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 a.s.sembly enthralled by his eloquence--no actor habituated to sway the pa.s.sions 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 a.s.sociating 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 circ.u.mspect 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 emba.s.sy were gone by; that though a parliamentary t.i.tle 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 "cla.s.sed." 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 _Memorial Diplomatique_, and the review of it in the _Quarterly_; that it was I who exposed the miserable compromise of Thiers with Gambetta in the _Debuts_, 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed their hours of "watching" in perfect silence in the half-darkened room.
The stern immobility of his pale features, the gla.s.sy 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 a.s.size, 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sion of her nature was jealousy; and to share even the admiration of a salon, the "pa.s.sing homage," as such deference is called, with another, was a something no effort of her generosity could compa.s.s.
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."