CHAPTER XII.
MOILEY'S LAST MEAL.
Doreen speedily recovered her presence of mind, shaken for an instantby the sudden shock of the predicament in which she found herself. Theringleaders of the riot were, with a few exceptions, netted. The youngofficers of militia, many of whom had danced at balls with thebeautiful Miss Wolfe, were loud in their outcry over the tragedy,vociferous in promises of vengeance. Would she wish the rascals to belashed, or would pitchcaps please her fancy? The malefactors shouldswing, every one; that would be a comfort to her, no doubt.Excruciating cats should be manufactured to oblige her. No punishmentcould be too severe for wretches who had dared to kill two members ofthe peerage. Where should they take their beautiful charge? Would shego to the Castle, or to her lamented parent's mansion? Wherever Venusliked, there would Mars escort her. Disciplined by sorrow, Doreencould even at this dark hour consider the grief of others before herown. The Countess of Glandore was sick and shattered. Since Terence'svanishing she had returned to the condition of an owl; what would bethe effect on her frayed nerves of the sudden death of her favouriteson? Doreen decided, postponing the consideration of her own loss, todrive at once to Strogue, lest tidings should reach her aunt moreabruptly than her state would warrant.
It was dawn when Miss Wolfe reached the Abbey--the cold raw dawn ofearly summer, when nature asserts her right to live despite thetyranny of winter--and she was seized with a new pain on entering thehall; for wan Sara was sitting where she had sank down, to await sheknew not what. Alas! for her, too, was she a bearer of evil tidings,and Sara read them on her face, and sighed. The look of deepcompassion told but too plainly that her worst forebodings wererealised; and that, as a daughter of Erin, she must accept herplace in the grim procession of the bereaved. She did not ask fornews--preferred, indeed, to hear none, for what news was there thatcould bring aught but misery? Like a tired child she closed her eyes,and clung to the older maiden in a mute entreaty not to be left alone.This speechless sorrow was painful to witness. The offices of MissWolfe were needed elsewhere, for there was another in the strickenhousehold who must be attended to before the sad _cortege_ shouldarrive. My lady would have to be told that she had lost both a brotherand a son. It was with relief then that she heard a creaking on thestairs and perceived Mr. Curran coming down, who, by his appearance,had evidently not been to bed. She, who had learned what loss is, knewthe full value of a father's love. Beckoning him to his daughter, shedisentangled the cold fingers from about her neck and went away to mylady's bedroom.
Mr. Curran was himself in dolorous mood. Extremely troubled by therocket which he too had seen, and by hints which, during the pastweek, had reached him through the proprietress of the Little House, hehad been unable to sleep. Groaning in spirit he saw the shamblesreopened; the reign of terror recommenced. His country was dead now;Moiley had eaten her up to the last crumb. Might not the sacrifice ofher existence bring peace unto her sons? As leaning his cheek upon hishand he sat looking across the tranquil bay at the twinkling lightsbeyond, his heart became exceeding sorrowful while he reviewed theefforts of his life. Memory stood by in a sable robe. Though he hadheld himself erect whilst others grovelled; though his courage hadremained unshaken whilst others quaked and fawned; how little--howvery little--it had been given to him to accomplish! Yet there wasnothing he had wittingly left undone. His political honour was sobright that malice could detect no stain on it. He had worked forothers--not for himself. Instead of lifting himself as he might havedone above the stormy agitation of his time, he had clung to theheaving of the wave--to rise and fall with it--perchance to be dashedwith it upon a rock--with how little result--how little--how verylittle! Yet he saw not how he could have acted otherwise. As dawnbegan to sparkle on the bay, he took up a book to change the currentof his pondering--a volume of the grand Greek poets. It opened at the'Seven Against Thebes,' and he read thoughts which were a painful echoof his own. 'The happiest destiny is never to have been born; the nextbest to return quickly to the nothingness from which we came.' Grandold Titan AEschylus! Was that all his genius could discern? Never tohave been born! Was that the conviction of the great philosopher? Mr.Curran looked out on the panorama stretched before him, as fair aprospect as man may desire to look upon. The glittering waters werestrewn with flakes of silver; the looming hills steeped in a goldenhaze. The beautiful world! Was its beauty a mockery of humantrouble--no more? It seemed so. Those lovely hills were teeming withdesperate men, reduced by the branding-iron of oppression to thecondition of wild beasts. In the blue shadow of those picturesqueravines were cottages--charred, unroofed, deserted. That fairycity that mirrored its whiteness in the bay--glistering,silver-crowned--had been but t'other day the scene of perhaps the mosthideous carnival of human wickedness which ever disgraced humanity.Perchance even at this very instant, while the wizened little man wasgazing out so dreamily, fresh horrors were being enacted. Truly,'twere the happiest of destinies never to have looked on the falsesheen of the sepulchre at all. But though we may drag at them, thetough fibres of existence are deeply imbedded in our flesh.
Mr. Curran, from his station, marked the return of Lord Kilwarden'scoach--the pallid concern of the servants, who were speaking in hushedtones, as though in the awful presence of the Pilgrim. He wentdownstairs to learn what had happened. It was worse than he expected.Deluded Robert--insane enthusiast! Alas! The advocate would have tostand forth yet once again and wrestle for a life; would have to rousehimself from his dejection to do all that was possible to save thislad. With the urgent need for action Mr. Curran recovered his mentalsteadiness. He resolved to seek tidings at once of Robert and ofTerence; to raise his voice in their behalf. Were both concerned inthe disastrous riot? Were both captured? had both escaped? As he rodepast the Little House, Madam Gillin called out that she had somethingto say. Anxious, on account of Terence's disappearance, the kind ladyhad sent Jug into town for several days past to ferret out the truth.The hag had discovered that men had been remarked loitering about theAbbey gates; that Terence one evening had been observed by a passingpeasant to emerge into the road and go to the water's edge; that therehe had been accosted by these self-same suspicious men, who had a boatwith them. It was certain that Terence had never been seen in theneighbourhood of young Robert's _depot_, or in the _melee_ of lastnight. Hence it was clear that he had departed. Where and why? Was itof his own accord? As for Robert, he was not among the captives. Jugexamined them every one, as, heavily ironed, they were marched toKilmainham in detachments. A man in a uniform plastered thick withgold was rowed out to sea by four sturdy rowers an hour or two ago. Inall probability that man was Robert, who had provided for his escapeby means of one of the many vessels that were cruising in the Channel.Utterly mad in all other ways, he had shown prudence and forethoughtin this. He was gone. His noble young life would not be thrown awayfor nothing--he whose sin was too fond a love for unhappy motherland.
Mr. Curran gave a sigh of thankfulness. Small mercies keep us frombreaking down at times. This was good news, at any rate. With couragerevived, he could go to the Castle now and demand with a high handthat inquiries as to the fate of Terence should be set afoot. Ifanything unpleasant was said about Emmett, he could snap his fingersin the Viceroy's face--for the boy was gone, thank goodness, out ofhis clutches. Moiley would grind her gums for her last morsel in vain.The hungry ogress! She had eaten Ireland and quaffed the best blood ofIreland's children. Her appetite was delicate, it seemed, andclamoured for the best. She declined to lunch off the Battalion ofTestimony. The flesh of Sirr and Cassidy was bitter, and she spat itout. 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 dimplesat Curran's badinage, grew grave again. She felt, scarcely knowingwhy, that Cassidy had something to do with the affair of Terence, whowas Earl of Glandore, secret or no secret, now. The difficulty hadbeen solved in a quite unexpected ma
nner; and in her heart of heartsthe worthy woman was glad, though she would have to abandon her desireof seeing Norah adorning the assembly of the _elite_. Ah! deary me,she sighed to herself. There were other fish in the sea. Norah was acomely colleen, who would get a good husband somehow--maybe a betterone than Shane would ever have made, though he was lord of broad acresand had a coronet to bestow on the girl who touched his fancy. Butwhere was the new Earl of Glandore? Curran trotted off to make it hisbusiness to find out.
This last armed attempt to free Ireland was the vulgarest and weakestof riots, which would never have been recorded, or have occupied anyplace in history at all, but for the unfortunate murder of the LordChief Justice and his nephew. Their fate--especially that of LordKilwarden, who was a kindhearted gentleman--demanded a scapegoat.Foolish young Robert was the first cause of the disaster. It wasessential that he should be held up as an example. Could anything bemore provoking than that he should get away? Perhaps he was notgone--perhaps he had landed somewhere. The town-major was commanded toscour the country in all directions. His battalion was well paid andhad been very idle of late. It was time that its members should dosome service to earn their bread-and-butter. Such were the orderswhich issued from the Castle, and Curran knew well that they did notemanate 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 blackvelvet trimmed with sable fur, the Chancellor.
Lord Clare beheld with evident pleasure the entrance of his enemy, theman who had been his stumbling-block through his career; for this wasthe moment of his triumph. He held out his jewelled fingers with apolished bow; rasped out a welcome in his least pleasant voice; andexplained that, in the overflow of labour which sprang from thedetails of yesterday's Great Measure and last night's deplorablecatastrophe, both Viceroy and Chief Secretary were so worked off theirlegs that they had been delighted to accept of his poor services forthe transaction of ordinary business.
Lord Clare was rather sorry for Kilwarden, though he had alwaysdespised him as a nincumpoop. But this transient cloud of annoyancewas dissipated by the sun of yesterday's success and the new vista ofpower which it opened to his ambition; and Curran looked at him inwonder as he strutted and fussed about, with the comical majesty of araven.
It has been observed that the greatest political and religious crimesare due to public spirit out of gear. The Irish chancellor wasprobably honest in his conviction that union was the best thing forIreland, and it was not his fault if his duty and his interest jumpedin the same direction. His standard of morals was so low that thedesperate patriotism of such men as Tone or Terence, or Robert Emmett,were as unknown tongues to him. He despised Kilwarden, though he likedhim, because he was weak; but he hated Curran with all his heart,because, while brave as any lion, ho had an inconvenient knack ofputting his finger on the chancellor's weak places. But Lord Clare wasso jubilant this morning that he was prepared to be generous even tothis enemy. Difficulties were over; he could almost feel the flappingof the united banner overhead, almost hear the packing of the trunksof my Lord Cornwallis. He observed, too, that the crab-apple featuresof the little man before him seemed old and dried; that the eyes wereglazed which used to flash with fire and dance with fun. He was one ofthe fools whose heart was broken over a chimera; of course thesuccessful statesman could afford to be generous to so pitiable awreck. So he said:
'Delighted to see my respected Curran--friend, I suppose, I may notsay? Ah! well. You always wronged me, my good fellow. Civility wasnever among your faults. But demagogues would lose half their prestigeif they were not crabbed. No wonder you are rude, for you have lostall your tricks. Had you not, in a huff, thrown up your seat inparliament, you might have done much to hurt us; and that makes youspiteful, I suppose. What do you gain by this ghastly display ofmartyrdom? Believe me, Curran, that if you are too good for the worldyou live in, it will be more comfortable to yourself as well as othersto go out of it. That's why Wolfe Tone helped himself out of it, Ipresume, and I for one am vastly obleeged to him. Talking of thatreminds me of last night's folly--a sad affair--a sad affair; butcan't be helped, you know. A drop of trouble in the sea of bliss whichyesterday'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 distressedabout is our old friend the countess. She will feel that fellow's fatemost terribly, the more so that he was a ne'er-do-well; though thereare reasons why it's best as it is. Your _protege_ is the holder ofthe family honours now?'
Curran nodded, wondering what his enemy was aiming at; while thelatter, scanning his features, perceived with pleasure that my lady'ssecret had never been divulged to him. It was well that that secretshould lie in as few hands as possible.
'Where is Terence?' Curran inquired bluntly.
'Terence! I know not,' replied the other, in his turn surprised. 'Hasanything befallen him?'
'You _really_ do not? Then it's Cassidy who's done it,' cried outCurran. 'He's been kidnapped for some hellish purpose!'
Knowing Cassidy as he did, the chancellor looked disturbed. It wasquite possible that this worthy might be up to his tricks again. Hadnot he, Lord Clare, warned the young man against him once, when he wastoo stupid to take the hint? This scoundrel was still then, with, somedark intent, pursuing him. Why had he not been told of this before? Itwas most serious. Terence kidnapped, evidently by Cassidy! It wouldnever do. Would the countess have to bewail both sons? Not if her oldfriend could help it. Touching a gong, he gave rapid directions thatevery prison in Dublin should be searched immediately for the missingprisoner; that, if found, he was to be taken back at once to Strogue,whither the chancellor would proceed in his coach, in the company ofhis esteemed friend.
But the proposed drive, during which Lord Clare promised himself totwit his fallen foe, was not to be. At the bottom of the stairs he wasassailed by a troop of suitors, who would not be refused. Reluctantlyhe was compelled to allow Curran to trot off on his pony, promising tofollow in an hour, at most.
The lawyer rode along, marvelling at the sphynxlike chancellor. Herewas a man who reeked of the blood of the peasantry; who would, if hecould, have burned all the Catholics in one vast bonfire, and who yetwas capable of feeling emotion on behalf of a white-haired old friend.Then he thought of his dear daughter Sara, who seemed stunned by lastnight's catastrophe. Did she care so much, then, for this lad? It wasfortunate that he should have been able to escape. That would saveSara much agony. She would have to be taken abroad for change ofscene, and, peradventure, in a foreign land might find the brook ofLethe. How glad her father would be if he too might find it; but thatwas past wishing for. He was too old to receive new impressions, whileSara would speedily forget.
With shoulders rounded and head bowed, Mr. Curran trotted back toStrogue. 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 waswhen it was exhilarating to break a lance with my Lord Clare. But thesturdy advocate had received his passport for the undiscoveredcountry, and, but for Sara's sake, was little inclined to murmur if hewere required to use it soon. It was clear to him that there must bean exodus--to America--anywhere. He and Sara should be the first togo; and perhaps he might be permitted to linger on until her futurewas 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 LittleHouse, he was rudely roused from reverie. Madam Gillin wasgesticulating like a madwoman.
'Hist!' she whispered. 'The boy's not gone! Whillaloo! 'Twas the bakerthat escaped! It's at Strogue he is this cursed minute. The candle'sthere, the moth is booming round it! Maybe there's time still. Bid himbe off, jewel, do; and I'll keep watch lest any come. Jug's lookingout on the back road.'
'Murther!' ejaculated Curran, wide awake now. 'They're scouring thecountry for him. Oh, the silly lad!' And beating his pony withunwonted vehemence, the lawyer gall
oped through the park-gates, alongthe short turn of avenue which led to the Abbey, and, leaving theastonished animal to recover how he could, hurried up the steps intothe hall.
The door was idly swinging, but no one was visible in the vestibulenor in the dining-room, nor in Miss Wolfe's boudoir. Hark! Subduedvoices, murmuring further on, in the tapestry-saloon. He movedquickly thither, and, standing on the threshold, stamped his feetin the impotent fury of his wrath. There was Robert--haggard andunkempt--still in the pinchbeck uniform, torn and bespattered now,with a peasant's frieze-coat thrown over it--a ridiculous disguise. Hewas kneeling by a couch whereon lay Sara, her face turned towards him,her eyes fixed full on his with a wild unreasoning longing, while hechafed her hands and kissed them. The tall and graceful figure ofDoreen leaned against the sculptured garlands of the mantelpiece, asshe gave the homage of silent sympathy to the voiceless parting ofthis pair, while her mind wandered in the cypressed graveyard of herown sorrow. That heap of black satin, prone under the carriage-wheels,would never leave her memory so long as life should last. Stroke hadsucceeded stroke, and she winced no more.
All three looked up when Curran stamped his feet, and Robert advancedtowards him timidly.
'I have done wrong, terribly wrong, sir,' he said, with a sigh. 'I canmake no atonement, except by laying down my life.'
'A useful sacrifice, truly!' the incensed lawyer rejoined. 'You don'tthink 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 ofsuccess, and knew she would be so glad when I succeeded. Thoselives--those lives! Would success have blotted out the recollection ofthem? I go, and it is well that I should go, though I leave to so manya legacy of sorrow.'
There was a dreamy resignation about the youth, as of one who doeswrong and leaves others to bear the brunt, which infuriated Curran. Ifever there was a moment for promptitude to the exclusion ofdreaminess, this was that moment, for the sake of others as well ashimself; and here he stood, soliloquising like a Hamlet--theunpractical dangerous dreamer!
'You might have got away, and did not,' said the lawyer, tartly. 'Doyou know that the country is being scoured for you--that if you aretaken 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 therosary. The peasantry are staunch. You might lie in a cabin under thebed-furniture till night, and then steal out to sea under cover of thedarkness.'
'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 himto 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 aswax, like one in a trance.
There was a turmoil in the next room, a rustle of silk, an upsettingof 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 hisstar was gone. He was plainly not destined to be a Joshua. He pantedto join those who had crossed the rubicon. On the boundary-line of theother life we are apt to plunge into a selfish beatitude, forgettingthe trouble which our exit may entail on those whom we leave behind.
In a few moments his fate was fixed. The regular tramp of disciplinedmen was heard on the gravel with a ring of matchlocks. Then a figuredarkened the casement. It was Major Sirr demanding admittance. Robertopened the window himself, and the town-major's lambs streamed in.Doreen gave a sharp exclamation of surprise--for one of the group wasCassidy--another, who came forward with arms outstretched, wasTerence--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,' herailed, 'how anxious you twice were to be arrested? I told you thenthat your turn would come soon enough. It has come now, and I hope youare satisfied, though I fear I shan't keep you long.'
Robert Emmett bowed absently, as if he but half-heard, and, kneelingby Sara's chair again, muttered--forgetful of lookers-on: 'Oh, mylove--my love. Do we part thus? I hoped to have been a prop, roundwhich your affections might have clung; but a rude blast has snappedit--they have fallen across a grave!' Then, twining her fair hairabout his fingers with affectionate regret, he fell a dreaming, whilstMadam Gillin gulped down her sobs.
'I go into my cold and silent tomb,' he whispered, as he stroked thebaby-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 scenewas producing a bad impression, and must be interrupted. The extremeyouth and woe-begone appearance of Robert--his half-distracted,half-inspired look--moved the spectators to tears. Surely he was tooyoung--too much of a visionary--to be held really accountable for thestorm that he had raised. As to the frail girl, she appeared to bebeyond sublunary cares. Lulled by angel-strains, she was gazing upon aworld which has nothing in common with ours--what she saw wasbeautiful, and true, and real--the people flitting round her couchwere the unreal shades. The town-major tapped his prisoner's arm, andbegged him to make haste. 'I must obey orders,' he said. 'They arestraightforward, and concise as Lord Clare's always are. I've broughtone prisoner here, and must take another hence. Come along!'
Mrs. Gillin, unhooking a pair of scissors from her girdle, betweenconvulsive hiccups, handed them to Doreen. The one woman understoodthe other's thought. Doreen gently cut the longest tress from Sara'sgolden head and pressed it into Robert's palm.
'Thanks,' he said, with a quiver of the lip. 'I will wear this in mybosom when I mount the scaffold. I am ready, gentlemen, and will notdetain you. Before I leave the world--and I leave it now when I leavemy friends--I have one request to make. May the charity of oblivion beaccorded to my memory! Let no one write my epitaph; for as no man whoknows my motives dares now to vindicate them, let not prejudice orignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in peace, and my tombremain uninscribed!'
This would never do. Major Sirr grasped him roughly by the coat-tailto drag his prisoner away. The soldiers, accustomed to the business,closed in quickly. But ere Robert went, Mr. Curran, with tearsstreaming 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 strongguard, and the rest were left to their own sombre meditations. Astillness of oppression fell on all as Curran, Terence, and Doreengathered round prostrate Sara. Mr. Cassidy found himself awkwardlysituated, 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 finalclearing away of Catholic disabilities was only a matter of time--thateven if he launched the thunderbolt at her, in terror of which she hadheld her peace concerning what she knew of him, it would signifylittle. With the Union a new era was dawning--all the Catholics feltthat--one in which Irish and English interests would grow to be thesame in the future, when the sea of blood was bridged--one in whichthe last vile fragments of the Penal Code must soon be swept away--arelic of the dark ages. Even if Mr. Cassidy were to declare publiclythat she took her Protestant daughter with her to the mass, it waspossible she might escape tribulation for the enormity. So Mr. Cassidycoughed at her in vain. Curran had never liked him. Doreen knew toomuch of him. It was a satisfaction to all, himself included, when,with a clumsy excuse, he twirled his fine beaver and backed himselfout of the apartment.
The old earl, his parent, smirked from his frame upon the new wearerof the coronet. Was the simper more full of meaning than it used tobe, or was it merely the limner's conventional flattery? The desireexpressed with such solemni
ty upon his deathbed was accomplished; thewrong was righted now--at last.
An unconscious mesmeric sympathy beyond their own volition fixed thegaze of three people upon that portrait of the wicked earl, while thesame thought struck each of them in turn. Doreen withdrew her eyes,and they fell on Terence, who nodded, and striding towards hismother's bedchamber, opened the door softly and entered. Though theday was bright and mild there was a large fire on the hearth, beforewhich crouched my lady, wrapped in a loose white wrapper, supported bymany pillows. The windows were dimmed to twilight. Shane's favouritehounds, Aileach and Eblana, sat on their haunches with their muzzleson her lap, in wistful expectancy of that which they might never see.She took no notice of the intruder, supposing that it was Doreen, tillrecognising a heavier footstep and a dreaded voice, she shrank awayfrom 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 loosedraperies--her head bent down, her white hair straggling, towards herson, who recoiled. The aspect of this piteous ruin--this soul-strickenwreck, the mainspring of whose life was broken, whose courage hadebbed quite away--suffused the heart of Terence with unutterable pity.He raised his mother in his stalwart arms, and pressing his warm lipsto 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 toflourish like the bay-tree, doth not always prosper in the long run.Lord Cornwallis turned his back on Ireland, glad to depart. Cassidyand Sirr came to blows, and fought a duel on the subject of Terence'srelease. For those worthies had arranged to share together the rewardwhich Shane was to have given for their little service. But Shane'smurder altered the face of matters, and Cassidy, with a presence ofmind which did him honour, flew off at once to set free the new LordGlandore and claim the merit of having done so. The town-major,however, knew his man. The giant's endeavours were fruitless, and Sirrfound him blustering at the provost-gate when, in obedience to LordClare's behest, he came, with feigned surprise, to carry the new lordback 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 withfortitude. The same enthusiasm which allured him to his doom enabledhim to support with serene courage its utmost rigour. His extremeyouth 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 jointhe band that were impatiently awaiting him beyond the Styx.
Lord Clare's ambition was not gratified. He who had been sounprincipled and arrogant, so insolent and overbearing, his clevernessno longer needed, was tossed aside by his employers. He carried hispretensions into the English senate, and was ignominiously insultedthere 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 sodeceived was himself betrayed. For a few years he lingered inobscurity, being heard on one occasion, when near his end, to mutterwith sombre meaning: 'Earl and Lord Chancellor! It would have beenbetter for Ireland if I had lived a sweep!' He died--some said ofchagrin, and some of remorse. Showers of dead cats were thrown uponhis coffin. His last eager directions were that his papers should becarefully destroyed unread.
Lord Castlereagh, as all the world knows, cut his throat.
Government, acting on the advice of the Marquis Cornwallis, accorded afree pardon to the new Lord Glandore, whose romantic history softenedKing George's heart--even though he added yet another to his sins bymarrying a Catholic. It is possible that his Majesty's ire might havefound vent in a seizure of the property of the incorrigible traitor;but, happily for the latter and for the nation, the King's few witsdeserted him, and he was shut up--as he should have been many yearsbefore.
Lord and Lady Glandore sojourned abroad awhile, basking in thesoftness of a kindlier clime. They had suffered too much in Ireland tofeel aught but pain in dwelling there. Moreover, they had those undertheir care whose sorrow hung over them, whilst theirs was at lengthassuaged.
The old countess and the Currans travelled over Europe with them. Mylady never fully rallied. Though her son and daughter lavished everyattention upon her which affection could dictate, the ghost was neverlaid, the startled expression never departed from her face. When theywere present she tried to assume cheerfulness; but if one or othercame on her unawares, it was to feel that her heart was not withthem--that it was buried in the vault on the verge of Dublin Bay, bythe side of the unlucky Shane.
Curran did rally to a certain extent, and returned to Ireland to winnew esteem as Master of the Rolls. But that was long after gentle Saradied, an event which caused Doreen deep grief, though Terence remindedher that it was for the best. Her reason went from her, so that shenever knew of Robert's fate, but would sit crooning the weird dittiesof her native land for hours together, and hearken for his coming witha vacant glee that was heartrending to those who loved her: and allwho knew her loved gentle Sara. Slowly she faded and sank torest--peacefully, serenely, with no last buffeting against thetrammels of this life--as an infant sinks into refreshing slumber. Toher, if not to others, was Heaven kind. Though she was given a crossto bear, yet she never felt its weight, nor knew that she stood in theranks of the bereaved. It was of her that a gifted poet sang:
'Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow!'
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3) Page 12
