’Shea’s counsel complained strongly of the meagre instructions which were briefed to him in the case, and his utter inability to construct a defence upon them.

‘He said he would tell me something this evening, Kate,’ said Nina; ‘so, if you will let me, I will go in your place and remind him of his promise.’

This hopeful sign of returning intelligence was so gratifying to Kate that she readily consented to the proposition of her cousin taking her ‘watch,’ and, if possible, learning something of his wishes.

‘He said it,’ continued Nina, ‘like one talking to himself, and it was not easy to follow him. The words, as well as I could make out, were, “I will say it to-day – this evening, if I can. When it is said” – here he muttered something, but I cannot say whether the words were, “My mind will be at rest,” or “I shall be at rest for evermore.”’

Kate did not utter a word, but her eyes swam, and two large tears stole slowly down her face.

‘His own conviction is that he is dying,’ said Nina; but Kate never spoke.

‘The doctors persist,’ continued Nina, ‘in declaring that this depression is only a well-known symptom of the attack, and that all affections of the brain are marked by a certain tone of despondency. They even say more, and that the cases where this symptom predominates are more frequently followed by recovery. Are you listening to me, child?’

‘No; I was following some thoughts of my own.’

‘I was merely telling you why I think he is getting better.’

Kate leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and she did not speak. The heaving motion of her shoulders and her chest betrayed the agitation she could not subdue.

‘I wish his aunt were here; I see how her absence frets him. Is she too ill for the journey?’ asked Nina.

‘She says not, and she seems in some way to be coerced by others; but a telegram this morning announces she would try and reach Kilgobbin this evening.’

‘What could coercion mean? Surely this is mere fancy?’

‘I am not so certain of that. The convent has great hopes of inheriting her fortune. She is rich, and she is a devout Catholic; and we have heard of cases where zeal for the Church has pushed discretion very far.’

‘What a worldly creature it is!’ cried Nina; ‘and who would have suspected it?’

‘I do not see the worldliness of my believing that people will do much to serve the cause they follow. When chemists tell us that there is no finding such a thing as a glass of pure water, where are we to go for pure motives?’

‘To one’s heart, of course,’ said Nina; but the curl of her perfectly-cut lip as she said it, scarcely vouched for the sincerity.

On that same evening, just as the last flickerings of twilight were dying away, Nina stole into the sick-room, and took her place noiselessly beside the bed.

Slowly moving his arm without turning his head, or by any gesture whatever acknowledging her presence, he took her hand and pressed it to his burning lips, and then laid it upon his cheek. She made no effort to withdraw her hand, and sat perfectly still and motionless.

‘Are we alone?’ whispered he, in a voice hardly audible.

‘Yes, quite alone.’

‘If I should say what – displease you,’ faltered he, his agitation making speech even more difficult; ‘how shall I tell?’ And once more he pressed her hand to his lips.

‘No, no; have no fears of displeasing me. Say what you would like to tell me.’

‘It is this, then,’ said he, with an effort. ‘I am dying with my secret in my heart. I am dying, to carry away with me the love I am not to tell – my love for you, Kate.’

‘I am not Kate,’ was almost on her lips; but her struggle to keep silent was aided by that desire so strong in her nature – to follow out a situation of difficulty to the end. She did not love him, nor did she desire his love; but a strange sense of injury at hearing his profession of love for another shot a pang of intense suffering through her heart, and she lay back in her chair with a cold feeling of sickness like fainting. The overpowering passion of her nature was jealousy; and to share even the admiration of a salon, the ‘passing homage,’ as such deference is called, with another, was a something no effort of her generosity could compass.

Though she did not speak, she suffered her hand to remain unresistingly within his own. After a short pause he went on: ‘I thought yesterday that I was dying; and in my rambling intellect I thought I took leave of you; and do you know my last words – my last words, Kate?’

‘No; what were they?’

‘My last words were these: “Beware of the Greek; have no friendship with the Greek.”’

‘And why that warning?’ said she, in a low, faint voice.

‘She is not of us, Kate; none of her ways or thoughts are ours, nor would they suit us. She is subtle, and clever, and sly; and these only mislead those who lead simple lives.’

‘May it not be that you wrong her?’

‘I have tried to learn her nature.’

‘Not to love it?’

‘I believe I was beginning to love her – just when you were cold to me. You remember when?’

‘I do; and it was this coldness was the cause? Was it the only cause?’

‘No, no. She has wiles and ways which, with her beauty, make her nigh irresistible.’

‘And now you are cured of this passion? There is no trace of it in your breast?’

‘Not a vestige. But why speak of her?’

‘Perhaps I am jealous.’

Once more he pressed his lips to her hand, and kissed it rapturously.

‘No, Kate,’ cried he, ‘none but you have the place in my heart. Whenever I have tried a treason, it has turned against me. Is there light enough in the room to find a small portfolio of red-brown leather? It is on that table yonder.’

Had the darkness been not almost complete, Nina would scarcely have ventured to rise and cross the room, so fearful was she of being recognised.

‘It is locked,’ said she, as she laid it beside him on the bed; but touching a secret spring, he opened it, and passed his fingers hurriedly through the papers within.

‘I believe it must be this,’ said he. ‘I think I know the feel of the paper. It is a telegram from my aunt; the doctor gave it to me last night. We read it over together four or five times. This is it, and these are the words: “If Kate will be your wife, the estate of O’Shea’s Barn is your own for ever.”’

‘Is she to have no time to think over this offer?’ asked she.

‘Would you like candles, miss?’ asked a maid-servant, of whose presence there neither of the others had been aware.

‘No, nor are you wanted,’ said Nina haughtily, as she arose; while it was not without some difficulty she withdrew her hand from the sick man’s grasp.

‘I know,’ said he falteringly, ‘you would not leave me if you had not left hope to keep me company in your absence. Is not that so, Kate?’

‘Bye-bye,’ said she softly, and stole away.