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THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 POPULAR STORIES BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 
 Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 By MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 
 
 By WALTER BESANT & JAMES RICE. 
 Ready-Money Mor- 
 
 tiboy. 
 My Little Girl. 
 Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 With Harp & Grown. 
 The GoldenButterfiy. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelema. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's 
 
 Bay. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 Chaplain of the Fleet 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 . Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 'me Captains' Room. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 A Child of Nature. I Martyrdom of Made- 
 God and the Man. line. 
 Shadow of the Sword | Love Me for Ever. 
 
 By MRS. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 By MORTIMER COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 
 By MORTIMER & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play Me False. 
 
 By WILKIE 
 Antonina. 
 Basil. 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 The Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in White 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 
 COLLINS. 
 Miss or Mrs. ? 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law and the 
 
 Lady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 
 By DUTTON COOK. 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By J. LEITH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. 
 
 By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
 Felicia. 
 
 By MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. | Queen Cophetua. 
 
 One by One. 
 
 By EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 In Love and War. 
 What will World say? 
 For the King. 
 In Honour Bound. 
 
 Queen of the Meadow 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Flower of the Forest. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. I Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. | Prince Saroni's Wife 
 Dust. 
 
 By SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By MRS. ALFRED HUNT. 
 Thornicroft's Model. | The Leaden Casket. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By HENRY JAMES, Jun. 
 Confidence. 
 
 By HARRIETT JAY. 
 Queen of Connaught. | The Dark Colleen. 
 
 By HENRY KINGSLEY. 
 Number Seventeen. | Oakshott Castle. 
 
 .CIIATTO AND WIND US, PICCADILLY, LONDON, IV. [1. 
 
 A 
 
THE PICCADILLY NOVELS— continued. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The Atonement of 
 
 Learn Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost 
 
 Under Which Lord ? 
 With a Silken Thread 
 Rebel of the Family. 
 ' My Love V 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By justin McCarthy. 
 
 Waterdale Neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Linley Rochford. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 Donna Quixote. 
 Comet of a Season. 
 
 By GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D. 
 Paul Faber, Surgeon. 
 Thomas Wingfold, Curate. 
 
 By MRS. MACDONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 By KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. 
 Lost Rose. | The Evil Eye. 
 
 By FLORENCE MARRY AT. 
 Open ! Sesame ! j Written in Fire. 
 
 By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 Touch and Go. 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A Life's Atonement. I Coals of Fire. 
 Joseph's Coat. | A Model Father. 
 
 Val Strange. 
 
 By MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd 
 The Best of Husbands 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 Halves. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 What He Cost Her. 
 Less Black than 
 we're Painted. 
 
 Kit : a 
 
 By Proxy. 
 High Spirits. 
 Under One Roof. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 A Confidential Agent 
 From Exile. 
 A Grape f roina Thorn 
 For Cash Only. 
 Memory. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 Valentina. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 It is Never Too Late 
 
 to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Peg Woffington. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 The Double Marriage 
 Love Me Little, Love 
 
 Me Long. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 Cloister and Hearth. 
 
 The Course of True 
 
 Love. 
 The Autobiography 
 
 of a Thief. 
 Put Yourself in His 
 
 Place. 
 Terrible Temptation 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 A Simpleton. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 Readiana. 
 
 By MRS. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Bound to the Wheel. I Guy Waterman. 
 One Against the | The Lion in the Path. 
 World. I The Two Dreamers. 
 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 
 Proud Maisie. 
 
 I The Violin-player. 
 
 Cressida. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Way We Live Now. I Frau Frohmann. 
 American Senator. | Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 
 By FRANCES E. TROLLCPE. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 What She Came Through. 
 The Bride's Pass. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. 
 Regimental Legends. 
 
 2.] CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY, LONDON, IV. 
 
THE 
 
 LAND-LEAGUERS 
 
 BY 
 
 ANTHONY f ROLLOPE 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 HonBott 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1884 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, 
 CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE MASK 8 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FATHER BROSNAN 15 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH 22 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER 2*J 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 RACHEL AND HER LOVERS 34 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 brown's . 40 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880 48 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BLACK DALY 52 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BALLYTOWNGAL 59 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MOYTUBBER 64 
 
 j 
 
 m 
 
 281101 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 4 'DON'T HATE HIM, ADA" 7<D 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 edith's eloquence 75 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 RACHEL'S CORRESPONDENCE 79 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON 85 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE ... .92 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 RACHEL IS FREE 98 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST IO4 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE AND NEWPORT 112 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 BOYCOTTING 117 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LAX, THE MURDERER 1 24 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 MORON Y CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED 1 29 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 TOM DALY IS BOYCOTTED . 1 35 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 "FROM THE FULL HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKS " . . . 141 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE GALWAY BALL . . .149 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 LORD CASTLE WELL 1 55 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED 163 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 WHAT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE FUNDS . . . . 170 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS 1 76 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 THE ROAD TO BALLYGLUNIN 1 84 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 THE GALWAY COURT HOUSE 189 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 MR. O'MAHONY AS MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT .... I95 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 captain Clayton's love-making 201 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 LORD CASTLEWELL'S LOVE-MAKING 206 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 MR. O'MAHONV'S APOLOGY 214 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 RACHEL WRITES ABOUT HER LOVERS 222 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 RACHEL IS ILL 227 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 LORD CASTLEWELL IS MUCH TROUBLED 233 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 captain Clayton's first triumph 240 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 YORKE CLAYTON AGAIN MAKES LOVE 247 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE STATE OF IRELAND 25 1 
 
viii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIT. 
 
 LORD CASTLEWELL'S FAREWELL 26 1 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 MR. MOSS IS FINALLY ANSWERED 266 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN 2 JI 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 MR. ROBERT MORRIS 277 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 CONG 283 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 KERRYCULLION 290 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 THE NEW ARISTOCRACY FAILS 296 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX .301 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY. 
 
 IN the year 1850 the two estates of Ballintubber and Morony 
 were sold to Mr. Philip Jones, under the Estates Court, which 
 had then been established. They had been the property of two 
 different owners, but lay conveniently so as to make one possession 
 for one proprietor. They were in the County Galway, and lay to 
 the right and left of the road which runs down from the little 
 town of Headford to Lough Corrib. At the time when the 
 purchase was made there was no quieter spot in all Ireland, or 
 one in which the lawful requirements of a landlord were more 
 readily performed by a poor and obedient tenantry. The people 
 were all Roman Catholics, were for the most part uneducated, 
 and it may be said of them that not only were their souls not 
 their own, but that they were not ambitious even of possessing 
 their own bodies. Circumstances have changed much with them 
 since that date. Not only have they in part repudiated the power 
 of the priest as to their souls, but, in compliance with teaching 
 which has come to them from America, they claim to be masters 
 also of their bodies. Never were a people less fitted to exercise 
 such dominion without control. Generous, kindly, impulsive, 
 and docile, they have been willing to follow any recognised 
 leader. When Philip Jones bought the property that had be- 
 longed to the widow O'Dwyer — for Ballintubber had for the last 
 hundred years been the property of the O'Dwyers — and Morony, 
 which had been an outlying town-land belonging to the Hacketts 
 for the last two centuries, he had at first been looked down upon 
 as a new comer. But all that had passed by, and Mr. Jones 
 was as much respected as though he had been an O'Jones from 
 the time of Queen Elizabeth. But now the American teaching- 
 had come up, and things were different. 
 
 Mr. Jones had expended over ,£30,000 in purchasing the 
 property, and was congratulated by all men on having done well 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 with his money. There were some among his friends in England 
 — and his friends were all English — who had told him that he 
 was incurring a great risk in going into so distant and wild a 
 country. But it was acknowledged that he could not in England 
 Rave obtained so good a return in the way of rent. And it was 
 soon found that the opportunities for improving the property 
 were many and close at hand. At the end of ten years all men 
 who knew Mr. Jones personally, or had seen the increasing 
 comforts of Morony Castle, declared that, as he liked the kind 
 of life, he had done uncommonly well for himself. 
 
 Nor had he done badly for his three married sisters, each 
 of whom had left ,£4,000 in his hands. All the circumstances 
 of the Miss Jones's as they had been, it will be here unnecessary 
 to explain. Since Philip had become owner of Morony Castle, 
 each of them had married, and the three brothers-in-law were 
 equally well satisfied with the investment of their money. It will, 
 however, thus be understood that the property did not belong 
 entirely to Mr. Jones, and that the brothers-in-law and their 
 wives were part owners. Mr. Jones, however, had been in 
 possession of some other means, and had been able to use 
 capital in improving the estate. But he was an aspiring man, 
 and in addition to his money had borrowed something beyond. 
 The sum borrowed, however, had been so small and so well 
 expended, as to have created no sense of embarrassment in his 
 mind. 
 
 When our story commences he was the father of four children. 
 The elder and the younger were boys, and two girls came 
 between them. In 1880, Frank, the elder, was two-and-twenty. 
 The two girls who followed close after were twenty and nineteen, 
 and the youngest boy, who was born after an interval of nearly 
 ten years, was but ten years old. Some years after the mother 
 had died, and Mr. Jones had since lived as a widower. It may 
 be as well to state here that in 1880 he was fifty-five years old. 
 
 When his wife had died, the nature of the man had apparently 
 been changed. Of all men he had been the most cheerful, the 
 most eager, and the most easily pleased. He had worked hard 
 at his property, and had loved his work. He knew every man 
 and woman about the place, and always had a word to say to 
 them. He had had a sailing boat on the lake, in which he had 
 spent much of his time, but his wife had always been with him. 
 Since her death he had hardly put his foot within the boat. He 
 had lately become quick and short-tempered, but always with a 
 visible attempt to be kind to those around him. But people 
 said of him that since his wife had died he had shown an 
 indifference to the affairs of the world. He was anxious — so it 
 was said — to leave matters as much as possible to his son ; but, 
 as has been already stated, his son was only twenty-two. He 
 had formerly taken a great pleasure in attending the assizes 
 
MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY. 
 
 at Galway. He had been named as a grand juror for the 
 county, which he had indeed regarded as a great compliment ; 
 but since his wife's death he had not once attended. 
 
 People said of him that he had become indifferent to the 
 work of his life, but in this they hardly spoke the truth. He had 
 become indifferent rather to what had been its pleasures. To 
 that which his conscience told him was its work, he applied 
 himself with assiduity enough. There were two cares which sat 
 near his heart : first, that no one should rob him ; and secondly, 
 that he should rob no one. It will often be the case that the first 
 will look after itself, whereas the second will require careful 
 watching. It was certainly the case with Philip Jones that he 
 was most anxious to rob no one. He was, perhaps, a little too 
 anxious that no one should rob him. 
 
 A few words must be said of his children. Frank, the eldest, 
 was a good-looking, clever boy, who had been educated at the 
 Queen's College, at Galway, and would have been better trained 
 to meet the world had circumstances enabled him to be sent 
 to a public school in England. As it was he thought himself, 
 as heir to Morony Castle, to be a little god upon earth ; and he 
 thought also that it behoved his sisters and his brother, and the 
 various dependants about the place, to treat him as though he 
 were a god. To his father he was respectful, and fairly obedient 
 in all matters, save one. As to that one matter, from which arose 
 some trouble, much will have to be said as the story goes on. 
 
 The two girls were named Ada and Edith, and were, in form 
 and figure, very unlike each other. Ada, the eldest, was tall, 
 fair-haired, and very lovely. It was admitted in County Galway 
 that among the Galway lasses no girl exceeded Ada Jones in 
 brightness of beauty. She was sweet-tempered also, and gracious 
 as she was lovely. But Edith did not share the gifts, which the 
 fairy had bestowed upon her sister, in equal parts. She was, 
 however, clever, and kind, and affectionate. In all matters, 
 within the house, she was ready to accept a situation below her 
 sister's ; but this was not by her sister's doing. The demigod of 
 the family seemed to assume this position, but on Ada's part 
 there was no assumption. Edith, however, felt her infirmity. 
 Among girls this is made to depend more on physical beauty 
 than on other gifts, and there was no doubt that in this respect 
 Edith was the inferior. She was dark, and small of stature, not 
 ungraceful in her movements, or awkward in her person. She 
 was black-haired, as had been her mother, and almost swarthy 
 in her complexion, and there was a squareness about her chin 
 which robbed her face of much of its feminine softness. But 
 her eyes were very bright, and when she would laugh, or say 
 something intended to make another laugh, her face would be 
 brightened up with fun, good-humour, or wit, in a manner which 
 enabled no one to call her plain. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Of the younger boy, Florian, much will be said as the story 
 goes on ; but what can be said of a boy who is only ten which 
 shall be descriptive and also interesting? He was small of his 
 age, but clever and sharp, and, since his mother's death, had 
 been his father's darling. He was beautiful to look at, as were 
 all the children, except poor Edith, but the neighbours declared 
 that his education had been much neglected. His father 
 intended to send him to college at Galway. A bright vision had 
 for a short time flitted before the father's eyes, and he had 
 thought that he would have the boy prepared for Winchester ; 
 but lately things had not gone quite so well at Morony Castle, 
 and that idea had passed by. So that it was now understood 
 that Florian Jones would follow his brother to Galway College. 
 Those who used to watch his ways would declare that the 
 professors of Galway College would have some trouble with 
 him. 
 
 While the mother had lived no family had been more easily 
 ruled than that of the Jones's, but since her death some 
 irregularities had gone on. The father had made a favourite of 
 the younger boy, and thereby had done mischief. The eldest son, 
 too, had become proud of his position, and an attempt had been 
 made to check him with a hard hand ; and yet much in the 
 absolute working of the farm had been left to him. Then troubles 
 had come, in which Mr. Jones would be sometimes too severe, and 
 sometimes too lenient. Of the girls it must be acknowledged 
 that they were to be blamed for no fault after the first blow had 
 come. Everyone at Morony had felt that the great blow had 
 been the death of the mistress. But it must be confessed that 
 other things had happened shortly afterwards which had tended 
 to create disturbance. One of the family had declared that he 
 intended to become a Roman Catholic. The Jones's had been 
 Protestants, the father and mother having both come from 
 England as Protestants. They were not, therefore, Ultra- 
 Protestants, as those will know who best know Ireland. There 
 had been no horror of a Catholic. According to Mrs. Jones the 
 way to heaven had been open to both Catholic and Protestant, 
 only it had suited her to say her prayers after the Protestant 
 fashion. The girls had been filled with no pious fury ; and as to 
 Mr. Jones himself, some of the Protestant devotees in the 
 neighbourhood of Tuam had declared that he was only half- 
 hearted in the matter. An old clergyman, attached to the 
 cathedral, and who had been chaplain to Bishop Plunket, had 
 been heard to declare that he would rather have to deal with an 
 avowed Papist. 
 
 But the one who had now declared himself as a convert, — I 
 will say pervert if my readers wish it, — was no other than our 
 young friend Florian. He came in one day and assured his 
 sisters that he meant to 'be a Roman Catholic. They only 
 
MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY. 
 
 laughed at him, and told him that he did not know what he was 
 talking about. "Don't I though?" said Florian. " I've had 
 no end of an argument with Father Malachi, and he's got the 
 best o' me. I'm not going to church any more." When his 
 brother Frank was told, he threatened to " lick the young sinner." 
 "That's about the best can be said for you Protestants," said the 
 young imp. " You lick us when you're strong enough." But the 
 father, when he heard the tidings, declared that he would not 
 have his son molested. No doubt he would live to see his 
 mistake. It was to be hoped that he would do so. But there 
 should be no compulsion. So Master Florian remained for the 
 present attached to his Catholic propensities, and duly went to 
 mass at Ballintubber. This had taken place in the autumn of 
 the year. 
 
 There had occurred a circumstance which may be called the 
 beginning of our story. It must first be told that Mr. Jones 
 kept about four hundred acres of the estate in his own hands, and 
 had been held to have done very well with it. A tract of this 
 land lay down on Lough Corrib, and had in former days 
 produced almost nothing but rushes. By means of drains and 
 sluices, which had not been brought into use without the expen- 
 diture of much capital, he had thoroughly fertilised some eighty 
 acres, where he grew large crops of hay, which he sent across the 
 lake to Galway, and fed his sheep on the after-grass with great 
 profit. But the care of the sluices had been a great labour, and, 
 latterly, a great trouble to Mr. Jones. He had looked for no evil 
 at the hands of his workmen, or tenants, or neighbours. But he 
 had been taught by experience to expect great carelessness. It 
 was when the rain had fallen in heavy quantities, and when the 
 lough was full that the evil was chiefly expected. Late in the 
 autumn there came news up to the Castle, that the flood gates 
 on the Ballintubber marshes had now been opened, and that the 
 entire eighty acres were under water. Mr. Jones and his eldest 
 son rushed down, and found that it was impossible to do anything. 
 They could only wait till the waters had retreated, which would 
 not take place for six months. The entire crop for the next 
 year had been destroyed. Then Mr. Jones returned to - the 
 Castle stricken by a great blow, and was speechless for the rest 
 of the day. 
 
 When the news had been brought, the family had been 
 together at the breakfast table. The father and son had gone 
 out together with the teller of the story. But Ada and Edith and 
 Florian were left at the table. They all sat looking at each other 
 till Edith was the first to speak. 
 
 " Flory, what do you know of all this ? " 
 
 " What should I know ? " said Flory. The two sisters looked 
 at him, and each was aware that he did know something. Ada 
 was not so quick as Edith, but even she was aroused. And from 
 
6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 this moment Edith began to take the lead in managing her 
 brother. 
 
 u You do," said Ada. " How was it done ? Who did it— 
 and why ? " 
 
 " Sorrow a know, I know," said the boy. 
 
 " Flory, that is a lie," said Edith very solemnly, looking at 
 him with all her eyes. 
 
 "You've no right to say that," said Florian. " It's just 
 because I've turned Catholic, and it's all your spite." But the 
 boy blushed ruby red, and the colour told its own story. 
 
 As soon as the news had been announced, Edith had seen the 
 boy's countenance and had instantly watched him. His colour 
 had not risen at once ; but his lower jaw had fallen, and his eyes 
 had glanced furtively round, and his whole frame had quivered. 
 Then the rush of blood had flown to his face, and the story had 
 been told so that Edith could read it. His first emotion had 
 made it plain even to Ada. " Flory, you know all about it," 
 said Ada. 
 
 Edith got up and went across the room and knelt down at 
 the boy's side, leaning against his chair and looking up into 
 his face. " Flory, you may lie with your voice, but you cannot 
 stifle your heart within you. You have confessed the truth." 
 
 " I have not," said Flory ; " I wasn't in it at all." 
 
 " Who says that you were in it ? But you know." 
 
 " 'Deed and I know nothin'." Now the boy began to cry. 
 " You have no right to say I did it. Why should I do the likes 
 of that ? " 
 
 " Where were you at four o'clock yesterday afternoon ? " 
 asked Edith. 
 
 " I was just out, up at the lodge yonder." 
 
 " Flory, I know that you have seen this thing done. I am 
 as certain of it as though I had been there myself." 
 
 " I haven't seen anything done — and I won't stay here to be 
 questioned this way," said the boy, feeling that his blushes would 
 betray him, and his incapacity to " lie square," as the Americans 
 say. 
 
 Then the two sisters were left to talk over the matter together. 
 " Did you not see it in his face ? " said Edith. 
 
 " Yes, I saw something. But you don't mean to say that 
 he knew it was to be done ? That would make him a fiend." 
 
 " No ; I don't think he knew it was to be done. But when 
 Frank was teasing him the other day about his Catholic 
 nonsense, and saying that he would not trust a Papist, Florian 
 took the part of Pat Carroll. If there be a man about the place 
 who would do a base turn to father, it's Pat Carroll. Now I 
 know that Flory was down near the lough yesterday afternoon. 
 Biddy Ryan saw him. If he went on he must have seen the 
 water coming in." 
 
MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY. 
 
 " What shall we do ? " asked Ada. 
 
 "Ah!— that's just it. What shall we do? If he could be 
 made to tell the truth, that would be best. But as he denies it, 
 father will believe him. Florian will say that we are spiting 
 him because of his religion." 
 
 "But, Edith, we must tell father. " At last it was decided 
 that Edith should take the boy and talk to him. He was more 
 prone to listen to Edith than to Ada. Edith did find her brother, 
 and talked to him for an hour, — but in vain. He had managed 
 to collect himself after his past breakdown, and was better able 
 to bear the examination to which his sister put him, than at the 
 first moment. He still blushed when he was questioned ; till 
 he became dogged and surly. The interview ended with 
 repeated asseverations on Flory's part, that he knew nothing of 
 the meadows. 
 
 Mr. Jones and his eldest son returned to the house, having 
 been absent the entire day. s( As sure as I am a living man, Pat 
 Carroll has been at the doing of it," said Frank. 
 
 " He cannot have done it alone," said Ada. 
 
 " There have been others in it." 
 
 "That has been the worst of it," said the father. "Of 
 course I have known since the beginning of the year, that that 
 man would do any devil's turn of work against me. But one 
 man cannot do much." 
 
 " Too much ! too much ! " said Edith. 
 
 " One man can murder me, of course. But we haven't yet 
 come to such a state of things as that. Twelve months ago I 
 thought there was not a man about the place who would raise 
 his hand to do me an ill turn. I have done them many good 
 turns in my time.' 5 
 
 " You have, father," said Ada. 
 
 " Then this man came to me and said that because the 
 tenants away in County Mayo were not paying their rents, he 
 could not pay his. And he can sell his interest on his holding 
 now for ^150. When I endeavoured to explain this to him, and 
 that it was at my cost his interest in the farm had been created, 
 he became my enemy. I don't mind that ; one has to look for 
 that. But that others should be joined in it, and that there 
 should be no one to say that they had seen it ! There must have 
 been five pairs of hands at work, and twenty pairs of eyes must 
 have seen what the others were doing." 
 
 The two sisters looked at each other, but they said nothing. 
 " I suppose we shall work it out of them some day," said Frank. 
 
 M I suppose nothing of the kind," said the father. " There 
 are eighty acres of meadow lying under Lough Corrib this 
 moment which will not give a ton of hay next summer, or food 
 for a sheep next autumn. The pastures will be saturated, and 
 sheep would perish with foot-rot and fluke. Then money 
 
8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 must be laid out again upon it, just that Mr. Carroll may again 
 wreak his vengeance." After that there was silence, for the 
 children felt that not a word could be spoken which would 
 comfort their father. 
 
 When they sat down to dinner, Mr. Jones asked after 
 Florian. " He's not well," said Edith. 
 
 " Florian not well ! So there's another misfortune." 
 
 " His ill-health is rather ill-humour. Biddy will take care of 
 him, father." 
 
 " I do not choose that he should be looked after by Biddy 
 in solitude. I suppose that somebody has been teasing him." 
 " No, father," said Edith, positively. 
 
 " Has anyone been speaking to him about his religion ? 99 
 
 "Not a word," said Edith. Then she told herself that to 
 hold her tongue at the present moment would be cowardly. 
 " Florian, father, has misbehaved himself, and has gone away 
 cross. I would leave him, if I were you, till to-morrow." 
 
 " I know there is ill-will against him," said the father. All 
 this was ill-judged on behalf of Mr. Jones. Peter, the old 
 butler, who had lived in the family, was in the room. Peter, of 
 course, was a Roman Catholic, and, though he was as true as 
 steel, it could not but be felt that in this absurd contest he was 
 on the side of the " young masther." 
 
 Down in the kitchen the conversion of the " young 
 masther " to the true religion was a great affair, and Mr. Frank 
 and the young ladies were looked upon as hard-hearted and 
 cruel, because they stood in the way of this act of grace. 
 Nothing more was said about Florian that night. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE MASK. 
 
 Edith, before she went to bed that night, crept up to her 
 brother's bedroom and seated herself on the bedside. It was 
 a little room which Florian occupied alone, and lay at the 
 back of the house, next to that in which Peter slept. Here, 
 as she sat on the bed, she could see by a glance that young 
 Florian feigned to be asleep. 
 
 "Flory, you are pretending to be asleep." Flory uttered 
 a short snore, — or rather snort, for he was not a good actor. 
 " You may as well wake up, because otherwise I shall shake you." 
 
 "Why am I to be shaked up in bed ?" 
 
 " Because I want to speak to you." 
 
 " Why am I to be made to speak when I want to sleep ? " 
 "Papa has been talking about you downstairs. He has 
 
THE MAN IN THE MASK. 
 
 9 
 
 come home from Ballintubber, very tired and very unhappy, 
 and he thinks you have been made to go to bed without your 
 supper because we have been attacking you about religion. I 
 have told him that nobody has said a word to you." 
 
 " But you did." 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " You didn't tell him all that you told me— about letting in 
 the water ? " This was asked in a tone of great anxiety. 
 " Not a word,— not as yet." 
 
 "And you won't ? Mind, I tell you it's all untrue. What 
 do I know about letting in the water?" 
 "Who did it?" 
 " I'm not going to tell." 
 " You know, then ? " 
 
 " No, I don't. But I'm not going to tell as though I knew 
 it. You don't care about it in your religion, but we Catholics 
 don't like telling lies." 
 
 " You saw nothing ? " 
 
 " Whatever I saw I'm not to tell a lie about it." 
 " You've promised not, you mean ?" 
 
 " Now, Edy, you're not going to trap me. You've got your 
 own religion and I've got mine. It's a great thing in our religion 
 to be able to hold your tongue. Father Malachi says it's one of 
 the greatest trials which a man has to go through." 
 
 u Then, Flory, am I to gather that you will say nothing 
 further to me ? " Here the boy shook his head. " Because in 
 that case I must tell father. At any rate, he must be told, and 
 if you do not tell him I shall." 
 
 " What is there to be told ? " 
 
 " I shall tell him exactly what I saw, — and Ada. I saw, — we 
 saw, — that when the news came about the flood, you were 
 conscious of it all. If you will go to father and tell him the 
 truth he will be but very little angry with you I don't suppose 
 you had a hand in it yourself." 
 
 " No ! " shouted the boy. 
 
 " But I think you saw it, and that they made you swear an 
 oath. Was that not so ? " 
 "No ! " whispered the boy. 
 
 " I am sure it was so." Then the boy again plucked up his 
 courage, and declared with a loud voice, that it was not so. 
 
 That night before she retired to rest, Edith went to her father 
 and told him all that she had to say. She took Ada with her, 
 and together they used all their eloquence to make their father 
 believe as they believed. 
 
 " No," said Edith, "he has not confessed. But words drop 
 from him which make us sure that he knows who did it. I am 
 certain that he saw it done. I don't mean to say that he saw 
 the whole thing. The water, I suppose, was coming in all night." 
 
IO 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " The whole night ! While we were sleeping in our beds, the 
 waters of the lough were ruining me," said the father. 
 
 " But he saw enough to be able to tell you who did it." 
 " I know who did it. It was that ruffian Carroll." 
 " But father, you will want evidence." 
 
 " Am I to bring up my own boy to swear that he was there, 
 witnessing what was done, as the friend of my enemies ? I do 
 not believe that he was there at all." 
 
 " If you question him, he will probably own to it. It will be 
 better to get at the truth and face it. He is only ten years old. 
 You must tell me the story of his pretended conversion." 
 
 " Why should it be pretended?" asked the father. 
 
 "Well ; of his conversion," said Edith. 
 
 " I don't see what it has to do with it. Am I to put myself 
 forward as a bigoted Protestant ? Florian has been foolish, but 
 am I to say that I am angry, where I am not angry — not 
 specially angry." 
 
 " It will show the influence under which he has taken up 
 Carroll's side," said Edith. 
 
 " Or the influence under which he has been made to hold his 
 tongue," said Ada. 
 
 " Just so," said Edith. " We do not think that he has made 
 one with your enemies in the matter. But he has seen them at 
 work and has been made to promise that he will hold his tongue. 
 I don't suppose you mean to let the affair slip by without punish- 
 ing anyone." 
 
 When the girls left him, Mr. Jones was by no means 
 persuaded. As far as he could ascertain from examination of 
 the persons about the locality, there was no one willing to 
 state in evidence that he had seen anything. The injury had 
 been done in November, on a wet, dreary, dull afternoon. He 
 did learn that at half-past three the meadows were in their usual 
 condition. As to the sluices, the gates of which had been pulled 
 out and thrown away in twenty different places, he could learn 
 nothing ; no one had seen a sluice gate touched. As to Florian, 
 and what Florian had been seen to do, he had asked no question, 
 because Florian's name had not then been mentioned. But he 
 had been struck by the awful silence of the people. There were 
 women there, living on the spot, with whose families his family 
 had been on the most kindly terms. When rheumatism was 
 rife, — and rheumatism down on the lough side had often been 
 rife, — they had all come up to the Castle for port wine and 
 solace. He had refused them nothing, — he or his dear wife, 
 who had gone, or his daughters ; and, to give them their due, 
 they had always been willing to work for him at a moment's 
 notice. He would have declared that no man in Ireland was on 
 better terms with his tenantry than he ; and now, because there 
 had been a quarrel between him and that pestilent fellow 
 
THE MAN IN THE MASK. 
 
 ii 
 
 Carroll, — whom he had been willing to buy out from his bit of 
 land and let him go to America, so that they might all be at 
 peace, — could they all have turned against him and taken 
 Carroll's part ? As far as he had been able to gather the feelings 
 of the people, from conversations with them, they had all 
 acknowledged Carroll to be wrong. He would have said that 
 there was not one among them who was not his friend rather 
 than Carroll's. He was aware that there had been ill-feeling 
 about in other parts of the country. There had been, — so he 
 was told, — a few demagogues in Galway town, American chiefly, 
 who had come thither to do what harm they could ; and he had 
 heard that there was discontent in parts of Mayo, about Bally- 
 haunis and Lough Glinn ; but where he lived, round Lough 
 Corrib, there had been no evil symptoms of such a nature. 
 Now suddenly he found himself as though surrounded by a nest 
 of hornets. There were eighty acres of his land under water, 
 and no one would tell him how it was done, or by whom. 
 
 And now, to make the matter worse, there had come upon 
 him this trouble with reference to his own boy. He would not 
 believe the story which his daughters had told him ; and yet he 
 knew within his heart that they were infinitely the better worthy 
 of credit. He believed in them. He knew them to be good 
 and honest and zealous on his behalf ; but how much better 
 did he love poor Florian ! And in this matter of the child's 
 change of religion, in which he had foolishly taken the child's 
 part, he could not but think that Father Malachi had been most 
 unkind to him ; not that he knew what Father Malachi had 
 done in the matter, but Florian talked as though he had been 
 supported all through by the priest. Father Malachi had, in 
 truth, done very little. He had told the boy to go to his father. 
 The boy had said that he had done so, and that his father had 
 assented. " But Frank and the girls are totally against it. 
 They have no sense of religion at all." Then Father Malachi 
 told him to say his prayers, and come regularly to mass. 
 
 Mr. Jones agreed with his daughters that it behoved him to 
 punish the culprit in this matter, but, nevertheless, he thought 
 that it would be better for him to let it go unpunished than to 
 bring his boy into collision with such a one as Pat Carroll. He 
 twice talked the matter over with Florian, and twice did so to 
 no effect. At first he threatened the young sinner, and frowned 
 at him. But his frowns did no good. Florian, if he could stand 
 firm against his sister Edith, was sure that he could do so against 
 his father. Then Mr. Jones spoke him fair, and endeavoured to 
 explain to him how sad a thing it would be if his boy were to 
 turn against his own father and the interests of the family 
 generally. 
 
 " But I haven't," said Florian confidently. 
 
 "You should tell me what you saw on that afternoon." 
 
12 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " I didn't see anything," said Florian sulkily. 
 " I don't believe he knew anything about it," said Mr. Jones 
 to Edith afterwards. Edith could only receive this in silence, 
 and kept her own opinion to herself. Ada was altogether of her 
 mind, but Frank at last came round to his father's view. " It 
 isn't probable," he said to his sisters, " that a boy of his age 
 should be able to keep such a secret against four of us ; and 
 then it is most improbable that he should have seen anything of 
 the occurrence and not have come at once to his father." But 
 the girls held to their own opinion, till at last they were told by 
 Frank that they were two pig-headed nincompoops. 
 
 Things were going on in this way, and Mr. Jones was still 
 striving to find out evidence by which a case might be substan- 
 tiated against Pat Carroll, when that gentleman, one winter 
 afternoon, was using his eloquence upon Master Florian Jones. 
 It was four o'clock, and the darkness of the night was now 
 coming on very quickly. The scene was a cottage, almost in 
 the town of Headford, and about two miles from the nearest 
 part of the Morony estate. In this cottage Carroll was sitting 
 at one side of a turf fire, while an old woman was standing by 
 the doorway making a stocking. And in this cottage also was 
 another man, whose face was concealed by an old crape mask, 
 which covered his eyes and nose and mouth. He was standing on 
 the other side of the fireplace, and Florian was seated on a stool 
 in front of the fire. Ever and anon he turned his gaze round 
 on the mysterious man in the mask, whom he did not at all know ; 
 and, in truth, he was frightened awfully through the whole 
 interview by the man in the mask, who stood there by the fire- 
 side, almost close to Florian's elbow, without speaking a word ; 
 nor did the old woman say much, though it must be presumed 
 that she heard all that was said. 
 
 " Faix, Mr. Flory, an' it's well for you you've come," said 
 Carroll. " Jist you sit steady there, 'cause it won't do the laist 
 good in life you're moving about where all the world'd see you." 
 It was thus that the boy was addressed by him, whom we may 
 now call his co-conspirator, and Carroll showed plainly, by his 
 movements and by the glances which he cast around him, that he 
 understood perfectly the dreadful nature of the business in which 
 he was engaged. " You see that jintl'man there ? " And Carroll 
 pointed to the man in the mask. 
 
 " I see him," said poor Florian, almost in tears. 
 
 "You'd better mark him, that's all. If he cotches ahould o' 
 ye he'd tear ye to tatthers, that's all. Not that he'd do ye the 
 laist harum in life if ye'd just hould yer pace, and say nothin' to 
 nobody." 
 
 " Not a word I'll say, Pat." 
 
 " Don't ! That's all about it. Don't ! We knows, — he knows, 
 —what they're driving at down at the Castle. Sorra a word 
 
THE MAN IN THE MASK. 
 
 13 
 
 comes out of the mouth o' one on 'em, but that he knows it." 
 Here the man in the mask shook his head and looked as horrible 
 as a man in a mask can look. " They'll tell ye that the father 
 who owns ye ought to know all about it. It's just him as 
 shouldn't know." 
 
 " He don't," said Florian. 
 
 " Not a know ; — an' if you main to keep yourself from being 
 holed as they holed Muster Bingham the other day away at 
 Hollymount." The boy understood perfectly well what was 
 meant by the process of " holing." The Mr. Bingham, a small 
 landlord, who had been acting as his own agent some twenty 
 miles off, in the County of Mayo, had been frightfully murdered 
 three months since. It was the first murder that had stained the 
 quarrel which had now commenced in that part of the country. 
 Mr. Bingham had been unpopular, but he had to deal with such 
 a small property, that no one had imagined that an attack would 
 be made on him. But he had been shot down as he was driving 
 home from Hollymount, whither he had gone to receive rent. He 
 had been shot down during daylight, and no one had as yet been 
 brought to justice for the murder. " You mind's Muster Bingham, 
 Muster Flory ; eh ? He's gone, and sorra a soul knows anything 
 about it. It's I'd be sorry to think you'd be polished off that 
 way." Again the man in the mask made signs that he was wide 
 awake. 
 
 To tell the truth of Florian, he felt rather complimented in 
 the midst of all his horrors in being thus threatened with the 
 fate of Mr. Bingham. He had heard much about Mr. Bingham, 
 and regarded him as a person of much importance since his 
 death. He was raised to a level now with Mr. Bingham. 
 And then his immediate position was very much better than 
 Bingham's. He was alive, and up to the present moment, — as 
 long as he held his tongue and told nothing, — he would be 
 regarded with friendly eyes by that terrible man in the mask. 
 But, through it all, there was the agonising feeling that he was 
 betraying them all at home. His father and Edith and Frank 
 would not murder him when they found him out, but they would 
 despise him. And the boy knew something, — he knew much 
 of what was due by him to his father. At this moment he was 
 much in dread of Pat Carroll. He was in greater dread of the 
 man in the mask. But as he sat there, terrified by them as they 
 intended to terrify him, he was aware of all that courage would 
 demand from him. If he could once escape from that horrid 
 cabin, he thought that he might be able to make a clean breast 
 and tell everything. " It's I that'd be awful sorry that anything 
 like what happened Bingham, should happen to you, Muster 
 Flory." 
 
 "Why wouldn't you; and I'd have done nothing against 
 you?" said Florian. He did feel that his conduct up to the 
 
14 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 present moment deserved more of gratitude than of threats from 
 Pat Carroll. 
 
 "You're to remimber your oath, Muster Flory. You're be- 
 come one of us, as Father Brosnan was telling you. You're not 
 to be one of us, and then go over among them schaming 
 
 Prothestants." 
 
 " I haven't gone over among them, — only my father is one of 
 them." 
 
 " What's yer father to do with it now you're a Catholic ? Av 
 you is ever false to a Catholic on behalf of them Prothestants, 
 though he's twice yer own father, you'd go t' hell for it ; that's 
 where you'd be going. And it's not only that, but the jintl'man 
 as is there will be sending you on the journey." Then Pat 
 signified that he alluded to the man in the mask, and the 
 gentleman in the mask clenched his fist and shook it, — and 
 shook his head also. " You ask Father Brosnan also, whether 
 you ain't to be thrue to us Catholics now you're one of us ? It's 
 a great favour as has been done you. You're mindful o' that — 
 ain't you ? '' Poor Flory said that he was mindful. 
 
 Here they were joined by another conspirator, a man whom 
 Florian had seen down by the sluices with Pat Carroll, and 
 whom he thought he remembered to have noticed among the 
 tenants from the other side of Ballintubber. " What's the chap 
 up to now ? " asked the stranger. 
 
 " He ain't up to nothing'' said Carroll. "We're only a 
 cautioning of him." 
 
 " Not to be splitting on yourself?" 
 
 " Nor yet on you," said Carroll. 
 
 a Sorra a word he can say agin me," said the stranger. " I 
 wasn't in it at all." 
 
 " But you was," said Florian. " I saw you pick the latch up 
 and throw it away." 
 
 " You've sharp eyes, ain't you, to be seeing what warn't there 
 to be seen at all? If you say you saw me in it, I'll have the 
 tongue out of your mouth, you young liar." 
 
 " What's the good of frightening the boy, Michael ? He's a 
 good boy, and isn't agoing to peach upon any of us." 
 
 " But I ain't a liar. He's a liar." This Florian said, plucking 
 up renewed courage from the kind words Pat Carroll had said in 
 his favour. 
 
 " Never mind," said Pat, throwing oil on the troubled waters. 
 " We're all frinds at present, and shall be as long as we don't split 
 on nobody." 
 
 " It's the meanest thing out, — that splitting on a pal," said 
 the man who had been called Michael. " It's twice worse when 
 one does it to one's father. I wouldn't show a ha'porth of 
 mercy to such a chap as that." 
 
 "And to a Catholic as peached to a Prothestant," said 
 
FATHER BROS NAN. 
 
 15 
 
 Carroll, intending to signify his hatred of such a wretch by 
 spitting on the ground. 
 
 " Or to a son as split because his father was in the question." 
 Then Michael spat twice upon the floor, showing the extremity 
 of the disgust which in such a case would overpower him. 
 
 " I suppose I may go now," said Florian. He was told by 
 Pat Carroll that he might go. But just at that moment the man 
 in the mask, who had not spoken a word, extemporised a cross 
 out of two bits of burned wood from the hearth, and put it right 
 before Florian's nose ; one hand held one stick, and the other, 
 the other. " Swear," said the man in the mask. 
 
 " Bedad ! he's in the right of it. Another oath will make it 
 all the stronger. ' That ye'll never say a word of this to mortial 
 ears, whether father or sister or brother, let 'em say what they 
 will to yer, s'help yer, the Blessed Virgin.' " 
 
 a I won't then," said Florian, struggling to get at the cross 
 to kiss it. 
 
 " Stop a moment, me fine fellow," said Michael. st Nor yet 
 to no one else — and you'll give yourself up to hell flames av 
 you don't keep the blessed oath to the last day of your life. 
 Now let me kiss it, Pat. I wouldn't be in his shoes for a ten 
 pun note if he breaks that oath." 
 
 "Nor I neither," said Pat. "Oh laws, no." Then Florian 
 was allowed to escape from ;he cabin. This he did, and going 
 out into the dark, and looking about him to see that he was not 
 watched, made his way in at the back door of a fairly large house 
 which stood near, still in the outskirts of the town of Headford. 
 It was a fairly large house in Headford ; but Headford does not 
 contain many large houses. It was that in which lived Father 
 Giles, the old parish priest of Tuam ; — and with Father Giles 
 lived his curate, that Father Brosnan of whom mention has 
 above been made. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FATHER BROSNAN. 
 
 There has come a change among the priests in Ireland during 
 the last fifty years, as has been natural. Among whom has there 
 not come a change in half a century? In England, statesmen 
 are different, and parsons, and judges, and peers. When an 
 entire country has been left unmoved by the outside world, so as 
 to seem to have been left asleep while others have been awake, 
 the different classes will seem to be the same at the end of every 
 half century. A village lawyer in Spain will be as was a village 
 lawyer fifty years ago. But a parish priest in Ireland will be 
 
i6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 an altered personage, because the country generally has not 
 been sleeping. 
 
 There used to be two distinct sorts of priests ; of whom the 
 elder, who had probably been abroad, was the better educated ; 
 whereas the younger, who was home-nurtured, had less to say for 
 himself on general topics. He was generally the more zealous 
 in his religious duties, but the elder was the better read in doctrinal 
 theology. As to the political question of the day, they were both 
 apt to be on the list against the Government, though not so with 
 such violence as to make themselves often obnoxious to the 
 laws. It was natural that they should be opposed to the Govern- 
 ment, as long as the Protestant Church claimed an ascendency 
 over them. But their feelings and aspirations were based then 
 on their religious opinions. Now a set of men has risen up, with 
 whom opposition to the rulers of the country is connected chiefly 
 with political ideas. A dream of Home Rule has made them 
 what they are, and thus they have been roused into waking life, 
 by the American spirit, which has been imported into the country. 
 There is still the old difference between the elder and the younger 
 priests. The parish priest is not so frequently opposed to the 
 law, as is his curate. The parish priest is wiliing that the landlord 
 shall receive his rents, is not at least anxious, that he shall be 
 dispossessed of his land. But the curate has ideas of peasant 
 proprietors ; is very hot for Home Rule, is less obedient to the 
 authority of the bishops than he was of yore, and thinks more of 
 the political, and less of the religious state of his country. 
 
 This variance of feeling might be seen in the three priests 
 who have been already mentioned in our story. Father Giles 
 was the parish pastor of Headford, in which position he had 
 been for nearly forty years. He was a man seventy years of 
 age, in full possession of all his faculties, very zealous in the well- 
 being of his people, prone to teach them that if they would say 
 their prayers, and do as they were bid by their betters, they 
 would, in the long run, and after various phases of Catholic well 
 or ill-being, go to heaven. But they would also have enough to 
 eat in this world ; which seemed to be almost more prominent 
 in Father Giles's teaching than the happy bliss of heaven. But 
 the older Father Giles became the more he thought of the good 
 things of this world, on behalf of his people, and the less he liked 
 being troubled with the political desires of his curate. He had 
 gone so far as to forbid Father Brosnan to do this, or to do that 
 on various occasions, to make a political speech here, or to attend 
 a demonstration there ; — in doing which, or in not doing it, the 
 curate sometimes obeyed, but sometimes disobeyed the priest, 
 thereby bringing Father Giles in his old age into infinite 
 trouble. 
 
 But Father Malachi, in the neighbouring parish of Ballin- 
 tubber, ran a course somewhat intermediate between these two. 
 
FATHER BROS NAN. 
 
 17 
 
 He, at the present moment had no curate who interfered with 
 his happiness. There was, indeed, a curate of Ballintubber — so 
 named ; but he lived away, not inhabiting the same house with 
 Father Malachi, as is usual in Ireland ; having a chapel to him- 
 self, and seldom making his way into our part of the country. 
 Father Malachi was a strong-minded man, who knew the world. 
 He, too, had an inclination for Home Rule, and still entertained 
 a jealousy against the quasi-ascendancy of a Protestant bishop ; 
 but he had no sympathy whatever with Father Brosnan. Ireland 
 for the Irish might be very well, but he did not at all want to 
 have Ireland for the Americans. Father Giles and Father 
 Malachi certainly agreed on one thing — that Brosnan was a great 
 trouble. 
 
 If the conversion of Florian Jones was to be attributed to 
 any clerical influence, Father Brosnan was entitled to claim the 
 good or the evil done ; but in truth very few polemical arguments 
 had been used on the occasion. The boy's head had been filled 
 with the idea of doing something remarkable, and he had 
 himself gone to the priest. When a Protestant child does go to 
 a priest on such a mission, what can the priest do but accept 
 him ? He is bound to look upon the suppliant as a brand to be 
 saved from the burning. " You stupid young ass ! " the priest 
 may say to himself, apostrophising the boy ; " why don't you 
 remain as you are for the present? Why do you come to 
 trouble me with a matter you can know nothing about ? " But 
 the priest must do as his Church directs him, and the brands 
 have to be saved from the burning. Father Brosnan sent the 
 boy to Father Malachi, and Father Malachi told the lad to go to 
 his terrestrial father. It was this that Mr. Jones had expected, 
 and there the boy was received as a Catholic. 
 
 But to Father Brosnan the matter was much more important 
 in its political view. Father Brosnan knew the application as to 
 his rent which had been made by Pat Carroll to his landlord. 
 He was of opinion that no rent ought to be paid by any Irish 
 tenant to any landlord — no rent, at least, to a Protestant land- 
 lord. Wrath boiled within his bosom when he heard of the 
 answer which was given, as though Mr. Jones had robbed the 
 man by his refusal. Mr. Brosnan thought that for the present a 
 tenant was, as a matter of course, entitled to abatement in his 
 rent, as in a short time he must be entitled to his land without 
 paying any. He considered not at all the circumstances, whether, 
 as had been the case on certain properties in Mayo, all money 
 expended had been so expended by the tenant, or by the land- 
 lord, as had been the case with Pat Carroll's land. That was an 
 injustice, according to Mr. Brosnan's theory ; as is all property 
 in accordance with the teaching of some political doctors who 
 are not burdened with any. 
 
 It would have been unfair to Mr. Brosnan to say that he 
 
 c 
 
i8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 sympathised with murderers, or that he agreed with those who 
 considered that midnight outrages were fair atonements ; he de- 
 manded rights. He himself would have been hot with righteous 
 indignation, had such a charge been made against him. But 
 in the quarrel which was now beginning all his sympathies 
 were with the Carrolls at large, and not with the Jones's at 
 large. At every victory won by the British Parliament his 
 heart again boiled with indignation. At every triumphant note 
 that came over the water from America - which was generally 
 raised by the record of the dollars sent — he boiled, on the other 
 hand, with joy. He had gleams in his mind of a Republic. He 
 thought of a Saxon as an evil being. The Queen, he would say, 
 was very well, but she was better at a distance. The Lord- 
 Lieutenant was a British vanity, and English pomp, but the 
 Chief Secretary was a minister of the Evil One himself. He 
 believed that England was enriched by many millions a year 
 robbed from Ireland, and that Ireland was impoverished to the 
 same extent. He was a man thoroughly disloyal, and at the 
 same time thoroughly ignorant, altogether in the dark as to 
 the truth of things, a man who, whatever might be his 
 fitness for the duties of the priesthood, to which he had been 
 educated, had no capability of perceiving political facts, and no 
 honesty in teaching them. But it would have been unjust to 
 him to say that he was a murderer, or that he countenanced 
 murder. 
 
 To him it was that young Florian now betook himself, and 
 found him seated alone in the back parlour in Father Giles's 
 house. The old priest was out, and Father Brosnan was 
 engaged on some portion of clerical duties. To give him. his 
 due, he performed those duties rigidly, and the more rigidly 
 when, in doing them, he obeyed the letter of the law rather 
 than the spirit. As Father Giles, in his idea of his duties, 
 took altogether the other side of the question, and, in thinking 
 of the spirit, had nearly altogether ignored the letter, it may be 
 imagined that the two men did not agree together very well. In 
 truth, Father Giles looked upon Father Brosnan as an ignorant, 
 impertinent puppy, whereas Father Brosnan returned the com- 
 pliment by regarding Father Giles as half an infidel, and almost 
 as bad as a Protestant. 
 
 " Well, Master Florian," said the priest, " and how are things 
 going with you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Father Brosnan, I'm in terrible throuble." 
 
 <c What throuble's up now ? " 
 
 " They're all agin me at home, and father's nearly as bad 
 as any of them. It's all along of my religion." 
 
 " I thought your father had given his consent ? " 
 
 <f So he has ; but still he's agin me. And my two sisters are 
 dead agin me. What am I to do about Pat Carroll ? " 
 
FATHER BROS NAN. 
 
 19 
 
 " Just hould your tongue." 
 
 " They do be saying that because what Pat and the other 
 boys did was agin father's interest, I am bound to tell." 
 ' " You've given a promise ? " 
 " I did give a promise." 
 
 " And you swore an oath ? " said the priest solemnly. 
 " I did swear an oath certainly." 
 
 " Then you must hould your tongue. In such a case as this 
 I cannot absolve you from your word. I don't know what it is 
 that Pat Carroll did." Here it must be admitted Father 
 Brosnan did not stick to the absolute truth. He did know what 
 Pat Carroll had done. All Headford knew that Mr. Jones's 
 meadows had been flooded, and the priest must have known 
 that the present cause of trouble at Castle Morony, was the 
 injury thus done. Father Brosnan knew and approved of Pat 
 Carroll's enmity to the Jones family. But he was able to 
 justify the falsehood of his own heart, by stumbling over the 
 degree of knowledge necessary. There was a sense in which he 
 did not know it. He need not have sworn to it in a Court of 
 Law. So he told himself, and so justified his conscience. 
 " You need not tell me," he went on to say when the boy was 
 proceeding to whisper the story, " I am not bound to know 
 what it is that Pat Carroll does, and what it is that your father 
 suffers. Do you go home, and keep your toe in your pump, as 
 they say, and come to me for confession a day or two before 
 Christmas. And if any of them say anything to you about your 
 religion, just sit quiet and bear it." 
 
 The boy was then dismissed, and went home to his father's 
 home, indifferent as to who might see him now, because he had 
 come from the priest's house. But the terror of that man in the 
 mask still clung to him ; and mingled with that was the righteous 
 fear, which still struck cold to his heart, of the wicked injury 
 which he was doing his father. Boy though he was, he knew 
 well what truth and loyalty, and the bonds which should bind a 
 family together, demanded from him. He was miserable with a 
 woe which he had not known how to explain to the priestas he 
 thought of his terrible condition. At first Pat Carroll and his 
 friends had recommended themselves to him. He had, in truth, 
 only come on the scene of devastation down by the lough, by 
 mere accident. But he had before heard that Pat was a grieved 
 man, in reference to his rent, and had taken it into his boyish 
 heart to sympathise with such sorrows. When Pat had got hold 
 of him on the spot, and had first exacted the promise of secrecy, 
 Florian had given it willingly. He had not expected to be 
 questioned on the subject, and had not attributed the importance 
 to it which it had afterwards assumed. He had since denied all 
 knowledge of it, and was of course burdened with a boy's fear of 
 having to acknowledge the falsehood. And now there had been 
 
 C 2 
 
20 
 
 7 HE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 added to it that awful scene in the cabin at Headford, and on 
 the top of that had come the priest's injunction. "In such a 
 case as this I cannot absolve you from your word." It was so 
 that the priest had addressed him, and there was something in 
 it that struck his young mind with awe. There was the man in 
 the mask tendering to him the oath upon the cross ; and there 
 had been Pat Carroll assuring him of that man's wrath. Then 
 there had come the other stranger, speaking out angrily, and 
 promising to him all evil, were he to divulge a word. 
 
 Nevertheless, his conscience was so strong within him, that 
 when he reached the Castle he had almost made up his mind to 
 tell his father everything. But just as he was about to enter the 
 Lodge gate, he was touched on the arm by a female. " Master 
 Florian," said the female, " we is all in your hands." It was 
 now dark night, and he could not even see the woman's face. 
 She seemed indeed to keep her face covered, and yet he could 
 see the gleam of her eyes. " You're one of us now, Master 
 Florian." 
 
 " I'm a Catholic, if you mean that." 
 
 " What else should I mane ? Would ye be unthrue to your 
 own people ? Do ye know what would happen you if ye commit 
 such a sin as that ? I tould them up there that you'd never bring 
 down hell fire upon yer head, by such a deed as that. It isn't 
 what ye can do to him he'll mind, I said, but the anger o' the 
 Blessed Virgin. Worn't it thrue for me what I said, Master 
 Florian?" She held him in the dark, and he could see the 
 glimmer of her eyes, and hear the whisper of her voice, and she 
 frightened him with the fear of the world to come. As he made 
 his way up to the hall door, it was not the dread of the man in 
 the mask, so much as the fear inspired by this woman which 
 made him resolve that, come what come might, he must stick to 
 the lie which he had told. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning, his father summoned him 
 into his room. " Now," said Flory to himself, as he followed his 
 father trembling, — " now must I be true." By this he meant that 
 he must be true to his co-conspirators. If he were false to them, 
 he would have to incur the anger of the Blessed Virgin. How 
 this should be made to fall upon him, he did not in the least 
 understand ; but he did understand that the Virgin as he had 
 thought her, should be kind, and mild, and gracious. He had 
 never stopped to think whether the curse as uttered by the 
 woman, might or might not be true. Of loyalty to his father 
 he had thought much ; but now he believed that it behoved him 
 to think more of loyalty to the Virgin, as defined by the woman 
 in the dark. 
 
 He followed his father into the magistrates' room, leaving his 
 brother and two sisters in the parlour. He was glad that none 
 of them were invited to accompany him, for he felt that his father 
 
FATHER BROS NAN. 
 
 21 
 
 was more prone to believe him, than were either his sisters or 
 even his brother. " Florian," said his father, " you know, do you 
 not, the trouble to which I have been put about this man, Pat 
 Carroll?" 
 
 " Yes, father ; I know you have." 
 
 " And the terrible loss which I have incurred ! Eighty acres 
 are under water. I suppose the miscreant will have cost me 
 between .£400 and ,£500." 
 
 " As much as that ?" said Florian, frightened by the magni- 
 tude of the sum named. 
 
 " Indeed he will. It is hard to calculate the extent of the 
 malignity of a wicked man. Whether the barony will share the 
 loss with me I cannot yet say; but in either case the wickedness 
 will be the same. There is no word bad enough for it. It is 
 altogether damnable ; and this is done by a man who calls me 
 in question because of my religion." Here the father paused, 
 but Florian stood by without an answer. If Pat Carroll was 
 right in his religion, his father must be wrong ; and Florian 
 thought that Pat Carroll was right. But he did not see how the 
 two things were joined together, — the opening of the sluices, and 
 the truth of Pat Carroll's religious convictions. " But bad as the 
 matter is as regards Pat Carroll, it is all as nothing in reference 
 to the accusation made against you." Here the father came up, 
 and laying his two hands on the boy's shoulders looked sadly 
 into his face. " I cannot believe that my own boy, my darling 
 boy, has joined in this evil deed against me ! " Here the father 
 ceased and waited for his son to speak. 
 
 The son remembered the determination to which he had come, 
 and resolved to adhere to it. " I didn't," he said after a pause. 
 
 " I cannot believe it of you ; and yet, your sisters who are as 
 true as steel, who are so good that I bless God morning and night 
 that He in His mercy has left me such treasures, — they believe 
 it." 
 
 " They are against me because of my religion." 
 
 " No, Florian, not so ; they disapprove of your change in 
 religion, but they are not brought to accuse you by such a feeling. 
 They say that they see it in your face." 
 
 "How can they see all that in my face ? " 
 
 " That though you are lying persistently, you cannot hide from 
 them that you are lying. They are not only good girls, but they 
 have very sharp wits. A cleverer girl than Edith, or one better 
 able to read the truth of a boy's head, or even a man's, I have 
 never known. I hardly dare to put my own judgment against 
 hers." 
 
 " In this case she knows nothing about it." 
 
 " But to me it is of such vital importance ! It is not simply 
 that your evidence is needed to punish the man ; I would let the 
 man go and all the evil that he has done me. But not for any 
 
22 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 money that I could name would I entertain such an opinion of 
 my son. Were I convinced at this moment that you are innocent, 
 I should be a happy man." 
 " Then you may, father." 
 
 " But your manner is against you. You do not answer me 
 with that appearance of frankness which I should have 
 expected.'' 
 
 " Of course it all makes me very miserable. How can a 
 fellow be frank when he's suspected like this ?" 
 
 " Florian, do you give me your most solemn assurance 
 that you saw nothing of this evil work while it was being 
 perpetrated ?" 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 "You saw nothing, and you knew nothing ?" 
 "No, father." 
 
 " You have no reason to accuse Pat Carroll, except by what 
 you have heard ? " 
 " No, father." 
 " Nor anyone else ? " 
 
 u No, father." Then Mr. Jones stood silent looking at his son. 
 And the more he looked the more he doubted him. When the 
 boy had uttered " No, father," for the last time Mr. Jones felt 
 almost convinced — almost convinced that Edith was right. 
 " You may go now, Florian," he said. And the boy departed, 
 fully convinced that his father had disbelieved him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH. 
 
 THREE or four days after the occurrences narrated in the last 
 chapter, Mr. Jones got on to his car and had himself driven down 
 to Carnlough, the seat of Mr. Thomas Blake, a gentleman living 
 about two miles the other side of Tuam. To reach Carnlough 
 he had a journey to make of about ten miles, and as he seldom 
 went, in these days, so far away from home, the fact of his going 
 was known to all the household. 
 
 " Father is going to Carnlough," Florian said to Peter, the 
 butler. " What is he going for ?" 
 
 " 'Deed, then, Master Flory, who can tell that? Mr. Blake 
 is a very old friend of master's ?" 
 
 " But why is he going now ? It isn't often he goes to Carn- 
 lough ; and when he does go, he is sure to say why." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder af he's going to ax him as to how he 
 shall get rid of the waters." 
 
 " He knows that better than Mr. Blake can tell him." 
 
MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH. 
 
 23 
 
 " Or maybe he's going to inquire how he shall cotch a hould 
 of Pat Carroll." 
 
 It was evident, from the butler's answers, that all the world 
 at Morony Castle felt that at present Mr. Jones could engage 
 himself on no other subject than that of the flood. 
 
 " I wish father wouldn't think so much about the flood. 
 After all, what's ^500? It won't ruin a man like my father." 
 
 But the butler showed by his visage that he regarded ^500 
 as a very serious matter, and that he was not at all astonished 
 by the occupation which it gave to his master's thoughts. 
 
 Mr. Blake, of Carnlough, was the first Irishman with whom 
 Mr. Jones had become acquainted in the County Galway. It 
 was through his instance, indeed, that the Morony and Ballin- 
 tubber properties had been bought, so that the acquaintance 
 must have been well established before the purchase had been 
 made. Mr. Blake was a man of good property, who, in former 
 years, had always been regarded as popular in the county. He 
 was a Protestant, but had not made himself odious to the Roman 
 Catholics around him as an Orangeman, nor had he ever been 
 considered to be hard as a landlord. He thought, perhaps, a 
 little too much of popularity, and had prided himself a little 
 perhaps, on managing " his boys " — as he called the tenants — 
 with peculiar skill. Even still he could boast of his success, 
 though there had arisen some little difficulties as to rent over at 
 Carnlough ; and, indeed, he was frightened lest some of the evil 
 ways which had begun to prevail in the neighbouring parts of 
 County Mayo, should make their way into County Galway. 
 
 Mr. Blake and Mr. Jones had been very intimate. It had 
 been at Mr. Blake's instance that Mr. Jones had been brought 
 on to the Grand Jury. But latterly they had not seen very much 
 of each other. Mr. Jones, since the death of his wife, did not go 
 frequently to Galway, and Carnlough was a long distance for a 
 morning's drive. But on this occasion Mr. Jones drove himself 
 over simply with the view of making a morning call. " Well, 
 Jones, how are you ; — and how are the girls, and how is Frank, 
 and how is that young pickle, Master Florian ? '' These questions 
 were answered by others of a similar nature. " How are the 
 girls, and how is Mrs. Blake, and what is going on here at 
 Carnlough ? " There was no inquiry after the eldest son, for it 
 was Mr. Blake's misfortune that he had no male child to inherit 
 his property. 
 
 "Faith, then, things ain't going on a bit too well," said 
 Mr. Blake. " Abatement, abatement, nothing but abatement ! 
 Nobody abates me anything. I have to pay all the family 
 charges just the same as ever. What would they say if I was to 
 take away my wife and girls, shut up Carnlough, and go and live 
 in France ? I could give them some abatement then and be a 
 richer man. But how would they like to have Carnlough empty?" 
 
24 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " There's no danger of that, I think." 
 
 " Upon my word, I don't know. The girls are talking of it, 
 and when they begin to talk of a thing, I am very likely to do it. 
 And Mrs. Blake is quite ready." 
 
 " You wouldn't leave the country ? 99 
 
 " That's just it. I'll stay if they'll let me. If they'll pay me 
 rent enough to enable me to live here comfortably, I'll not 
 desert them. But if they think that I'm to keep up the place 
 on borrowed money, they'll find their mistake. I didn't mind 
 ten per cent, for the last two years, though I have taken to 
 drinking whisky punch in my old age, instead of claret and 
 sherry. And I don't mind ten per cent, for this year, though I am 
 sorely in want of a young horse to carry me. But if the ten per 
 cent, is to go on, or to become twenty per cent, as one blackguard 
 hinted, I shall say good-bye to Carnlough. They may fight it 
 out then with Terry Daly as they can." Now, Terry Daly was 
 the well-known agent for the lands of Carnlough. " What has 
 brought you over here to-day ?" asked Mr. Blake. s( I can see 
 with half an eye that there is some fresh trouble." 
 
 " Indeed there is" 
 
 " I have heard what they did with your sluices. That's another 
 trick they've learnt out of County Mayo. When a landlord is 
 not rich enough to give them all that they want, they make the 
 matter easier by doing the best they can to ruin him. I don't 
 think anything of that kind has been done at Carnlough." 
 
 " There is worse than that," said Mr. Jones sorrowfully. 
 
 "The devil there is ! They have not mutilated any of your 
 cattle ? " 
 
 "No, there is nothing of that kind. The only enemy I've 
 got about the place, as far as I know, is one Pat Carroll. It was 
 he and others, whom he paid to serve him, that have let the 
 waters in upon the meadows. Eighty acres are under water at 
 this moment. But I can bear that like a man. The worst of 
 that is, that all the neighbours should have seen him do it, and 
 not one of them have come forward to tell me." 
 
 "That is the worst," said Mr. Blake. " There must be some 
 terrible understanding among them, some compact for evil, when 
 twenty men are afraid to tell what one man has been seen to do. 
 < It's fearful to think that the priests should not put a stop to it. 
 How is Master Florian getting on with his priest ? 99 
 
 " It's about him that I have come to speak to you," said Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 " About Florian?" 
 
 " Yes ; indeed. When I tell you my story, I think you will 
 understand that I would tell it to no one but yourself in County 
 Galway. I fear that Florian saw the men at work upon the flood 
 gates." 
 
 " And will he not tell the truth ? " 
 
MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH. 
 
 25 
 
 " You must remember that I cannot say that I know anything. 
 The boy declares that he saw nothing ; that he knows nothing. 
 " I have no evidence ; but his sisters are sure that it is 
 so. Edith says that he certainly was present when the gates 
 were removed. She only judges from his manner and his 
 countenance." 
 
 " What made her suspect him ? " asked Mr. Blake. 
 
 "Only that she saw him when the news was brought to us. 
 Edith is not ill-natured. She would not be prone to make a story 
 against her brother." 
 
 " If Edith says so/ it is so," said Mr. Blake, who among all 
 Edith's admirers was one of the most ardent. 
 
 " I don't quite say that. I only mean to express my con- 
 viction that she intends to get at the truth." 
 
 " I'll wager my life upon her," said Mr. Blake. " As to the 
 other ; — well, you know, Jones, that he has turned Roman 
 Catholic." 
 
 " That means nothing/' said the distressed father. " He is 
 only ten years old. Of course he's a fool for his pains ; but he 
 would not on that account do such a deed as this." 
 
 " I don't know. You must remember that he will be telling 
 everything to the priests." 
 
 "We have two priests about us," said Mr. Jones, "and I 
 would trust them in anything. There is Father Giles at Head- 
 ford, and he is as fair a man as any clergyman of our own could 
 be. You cannot imagine that he would give such advice to my 
 boy?" 
 
 " Not Father Giles certainly," said the other man. 
 "Then down with us at Ballintubber there is Father 
 Malachi." 
 
 " I know him too," said Mr. Blake. " He would not interfere 
 with a boy like Florian. Is there no one else? What curate 
 lives with Father Malachi ? " 
 
 " There is none with him at Ballintubber. One Brosnan lives 
 with Father Giles." 
 
 " That man is a firebrand," said Mr. Blake. " He is a 
 wretched politician, always preaching up Home Rule." 
 
 "But I do not think that even he would teach a boy to 
 deceive his own father in such a matter as this." 
 
 " I am not sure," said Blake. " It is very difficult to get at the 
 vagaries of mind in such a man as Mr. Brosnan. But what do 
 you intend to do ? " 
 
 " I have come to you for advice. But remember this : in my 
 present frame of mind, the suspicion that I feel as to poor Florian 
 is ten times worse to me than the loss of all my meadows. If I 
 could find out Edith to have been wrong, I should be at once 
 relieved of the great trouble which sits heaviest at my heart." 
 
 " I fear that Edith is right," said Mr. Blake. 
 
26 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " You are prejudiced a little in her favour. Whatever she 
 says you will think right." 
 
 " You must weigh that, and take it for what it's worth," said 
 Mr. Blake. " We know that the boy has got himself into bad 
 hands. You do not suspect him of a desire to injure you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said the father. 
 
 " But he has seen these men do it, and now refuses to tell 
 you. They have terrified him." 
 
 " He is not a cowardly boy," said Mr. Jones, still standing up 
 for his son. 
 
 " But they have made him swear an oath that he will not tell. 
 There has been something of that sort. What does he say 
 himself?" 
 
 " Simply that he knows nothing about it." 
 
 " But how does he say it ? Does he look you in the face ? 
 A boy of that kind may lie. Boys do — and girls also. When 
 people say they don't, they know nothing about it ; but if it's 
 worth one's while to look at them one can generally tell when 
 they're lying. I'm not a bit afraid of a boy when he is lying, — 
 but only of one who can lie as though he didn't lie." 
 
 " I think that Florian is lying," said Mr. Jones slowly ; " he 
 does not look me in the face, and he does not lie straight- 
 forward." 
 
 " Then Edith is right ; and I am right when I swear by her." 
 
 "But what am I to do with him? If, as I suppose, he saw 
 Pat Carroll do the mischief, he must have seen others with him. 
 If we knew who were the lot, we could certainly get the truth out 
 of some of them, so as to get evidence for a conviction." 
 
 " Can't he be made to speak ? " asked Mr. Blake. 
 
 " How can I make him ? It will be understood all about 
 Morony that he has been lying. And I feel that it is thought 
 that he has made himself a hero by sticking to his lie. If they 
 should turn upon him ? " Mr. Blake sat silent but made no 
 immediate reply. " It would be better for me to let the whole 
 thing slide. If they were to kill him ! " 
 
 " They would not do that. Here in County Galway they 
 have not come to that as yet. There is not a county in all 
 Ireland in which such a deed could be done," said Mr. Blake, 
 standing up for his country. " Are you to let this ruffian pass 
 unpunished while you have the power of convicting him ? I 
 think that you are bound to punish him. For the sake of your 
 country you are bound to do so." 
 
 " And the boy ? " said Mr. Jones, hoarsely. 
 
 " He is but ten years old, and will soon live it down. And 
 the disgrace of the lie will be drowned in the triumph of telling 
 the truth at last. We should all feel,— I should feel, — that he 
 would in such case deserve well, rather than ill, of his father and 
 of me, and of all of us. Besides you had some idea of sending 
 
MR. O' MA HO NY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 him to school in England." Here Mr. Jones shook his head, 
 intending to indicate that no such expensive step as that would 
 be possible after the loss incurred by the flooding of the eighty 
 acres. " At any rate my advice to you is to make him declare the 
 truth. I think little harm of a boy for lying, but I do think harm 
 of those who allow a lie to pass unnoticed. " So saying Mr. 
 Blake ended the meeting, and took Mr. Jones away to see Mrs. 
 Blake and the girls. 
 
 " I do suppose that father has gone to Carnlough, to consult 
 with Mr. Blake about this affair of the flood." It was thus that 
 Ada spoke to her brother Florian, when he came to her discussing 
 the matter of their father's absence. 
 
 ft What can Mr. Blake know about it ? " said Florian. 
 
 " I suppose he means to ask about you. It is quite clear, 
 Florian, that no one in the house believes you." 
 
 " Peter does." 
 
 " You mean that Peter thinks you are right to stand to the lie 
 now you have told it. More shame for Peter if he does ! " 
 
 " You wouldn't have a fellow go and put himself out of favour 
 with all the boys through the country ? There is a horrible man 
 
 that wears a mask " Then he remembered, and stopped 
 
 himself. He was on closer terms with Ada than with Edith, 
 but not on terms so close as to justify his whispering a word 
 about the man in the mask. 
 
 " Where did you see the man in the mask ? " asked Ada. 
 " Who is the man in the mask ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " But you know where you saw him. You must know that. 
 What did the man in the mask say to you ? " 
 
 " I am not going to tell you anything about him," said the 
 boy. " I am not going to have my secrets got out of me in that 
 way. It isn't honest. Nobody but a Protestant would do it." 
 So saying Florian left his sister, with the tale of the man in the 
 mask only half told. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 We must now turn to another personage in our story, and tell 
 our readers something of the adventures and conditions of this 
 gentleman ; — something also of his daughter. The adventures 
 of her early life will occupy much of our time and many of our 
 pages ; and though her father may not be so interesting as it is 
 hoped that she will become, still he was so peculiar in his modes 
 of thought, and so honest, though by no means wise, in his 
 
23 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 manner of thinking, as to make his story also perhaps worth the 
 telling. 
 
 Gerald O'Mahony was at the time of the flooding of Mr. 
 Jones's meadows not much more than forty years old. But he 
 was already the father of a daughter nearly twenty. Where he 
 was born, from what parents, or to what portion of Ireland his 
 family belonged, no one knew. He himself had been heard to 
 declare a suspicion that his father had come from County Kerry. 
 But as he himself had been, according to his own statement, 
 probably born in the United States, the county to which his 
 father had belonged is not important. He had been bred up as a 
 Roman Catholic, but had long since thrown over all the preju- 
 dices of his religion. He had married when he was quite young, 
 and had soon lost his wife. But in talking of her now he always 
 described her as an angel. But though he looked to be so young 
 as to be his daughter's brother, rather than her father, he had 
 never thought of marrying again. His daughter he declared 
 was everything to him. But those who knew him well said that 
 politics were dearer to him even than his daughter. Since he 
 had been known in County Galway, he had passed and repassed 
 nearly a dozen times between New York and Ireland ; and his 
 daughter had twice come with him. He had no declared means, 
 but he had never been known to borrow a shilling, or to leave a 
 bill unpaid. But he had frequently said aloud that he had no 
 money left, and that unless he returned to his own country he 
 and his daughter must be taken in by some poor-house. For 
 Mr. O'Mahony, fond as he was of Ireland, allowed no one to 
 say that he was an Irishman. 
 
 But his troubles were apparently no troubles to him. He 
 was always good-humoured, and seemed always to be happy — 
 except when in public, when he was engaged upon politics. 
 Then he would work himself up into such a state of indignant 
 anger as seemed to be altogether antagonistic to good-humour. 
 The position he filled, — or had filled, — was that of lecturer on 
 behalf of the United States. He had lectured at Manchester, at 
 Glasgow, at Liverpool, and lately all over Ireland. But he had 
 risen to such a height of wrath in advocating the doctrine of 
 Republicanism that he had been stopped by the police. He had 
 been held to have said things disrespectful of the Queen. This 
 he loudly denied. He had always, he said, spoken of the 
 Queen's virtues, her graces, and general fitness for her high 
 office. He had declared, — and this was true, — that of all kings 
 and queens of whom he had read in history she was the best. 
 But, he had gone on to say there should be no king or queen. 
 The practice was an absurdity. The reverence paid even to the 
 high office was such as, in his idea, degraded a man. Even in 
 America, the Kotooing which took place before the President's 
 toe was to him an abomination. No man in accordance with 
 
MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 his theory should worship another man. Titles should only be 
 used as indicative of a man's trade or occupation. As one man 
 was Mr. General Grant, another man should be Mr. Bricklayer 
 Green. He could not do away with the Queen. But for 
 the woman, he was quite disposed to worship her. All women 
 were to be worshipped, and it was a privilege of a man to worship 
 a woman. When a woman possessed so many virtues as did the 
 Queen of England, it became a man's duty to worship them. 
 But it was a woman whom he would worship, and not the Queen. 
 This was carried to such a length, and he was so eloquent on the 
 subject that the police were desired to interfere, and he was 
 made to hold his tongue, — at any rate as far as England and 
 Ireland were concerned. 
 
 He had made Galway a kind of centre home, attracted thither 
 by the friendship which his daughter had made with Ada and 
 Edith Jones. For though Ada and Edith were by no means 
 Republican in their thoughts and feelings, it had come to pass 
 that they dearly loved the American girl who was so. Rachel 
 O'Mahony had frequently been at Morony Castle, as had also 
 her father ; and Mr. Jones had taken delight in controverting 
 the arguments of the American, because, as he had said, the 
 American had been unselfish and true. But since his lecturing 
 had been stopped, it had become necessary that he should go 
 elsewhere to look for means of livelihood, and he had now be- 
 taken himself to London for that purpose, — a circumstance which 
 will be explained at greater length as the story progresses. 
 
 Republicanism was not the only matter in his political creed 
 to which Gerald O'Mahony was devoted. Though he was no 
 Irishman, as he delighted to intimate, his heart was Irish ; and 
 during his various visits to the country, he had filled his bosom 
 with thoughts of Irish wrongs. No educated man was ever 
 born and bred in more utter ignorance of all political truths than 
 this amiable and philanthropic gentleman. In regard to Ireland 
 his theory was that the land should be taken from the peasant 
 proprietors, and divided among the peasants who tilled it. 
 When asked what should be done with the present owners, he 
 was quite ready with his answer : " Let them be paid for the 
 property by the State ! " He would have no man injured to the 
 extent of a shilling. When asked where the State was to get 
 the money, he declared that that was a mere detail. States did 
 get money. As for the landlords themselves, with the money in 
 their pockets, let them emigrate to the United States, if they 
 were in want of something to do. As to the division of the 
 land, — that, he said, would settle itself. One man would have 
 ten acres, and another fifty ; but that would be fair, because one 
 man had been used to pay for ten, and another to pay for fifty. 
 As for the men who got no land in the scramble he could see no 
 injustice. The man who chanced to have been a tenant for the 
 
3° 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 last twelve months, must take the benefit of his position. No 
 doubt such man could sell his land immediately after he got it, 
 because Freedom of Sale was one of the points of his charter. 
 He could see the injustice of giving the land at a rent fixed by 
 the State, because the State has no right to interfere in ordinary 
 contracts between man and man. But if the land was to be given 
 up without any rent, then he could see no injustice. Thus, and 
 thus only, could Ireland be made to return to the beauty and the 
 grace of her original simplicity. But on the wrongs arising from 
 the want of Home Rule he was warmer even than on those which 
 the land question had produced. Why should Ireland be 
 governed by a British Parliament, a British Lord-Lieutenant, a 
 British Chief-Secretary, a British Commander-in-Chief, and 
 trodden under foot by a British soldiery ? Why should Scotland 
 be so governed, why should Wales, why should Yorkshire ? " 
 Mr. Jones would reply, " Repeal the Unions ; restore the 
 Heptarchy ! " Mr. O'Mahony had but a confused idea of what 
 the Heptarchy had been. But he was sure that it would be for 
 the benefit of Ireland, that Irish knives should be made of Irish 
 steel. " As undoubtedly would have been the case if the ^question 
 of protection were to be left to an Irish Parliament to settle," 
 said Mr. Jones. " Heaven help the man who would want to cut 
 his mutton. His best chance would be that he would soon have 
 no mutton to cut." 
 
 So the dispute was carried on with much warmth on one 
 side, and with many arguments on the other, but without any 
 quarrelling. It was impossible to quarrel with O'Mahony, who 
 was thoroughly unselfish, and desirous of no violence. When 
 he had heard what had been done in reference to Mr. Jones's 
 meadows, and had been told of the suspected conduct of Pat 
 Carroll, he w T as as indignant as though he had himself been a 
 landed proprietor, or even an Orangeman. And on Mr. Jones's 
 part there was a desire to do justice to all around him, which 
 came within the capacity of O'Mahony's vision. He knew that 
 Mr. Jones himself was a fair-dealing, honest gentleman, and he 
 could not, therefore, quarrel with him. 
 
 There is a steamer running from the town of Galway, across 
 Lough Corrib, to the little village of Cong, on the Mayo side of 
 the lake, which stops and picks up passengers within a mile of 
 Morony Castle. From this, passengers are landed, so that the 
 means of transit between Galway and Mr. Jones's house are 
 peculiarly easy. Up and down by this steamer Ada and Edith 
 Jones had frequently gone to visit their friend, and as frequently 
 that friend had come to visit them. But unfortunately the 
 steamer had been open to others besides the young ladies, and 
 Rachel O'Mahony had found a dearer friend than either of the 
 girls at Morony Castle. It had come to pass that Frank Jones 
 and Rachel O'Mahony had declared themselves to be engaged. 
 
MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 On no such ground as want of wealth, or want of family, or 
 want of education, had Mr. Jones based his objection to the 
 match ; but there had been a peculiarity in the position of Rachel 
 which had made him hesitate. It was not that she was an 
 American, but such an American ! It was not that he was a 
 Republican, but such a Republican ! And she was more anxious 
 to carry Frank away with her to the United States, and to join 
 him in a political partnership with her father, than to come and 
 settle herself down at the Castle. Thus there had arisen an 
 understanding on the part of the young people, that, though 
 they were engaged, they were engaged without the consent of the 
 young man's father. Rachel therefore was not to be brought to 
 the Castle while Frank was there. To all this Rachel's father 
 had assented, in a smiling indifferent manner, half intended to 
 ridicule all who were concerned. As it was not a question of 
 politics, Mr. O'Mahony could not work himself up to any anger, 
 or apparently even to anxiety in the matter. "Your young 
 people," — here he meant English and Irish generally, — " are 
 taught to think they should begin the world where we leave it off. ;, 
 
 " Your young people are just as fond of what money will buy 
 as are ours," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " But they are fonder of one another, even, than of money. 
 When they love one another they become engaged. Then they 
 marry. And as a rule they don't starve. As a rule people with 
 us seldom do starve. As for making out an income for a young 
 man to start with, that with us is quite out of the question. 
 Frank some day will have this property." 
 
 " That won't give him much of an income," said Mr. Jones, 
 who since the affair of the flood had become very despondent in 
 reference to the estate. 
 
 " Then he's as well off now as ever he will be, and might as 
 well marry the girl." But all this was said with no eagerness. 
 
 " They are merely boy and girl as yet," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 u I was married, and Rachel was born before I was Frank's 
 age." So saying, Mr. O'Mahony consented to come to Morony 
 Castle, and bid them adieu, without bringing his girl with him. 
 This was hard upon Ada and Edith, as Mr. Frank, of course, 
 went into Galway as often as he pleased, and made his adieu 
 after his own fashion. 
 
 And there had come up another cause which had created 
 further objections to the marriage in Mr. Jones's mind. Mr. 
 O'Mahony had declared that as his lecturing was brought to an 
 end by the police, he must throw himself upon Rachel's capa- 
 bilities for earning some money. Rachel's capabilities had been 
 often discussed at the Castle, but with various feelings on the 
 three sides into which the party had formed themselves. All 
 the Jones's were on one side, and declared that the capability 
 had better not be exercised. In this they were probably wrong ; 
 
33 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 — but it was their opinion. They had lived for many years 
 away from London. The children had so lived all their lives ; 
 and they conceived that prejudices still existed which had now 
 been banished or nearly banished from the world. Mr. 
 O'Mahony, who formed another party, thought that the matter 
 was one of supreme indifference. As long as he could earn 
 money by lecturing it was well that he should earn it. It was 
 always better that the men of a family should work than the 
 women ; but, if the man's talent was of no use, then it might be 
 well to fall back upon the woman. He only laughed at the 
 existence of a prejudice in the matter. He himself had no 
 prejudices. He regarded all prejudices as the triumph of folly 
 over education. 
 
 But Rachel, who was the third party in the discussion, had 
 a very strong feeling of her own. She was of opinion that if the 
 capability in question existed, it ought to be exercised. On that 
 subject, — her possession of the capability, — she entertained, she 
 said, strong doubts. But if the capability existed it certainly 
 ought to be used. That was Rachel's opinion, expressed with 
 all the vigour which she knew how to throw into the subject. 
 
 This capability had already been exercised in New York, 
 where it had been efficacious, though the effect had not been 
 great. She had been brought up to sing, and great things had 
 been promised of her voice. An American manager had thought 
 much of her performance, though she had hitherto, he said, been 
 young, and had not come to the strength of her throat. But he 
 had himself seen to her education, almost as a child, and had 
 been sure that sooner or later she would do great things in the 
 musical world. Mr. Mahomet M. Moss was the gentleman in 
 question, and he at present was in London. That such a voice as 
 Rachel O'Mahony's should be lost to the world, was to his thinking 
 a profanity, an indecency, an iniquity, a wasting of God's choicest 
 gifts, and an abomination not to be thought of ; for Mr. Mahomet 
 M. Moss was in the affairs of his own profession a most 
 energetic gentleman. Rachel rather turned up her nose at Mr. 
 Mahomet M. Moss ; but she was very anxious to go to London 
 and to take her chance, and to do something, as she said, laughing, 
 just to keep her father's pot a little on the boil ; — but for Mr. 
 Mahomet M. Moss she did not care one straw. Mr. O'Mahony 
 was therefore ready to start on the journey, and had now come 
 to Morony Castle to say farewell to his friend Mr. Jones. " Are 
 you sure about that fellow Moss ?" said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " What do you call sure about him ? He's as big a swindler, 
 I guess, as you shall find from here to himself." 
 
 " And are you going to put Rachel into his hands ? w 
 
 " Well, I think so ; — after a sort of fashion. He'll swindle 
 her out of three parts of what she earns ; — but she'll get the fourth 
 part. It's always the way with a young girl when she's first 
 brought out." 
 
MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 " I don't mean about money. Will you leave her conduct in 
 his hands ? " 
 
 " He'll be a clever chap who'll undertake to look after 
 Rachel's conduct. I guess she'll conduct herself mostly." 
 '•' You'll be there, to be sure," said Mr. Jones. 
 "Yes, I shall be there ; and she'll conduct me too, very likely." 
 " But, Mr. O'Mahony,— as a father ! " 
 
 " I know pretty well what you would be saying. Our young 
 folk grow old quicker a long sight than yours do. Now your 
 girls here are as sweet as primroses out of the wood. But 
 Rachel is like a rose that has been brought up to stand firm on 
 its own bush. I'm not a bit afraid of her. Nor yet is your son. 
 She looks as though you might blow her away with the breath 
 from your mouth. You try her, and you'll find that she'll want 
 a deal of blowing." 
 
 " Does not a young girl lose something of the aroma of her 
 youth by seeing too much of the world too soon ? " 
 
 " How old do you expect her to be when she's to die ? " 
 
 u Rachel ! How can I tell ? She is only as yet entering 
 upon life, and her health seems to be quite confirmed." 
 
 " The best confirmed I ever knew in my life. She never has 
 a day's illness. Taking all the chances one way and another, 
 shall we say sixty ? " 
 
 " More than that, I should think," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Say sixty. She may fall down a trap in the theatre, or be 
 drowned in one of your Cunarders." 
 
 "The Cunard steamers never drown anybody," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Well, then, a White Star — or any cockle-shell you may 
 please to name. We'll put her down for sixty as an average." 
 
 " I don't know what you are driving at," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " She has lived a third of her life already, and you expect 
 her to know nothing, so that the aroma may still cling to 
 her. Aroma does very well for earls' daughters and young 
 marchionesses, though as far as I can learn, it's going out of 
 fashion with them. What has an American girl to do with 
 aroma, who's got her bread to earn ? She's got to look to her 
 conduct, and to be sharp at the same time. Mr. Mahomet M. 
 Moss will rob her of seventy-five cents out of every dollar for 
 the next twelve months. In three years' time he'll rob her of 
 nothing. Only that she knows what conduct means, he'd have ? 
 to look very sharp to keep his own." 
 
 " It is not natural," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " But it's American. Marvels are not natural, and we are 
 marvellous people. I don't know much about aroma, but I 
 think you'll find Rachel will come out of the washing without 
 losing much colour in the process." 
 
 Then the two friends parted, and Mr. O'Mahony went back 
 to Galway, preparatory to his journey to London. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 RACHEL AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 On the day following that of O'Mahony's return to Galway, he, 
 and his daughter, and Frank Jones were together at Galway 
 Station preparatory to the departure of the O'Mahonys for 
 Dublin and London. " I guess you two have got something to 
 say to each other, so I'll leave you to yourselves," said the father. 
 
 " I guess we have/' said Rachel, " so if you'll wait here we'll 
 come to you when the cars are fixed." So saying, Rachel put 
 her hand on her lover's arm and walked off with him along the 
 platform. Rachel O'Mahony had not been badly described 
 when her father said of her that she looked as though she might 
 be blown away. She was very fair and small and frail to look 
 at. Her father had also said of her that her health was 
 remarkably good, — " the best confirmed that he had ever 
 known in his life." But though this too, was true, she hardly 
 looked it. No one could have pointed out any sign of malady 
 about her ; only one would have said that there was nothing of 
 her. And the colour on her face was so evanescent that he who 
 watched her was inclined to think that she herself was like her 
 colour. And she moved as though she was always on the 
 vanishing point. " I'm very fond of eating," she had been 
 heard to say. " I know it's vulgar ; but it's true." No doubt 
 she was fond of eating, but so is a sparrow. There was nothing 
 she would not attempt to do in the way of taking exercise. She 
 would undertake very long walks, and would then fail, and 
 declare that she must be carried home ; but she would finally 
 get through the day's work better than another woman who 
 appeared to have double her strength. Her feet and hands were 
 the tiniest little adjuncts to a grown human body that could be 
 seen anywhere. They looked at least to be so. But they were 
 in perfect symmetry with her legs and arms. (( I wish I were 
 bigger," she had once been heard to say, "because I could hit a 
 man." The man to whom she alluded was Mr. Mahomet M. 
 Moss. u I sometimes want to hit a woman, but that would be 
 such a small triumph." And yet she had a pride in her little 
 female fineries. u Now, Frank," she had once said, " I guess 
 you won't get another woman in all Galway to put her foot into 
 that boot : nor yet in New York either." 
 
 rt I don't think I could," said the enraptured Frank. 
 
 " You'd better take it to New York and try, and if you find 
 the lady you can bring her back with you." 
 
 Frank refused the commission, saying something of course 
 very pretty as to his mistress's foot. " Ten buttons ! These 
 only have eight," she said, objecting to a present which her 
 lover had just brought her. " If I had ten buttons, and the 
 
RACHEL AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 35 
 
 gloves to fit me, I'd cut my arm off and put it under a glass case. 
 Lovers are sent out to do all possible and impossible things in 
 order to deserve their lady-loves. You shall go and wander 
 about till you find a glove with ten buttons to fit me, then I'll 
 
 consent to be Mrs. Jones." By all of which little manoeuvres 
 
 Frank was charmed and oppressed to the last degree. When 
 
 she would call herself the "future Mrs. Jones/' he would 
 
 almost feel inclined to abandon both the name and the property. 
 " Why not be Mrs. Morony," Rachel would say, " or Mrs. 
 Ballintubber ? The Ballintubber, of Ballintubber, would sound 
 exquisitely, and then I should always be called ' Madam. 5 " 
 
 Her beauty was all but perfect, as far as symmetry was 
 concerned, only that there was not enough of it ; and for the 
 perfection of female beauty a tone of colour is, methinks, 
 needed somewhat darker than that which prevailed with Rachel 
 O'Mahony. Her hair was so light that one felt it rather than 
 saw it, as one feels the sunlight. It was soft and feathery, as is 
 the under plumage on the wings of some small tropical birds. " A 
 lock of my hair ! " she had once said to Frank ; " but it will all 
 go into nothing. You should have paid your vows to some girl 
 who could give you a good lump of hair fit to stuff a pillow with. 
 If you have mine you will think in a few weeks that the spiders 
 have been there and have left their dust behind." But she 
 gave him the lock of hair, and laid it on his lips with her own 
 little hands. 
 
 There was not enough of her beauty. Even in touching her 
 a lover could not but feel that he had to deal with a little child. 
 In looking at her he could only look down upon her. It was 
 not till she spoke, and that her words came to his assistance, 
 that he found that he had to deal with one who was not 
 altogether a child. " Mr. Mahomet M. Moss declares his 
 opinion that I shall be seen above the gaslights. It was very 
 civil and complimentary of Mahomet M. M. But I mean to 
 make myself heard. Mahomet M. M. did not seem to think of 
 this." Since Frank had known her she had taken every 
 opportunity in her power of belittling Mahomet M. M., as she 
 was wont to call Mr. Moss. 
 
 Frank Jones was, in truth, a handsome stalwart young man, 
 clever enough for the world, who thought a good deal of him- 
 self, and who thought very much more of the girl whom he 
 loved. It was chiefly because he was absolutely unlike an 
 American that Rachel O'Mahony had come to love him. Who 
 does not know the " got up " look of the gentleman from the 
 other side of the water, who seems to know himself to be much 
 better than his father, and infinitely superior to his grandfather ; 
 who is always ready to make a speech on every occasion, and 
 who feels himself to be fit company for a Prime Minister as 
 soon as he has left school. Probably he is. Young Jones was 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 not so ; and it was on account of this deficiency that Rachel 
 prized him. "I'm not like a young girl myself," she had said 
 to her father, " but I do love a jolly nice boy. With us at sixteen, 
 they are all but decrepit old men, and yet they are such little 
 monkeys/' 
 
 " For a little monkey, what do you think of yourself?" her 
 father had replied. But the conversation then had not gone 
 any further. 
 
 " I know you'll be after me before long," Rachel said to 
 Frank, as they walked up and down the platform together. 
 
 " If I do, I shall ask you to marry me at once," he replied. 
 
 " I shall never do that without your father's leave." 
 
 i( Is that the way they manage things in America ? " 
 
 " It's the way I shall manage them here," said Rachel. " I'm 
 in the unfortunate position of having three papas to whom I 
 must attend. There is papa O'Mahony " 
 
 " You will never be incommoded much by him," he replied. 
 
 " He is the least potent of the three, no doubt Then there 
 is papa Jones. He is absolutely omnipotent in this matter. He 
 would not let me come down to Castle Morony for fear I 
 should contaminate you all. I obeyed without even daring to 
 feel the slightest snub, and if I were married to-morrow, I 
 should kiss his toe in token of respect, and with a great deal 
 more affection than I should kiss your half-bearded lips, sir." 
 Here Frank got a hold of her hand beneath his arm and gave it 
 a squeeze. " He is the real old-fashioned father in the play, 
 who is expected to come out at last with a hundred thousand 
 dollars and his blessing." 
 
 u And who is the third papa ? " 
 
 "Don't you know? Mahomet M. Moss. He is the third 
 papa — if only he would consent to remain in that comparatively 
 humble position." Here Frank listened to her words with sharp 
 ears, but he said nothing at the moment. " Mahomet M. Moss 
 is at any rate my lord and master for the present.' 7 
 
 " Not whilst I am alive," said Frank. 
 
 " But he is. There is no use in rebelling. You are not my 
 lord and master until you have gone through a certain ceremony. 
 I wish you were. Will that satisfy you ? " 
 
 " There is something in the name of lord and master which 
 a girl shouldn't apply to anyone but to him who is to be 
 her husband." 
 
 " Fiddlestick ! Mr. Lord and Master that is to be, but is not 
 as yet. But he is, in many respects. I don't think, Frank, you 
 can imagine the horror I feel in reference to that vilest of 
 human beings. I shall carry a dagger with me, in order to have 
 it ready for any occasion." 
 
 " What does he do ? You shall not go to be subjected to 
 such danger and such annoyance." 
 
RACHEL AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 37 
 
 She turned round, and looked up into his face as with 
 derision. " The annoyance no doubt will be mine, Frank, and 
 must be endured ; the danger will be his, I think. Nor shall I 
 use the dagger that I spoke of. I can look at him, and I can 
 make him hear my voice, in spite of the smallness of my stature. 
 But there is no one in this world whom I detest as I do that 
 greasy Jew. It is not for what he does, but that I simply detest 
 him. He makes love to me." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " Oh ! he does. You needn't look like that. You needn't be 
 a bit jealous.' , 
 
 " I shall come over at once." 
 
 " And knock him on the head ! You had better not do that, 
 because we want to make some money by his means. As a 
 lover I can keep him at a distance. I wish I could do so to 
 you, Mr. Jones." 
 
 " Why do you wish to keep me at a distance ?" 
 
 " Because you know how to be troublesome. It is much 
 harder to keep a lover at a distance when you really love him 
 with all your heart " — here she looked up into his face and 
 squeezed his arm, and nearly made him mad for the moment — 
 " than a beast like that, who is no better than a toad to you. 
 There, do you see that ugly old man there ?" She pointed to a 
 cross-looking old gentleman of sixty, who was scolding a porter 
 violently. " Why aren't you jealous of that man ? " 
 
 " You never saw him before." 
 
 " That's just the reason, He may be worth my affection, but 
 I know that that Mahomet M. M. is not. You begin with the 
 most bitter hatred on my part. I don't hate that old gentleman. 
 I rather like him on the whole, though he was so cross. At any 
 rate he's not a greasy Jew. Papa says that hating Jews is a 
 prejudice. Loving you is a prejudice, I suppose." 
 
 "My darling ! " 
 
 "You can't suppose you are the best man I ever saw, can 
 you?" 
 
 " It's a sort of thing we are not to reason about." 
 
 "Then it's a prejudice. I'm prejudiced against Mahomet 
 M. M. I'm equally prejudiced in favour of Mr. Jones, junior, 
 of Ballintubber. It's horrible to be troubled by the one." 
 
 " Well ! " 
 
 "Well! There's nothing more coming, Mr. Jones. Only 
 don't you come over in any of your fits of jealousy, or you'll 
 have to be sent back again. You're not my lord and master — 
 yet." 
 
 (t I wish I were." 
 
 u So do I. W 7 hat more do you want than that ? I don't 
 believe there's another girl in New York would say as much to 
 you,— nor yet in County Galway." 
 
33 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 " But what does he say to you ? " 
 
 "Well ; just the kind of things that you never say. And he 
 certainly never does the kind of things which you do ; and that, 
 Mr. Jones, is an improvement. But papa is in a hurry, and I 
 shouldn't wonder if the train didn't go on in a quarter of an 
 hour. I'll write to you about Mahomet M. M. ; and if I behave 
 very badly, such as prodding him with the dagger, or something 
 of that sort, then I will let you know the details. You can't do 
 it here, so you may as well go." So saying she jumped into the 
 carriage, and the train had started before Frank Jones had 
 begun to think whether he could do it there or no. 
 
 " He's a good fellow, take him all round," said Mr. O'Mahony, 
 when the carriages had left the station. 
 
 <£ As good as the rest of them." 
 
 " I think he is better." 
 
 " Of course we all think so of our own. Why should he be 
 better than any other young lady's Mr. Jones ? I don't suppose 
 he is better ; but we'll endeavour to believe that he is up to the 
 average." 
 
 "Is that all that you've got to say for him, Rachel ? " 
 
 " What ! To you ? Not exactly — if I am to speak the solid 
 truth ; which I don't see why I should have to do, even to my 
 own father. I do think him above the average. I think him so 
 much above the average as to be the best of all. But why ? 
 Simply because I believe him when he says he wants to 
 marry me, and make me his companion for life. And then 
 there's an affinity between us which God certainly manages. 
 Why should I trust him in every detail of life w T ith a perfect 
 faith, and not trust Mr. Mahomet M. Moss to the extent of half- 
 a-crown? If he were to ask me for everything I have in the 
 world, I should give it to him, without a thought except of his 
 goodness in taking care of it for me. I wouldn't let Mahomet 
 M. Moss have a dollar of mine without giving me his bond. 
 Papa, there will be a row between me and Mr. Mahomet M. 
 Moss, and so it's well to put you on your guard." 
 
 " What sort of a row, my dear ? " 
 
 "Avery rowy row. I don't mean about dollars, for you'll 
 have to manage that just at first. When we have got into the 
 running, I think I shall have something to say on that subject 
 too." 
 
 " What row do you mean ? 91 
 
 " He'll misbehave himself. He always does, more or less." 
 
 " The poor fellow can't open his mouth without your saying 
 that he misbehaves himself." 
 
 u That's quite true ; he can't. He can't brush his hair, or tie 
 his cravat, or settle his pantaloons, without misbehaving him- 
 self. He certainly can't look out of his eye without gross mis- 
 behaviour." 
 
RACHEL AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 39 
 
 " What is he to do then ? " said Mr. O'Mahony. " Nature 
 has imbued him with all these peculiarities, and you are 
 fantastic to find fault with him. 5 ' 
 
 " Perhaps so — but then I am fantastic. When you've got a 
 dirty coat on, or Frank, I don't find fault with it ; but when he's 
 got a clean coat, I writhe at him in my disgust. Yet, upon the 
 whole, I like men to have clean coats." 
 
 " But you haven't said how the row is to come." 
 
 <c Because I don't know ; but it will come. It won't be about 
 his coat, nor yet his hat, unless he puts it close down under my 
 nose. My time, as I understand, is to be at his disposal." 
 
 " There will be an agreement made as to all that." 
 
 a An agreement as to my performances. I quite understand 
 that I must be present at fixed times at the theatre, and that he 
 must fix them. That will not worry me ; particularly if you will 
 go to the theatre with me." 
 
 " Of course I will do that when you want it." 
 
 " But he is to come to me with his beastly lessons. Am I to 
 have no relief from that ? " 
 
 " The hours can be fixed." 
 
 " But they won't be fixed. There's no doubt that he under- 
 stands his trade. He can make me open my mouth and keep 
 it open. And he can tell me when I sing false or flat. 
 Providence when she gave him that horrid head of hair, did give 
 him also the peculiarity of a fine ear. I think it is the meanest 
 thing out for a man to be proud of that. If you can run a 
 straight furrow with a plough it is quite as great a gift." 
 
 " That is nonsense, my dear. Such an ear as Mr. Moss's is 
 very rare." 
 
 " A man who can see exactly across an entire field is just as 
 rare. I don't see the difference. Nor when a woman sings do 
 I respect her especially because of her voice. When a man can 
 write a poem like Homer, or rule a country like Washington, 
 there is something to say for him. I shall tell him that I will 
 devote one hour a day to practising and no more." 
 
 " That will settle the difficulty ; if it be enough." 
 
 " But during that hour, there is to be no word spoken except 
 what has to do with the lessons. You'll bear me out in that ? " 
 
 " There must be some give-and-take in regard to ordinary 
 conversation." 
 
 " You don't know what a beast he is, papa. What am I to 
 do if he tells me to my face that I'm a beautiful young 
 woman ? : ' 
 
 " Tell him that you're quite aware of the fact, but that it is a 
 matter you do not care to talk about." 
 
 " And then he'll simper. You do not know what a vile 
 creature he can be. I can take care of myself. You needn't be 
 a bit afraid about that. I fancy I could give him a slap on the 
 
40 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 face which would startle him a little. And if we came to blows, 
 I do believe that he would not have a leg to stand upon. He is 
 nearly fifty." 
 " My dear ! " 
 
 " Say forty. But I do believe a good shove would knock 
 him off his nasty little legs. I used to think he wore a wig ; but 
 no hairdresser could be such a disgrace to his profession to let 
 such a wig as that go out of his shop." 
 
 " I always regarded him as a good-looking young man," 
 said Mr. O'Mahony. Here Rachel shook her head, and made a 
 terrible grimace. " It's all fancy, you know," continued he. 
 
 " I suppose it is. But if you hear that I have told him that 
 I regard him as a disgusting monkey, you must not be surprised." 
 This was the last conversation which Mr. O'Mahony and his 
 daughter had respecting Mahomet M. Moss, till they reached 
 London. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BROWN'S. 
 
 When Mr. O'Mahony and his daughter stepped out of the 
 train on the platform at Euston Square, they were at once 
 encountered by Mr. Mahomet M. Moss. " Oh, dear ! " ejaculated 
 Miss O'Mahony, turning back upon her father. " Cannot you 
 get rid of him?" Mr. O'Mahony, without a word of reply to his 
 daughter, at once greeted Mr Moss most affectionately. " Yes, 
 my bird is here — as you see. You have taken a great deal of 
 trouble in coming to meet us." Mr. Moss begged that the 
 trouble might be taken as being the greatest pleasure he had 
 ever had in his life. " Nothing could be too much to do for 
 Miss O'Mahony." He had had, he said, the wires at work, and 
 had been taught to expect them by this train. Would Miss 
 O'Mahony condescend to take a seat in the carriage which was 
 waiting for her ? She had not spoken a w 7 ord, but had laid fast 
 hold of her father's arm. " I had better look after the luggage,'' 
 said the father, shaking the daughter off. " Perhaps Mr. Moss 
 will go with you," said she ; — and at the moment she looked 
 anything but pleasant. Mr. Moss expressed his sense of the high 
 honour which was done him by her command, but suggested 
 that she should seat herself in the carriage. " I will stand here 
 under this pillar," she said. And as she took her stand it 
 would have required a man with more effrontery than Mr. Moss 
 possessed to attempt to move her. We have seen Miss O'Mahony 
 taking a few liberties with her lover, but still very affectionate. 
 And we have seen her enjoying the badinage of perfect equality 
 
BROWN'S. 
 
 41 
 
 with her papa. ' There was nothing then of the ferocious young 
 lady about her. Young ladies, — some young ladies,— can be 
 very ferocious. Miss O'Mahony appeared to be one of them. 
 As she stood under the iron post waiting till her father and Mr. 
 Moss returned, with two porters carrying the luggage, the pretty 
 little fair, fly-away Rachel looked as though she had in her hand 
 the dagger of which she had once spoken, and was waiting for an 
 opportunity to use it. 
 
 "Is your maid here, Miss O'Mahony?'' asked Mr. Moss. 
 
 " I haven't got a maid," said Rachel, looking at him as 
 though she intended to annihilate him. 
 
 They all seated themselves in the carriage with their small 
 parcels, leaving their luggage to come after them in a cab which 
 Mr. Moss had had allowed to him. But they, the O'Mahonys, 
 knew nothing of their immediate destination. It had been 
 clearly the father's business to ask ; but he was a man possessed 
 of no presence of mind. Suddenly the idea struck Rachel, and 
 she called out with a loud voice, " Father, where on earth are 
 we going?" 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Moss can tell us." 
 
 " You are going to apartments which I have secured for 
 Miss O'Mahony at considerable trouble," said Mr. Moss. 
 " The theatres are all stirring." 
 
 " But we are not going to live in a theatre." 
 
 " The ladies of the theatres find only one situation convenient. 
 They must live somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Strand. 
 I have secured two sitting-rooms and two bed-rooms on the first 
 floor, overlooking the views at Brown's." 
 
 " Won't they cost money? " asked the father. 
 
 " Of course they will," said Rachel. " What fools we have 
 been ! We intended to go to some inn for one night till we could 
 find a fitting place, — somewhere about Gower Street." 
 
 " Gower Street wouldn't do at all," said Mr. Moss. "The 
 distance from everything would be very great." Two ideas passed 
 at that moment through Rachel's mind. The first was that the 
 distance might serve to keep Mr. Moss out of her sitting-room, 
 and the second was that were she to succeed in doing this, she 
 might be forced to go to his sitting-room. i( I think Gower 
 Street would be found to be inconvenient, Miss O'Mahony." 
 
 " Bloomsbury Square is very near. Here we are at the hotel. 
 Now, father, before you have anything taken off the carriages, 
 ask the prices." 
 
 Then Mr. Moss, still keeping his seat, made a little speech. 
 " I think if Miss O'Mahony would allow me, I would counsel 
 her against too rigid an economy. She will have heard of the 
 old proverb, — * A penny wise and a pound foolish.' " 
 
 " ' Cut your coat according to your cloth,' I have heard of 
 that too ; and I have heard of 'Burning a candle at both ends.' 1 ' 
 
42 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 u 1 You shouldn't spoil your ship for a ha'porth of tar/ " said 
 Mr. Moss with a smile, which showed his idea, that he had the 
 best of the argument. 
 
 " It won't matter for one night," said Mr. O'Mahony, getting 
 out of the carriage. , Half the packages had been already taken 
 off the cab. 
 
 Rachel followed her father, and without attending to Mr. 
 Moss got hold of her father in the street. " I don't like the look 
 of the house at all, father, you don't know what the people would 
 be up to. I shall never go to sleep in this house.' , Mr. Moss, 
 with his hat off, was standing in the doorway, suffused, as to 
 his face fc with a bland smile. 
 
 It may be as well to say at once that the house was all that an 
 hotel ought to be, excepting, perhaps, that the prices were a 
 little high. The two sitting-rooms and the two bed-rooms, with 
 the maid's room which had also been taken, did seem to be very 
 heavy to Rachel, who knew down to a shilling — or rather, to a 
 dollar, as she would have said — how much her father had in his 
 pocket. Indefinite promises of great wealth had been also made 
 to herself ; but according to a scale suggested by Mr. Moss, a 
 pound a night, out of which she would have to keep herself, was 
 the remuneration immediately promised. Then a sudden thought 
 struck Miss O'Mahony. They were still standing discussing the 
 price in one of the sitting-rooms, and Mr. Moss was also there. 
 " Father," she said, " I'm sure that Frank would not approve." 
 
 " I don't think that he would feel himself bound to interfere," 
 said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 u When a young woman is engaged to a young man it does 
 make a difference," she replied, looking Mr. Moss full in the 
 face. 
 
 " The happy man," said Mr. Moss, still bowing and smiling, 
 " would not be so unreasonable as to interfere with the career of 
 his fair fiancee? 
 
 " If we stay here very long," said Rachel still addressing her 
 father, " I guess we should have to pawn our watches. But here 
 we are for the present, and here we must remain. I am awfully 
 tired now, and should so like to have a cup of tea — by ourselves." 
 then Mr. Moss took his leave, promising to appear again upon 
 the scene at eleven o'clock on the following day. " Thank you," 
 said Rachel, " you are very kind, but I rather think I shall be 
 out at eleven o'clock." 
 
 "What is the use of your carrying on like that with the 
 man ? " said her father. 
 
 " Because he's a beast." 
 
 " My dear, he's not a beast. He's not a beast that you ought 
 to treat in that way. You'll be a beast too if you come to rise 
 high in your profession. It is a kind of work which sharpens 
 the intellect, but is apt to make men and women beasts. Did 
 
BROWN'S. 
 
 43 
 
 you ever hear of a prima donna who thought that another prima 
 donna sang better than she did ? " 
 
 " I guess that all the prima donnas sing better than I do." 
 
 " But you have not got to the position yet. Mr. Moss, I take 
 it, was doing very well in New York, so as to have become a 
 beast, as you call him. But he's very good-natured. " 
 
 ' He's a nasty, stuck-up, greasy Jew. A decent young woman 
 is insulted by being spoken to by him." 
 
 " What made you tell him that you were engaged to Frank 
 Jones?" 
 
 " I thought it might protect me — but it won't. I shall tell him 
 next time that I am Frank's wife. But even that will not 
 protect me." 
 
 " You will have to see him very often." 
 
 " And very often I shall have to be insulted. I guess he does 
 the same kind of thing with all the singing girls who come into 
 his hands.'' 
 
 " Give it up, Rachel." 
 
 " I don't mind being insulted so much as some girls do, you 
 know. I can't fancy an English girl putting up with him — 
 unless she liked to do as he pleased. I hate him ; — but I think 
 I can endure him. The only thing is, whether he would turn 
 against me and rend me. Then we shall come utterly to the 
 ground, here in London." 
 
 " Give it up." 
 
 " No ! You can lecture and I can sing, and it's odd if we 
 can't make one profession or the other pay. I think I shall 
 have to fight with him, but I won't give it up. What I am afraid 
 is that Frank should appear on the scene. And then, oh law ! if 
 Mr. Moss should get one blow in the eye ! " 
 
 There she sat, sipping her tea and eating her toast, with her 
 feet upon the fender, while Mr. O'Mahony ate his mutton chop 
 and drank his whisky and water. 
 
 "Father, now I am coming back to my temper, I want some- 
 thing better than this buttered toast. Could they get me a veal 
 cutlet, or a bit of cold chicken ? " 
 
 A waiter was summoned. 
 
 "And you must give me a little bit of ham with the cold 
 chicken. No, father ; I won't have any wine because it would 
 get into my head, and then I should kill Mr. Mahomet M. 
 Moss." 
 
 " My dear," said her father when the man had left the room, 
 "do you wish to declare all your animosities before the 
 waiter ? " 
 
 "Well, yes, I think I do. If we are to remain here it will be 
 better that they should all know that I regard this man as my 
 schoolmaster. I know what I'm about ; I don't let a word go 
 without thinking of it." 
 
41 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Then again they remained silent, and Mr. O'Mahony pre- 
 tended to go to sleep — and eventually did do so. He devoted 
 himself for the time to Home Rule, and got himself into a frame 
 of mind in which he really thought of Ireland. 
 
 " The first flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea." 
 
 Why should she not be so ? She had all the sentiment 
 necessary, all the poetry, all the eloquence, all the wit. And 
 then when he was beginning to think whether something more 
 than sentiment and eloquence were not necessary, he went to 
 sleep. 
 
 But Rachel was not sleeping. Her thoughts were less 
 stationary than her father's, and her ideas more realistic. She 
 had been told that she could sing, and she had sung at New 
 York with great applause. And she had gone on studying, or 
 rather practising, the art with great diligence. She had already 
 become aware that practice was more needed than study. All, 
 nearly all, this man could teach her was to open her mouth. 
 Nature had given her an ear, and a voice, if she would work 
 hard so as to use it. It was there before her. But it had 
 seemed to her that her career was clogged with the necessary 
 burden of Mr. Moss. Mr. Moss had got hold of her, and how 
 should she get rid of him ? He was the Old Man of the Sea, 
 and how should she shake him off? And then there was present 
 to her alone a vision of Frank Jones. To live at Morony Castle 
 and be Frank Jones's wife, would not that be sweeter than to 
 sing at a theatre under the care of Mr. Mahomet M. Moss ? 
 All the sweetness of a country life in a pleasant house by the lake 
 side, and a husband with her who would endure all the little 
 petulancy, and vagaries, and excesses of her wayward but 
 affectionate temper, all these things were present to her mind. 
 And to be Mistress Jones, who could look all the world in the 
 face, this, — as compared with the gaslight of a theatre, which 
 might mean failure, and could only mean gaslight — this, on the 
 present occasion, did tempt her sorely. Her moods were very 
 various. There were moments of her life when the gaslight had 
 its charm, and in which she declared to herself that she was 
 willing to run all the chances of failure for the hope of success. 
 There were moments in which Mr. Moss loomed less odious 
 before her eyes. Should she be afraid of Mr. Moss, and fly 
 from her destiny because a man was greasy ? And to this view 
 of her circumstances she always came at last when her father's 
 condition pressed itself upon her. The house beside the lake 
 was not her own as yet, nor would it be her husband's when she 
 was married. 
 
 Nor couM there be a home for her father there as long as 
 old Mr. Jones was alive, nor possibly when his son should come 
 to the throne. For a time he must go to America, and she 
 must go with him. She had declared to herself that she could 
 
BROWN'S. 
 
 45 
 
 not go back to the United States unless she could go back as a 
 successful singer. For these reasons she resolved that she would 
 face Mr. Moss bravely and all his horrors. 
 
 " If that gentleman comes here to-morrow at eleven, show 
 him up here," she said to the waiter. 
 
 " Mr. Moss, ma'am ? " the waiter asked. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Moss," she answered in a loud voice, which told 
 the man much of her story. " Where did that piano come 
 *rom ? " she asked brusquely. 
 
 " Mr. Moss had it sent in," said the man. 
 
 u And my father is paying separate rent for it ? " she asked. 
 
 " What's that, my dear ? What's that about rent ? " 
 
 " We have got this piano to pay for. It's one of Erard's. 
 Mr. Moss has sent it, and of course we must pay till we have 
 sent it back again. That'll do." 
 
 Then the man went. 
 
 " It's my belief that he intends to get us into pecuniary 
 difficulties. You have only got £62 left." 
 
 " But you are to have twenty shillings a day till Christmas." 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " According to what he says it will be increased after 
 Christmas. He spoke of £2 a day." 
 
 " Yes ; if my singing be approved of. But who is to be the 
 judge ? If the musical world choose to say that they must have 
 Rachel O'Mahony, that will be all very well. Am I to sing at 
 twenty shillings a day for just as long as Mr. Moss may want 
 me ? And are we to remain here, and run up a bill which we 
 shall never be able to pay, till they put us out of the door and 
 call us swindlers ? " 
 
 " Frank Jones would help us at a pinch if we came to that 
 difficulty," said the father. 
 
 " I wouldn't take a shilling from Frank Jones. Frank Jones 
 is all the world to me, but he cannot help me till he has made 
 me his wife. We must go out of this at the end of the first week, 
 and send the piano back. As far as I can make it out, our 
 expenses here will be about £17 10s. a week. What the piano 
 will cost, I don't know ; but we'll learn that from Mr. Moss. 
 I'll make him understand that we can't stay here, having no 
 more than twenty shillings a day. If he won't undertake to give 
 me £2 a day immediately after Christmas, we must go back to 
 New York while we've got money left to take us." 
 
 " Have it your own way," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " I don't mean to remain here and wake up some morning 
 and find that I can't stir a step without asking Mahomet M. M. 
 for some money favour. I know I can sing ; I can sing at any 
 rate, to the extent of forty shillings a day. For forty shillings a 
 day I'll stay ; but if I can't earn that at once let us go back to 
 New York. It is not the poverty I mind so much, nor yet the 
 
4 6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 debt, nor yet even your distress, you dear old father. You and 
 I could weather it out together on a twopenny roll. Things 
 would never be altogether bad with us as long as we are 
 together ; and as long as we have not put ourselves in the 
 power of Mahomet M. M. Fancy owing Mr. Moss a sum 
 of money which we couldn't pay! Mahomet's 6 little bill!' I 
 would say to a Christian : * All right, Mr. Christian, you shall 
 have your money in good time, and if you don't it won't hurt 
 you.' He wouldn't be any more than an ordinary Christian, 
 and would pull a long face ; but he would have no little scheme 
 ready, cut and dry, for getting my body and soul under his 
 thumb. " 
 
 " You are very unchristian yourself, my dear." 
 
 " I certainly have my own opinion of Mahomet M. M., and 
 I shall tell him to-morrow morning that I don't mean to run the 
 danger." 
 
 Then they went to bed and slept the sleep of the just. They 
 ordered breakfast at nine, so that, as Rachel said, the heavy 
 mutton chop might not be sticking in her throat as she attempted 
 to show off before Mr. Moss on his arrival. But from eight till 
 nine she passed her time in the double employment of brushing 
 her hair and preparing the conversation as it was to take place 
 between herself and Mr. Moss. When a young lady boasts that 
 she doesn't " let a word go without thinking of it," she has to be 
 careful in preparing her words. And she prepared them now. 
 
 " There will be two of them against me," she said to herself 
 as she made the preparation. " There'll be the dear old 
 governor, and the governor that isn't dear. If I were left quite 
 to myself I think I could do it easier. But then it might come 
 to sticking a knife into him." 
 
 " Father," she said, during breakfast, " I'm going to practise 
 for half-an-hour before this man comes." 
 
 "That means that I'm to go away." 
 
 " Not in the least. I shall go into the next room where the 
 piano lives, and you can come or not just as you please. I shall 
 be squalling all the time, and as we do have the grandeur of two 
 rooms for the present, you might as well use them. But when he 
 comes we must take care and see that matters go right. You 
 had better leave us alone at first, that I may sing to him. Then, 
 when that's over, do you be in waiting to be called in. I mean 
 to have a little bit of business with my trusted agent, manager, 
 and parent in music, ' Mahomet M. M.'" 
 
 She went to the instrument, and practised there till half-past 
 eleven, at which hour Mr. Moss presented himself. " You'll 
 want to hear me sing of course," she said without getting up 
 from the music-stool. 
 
 " Just a bar or two to know how you have improved. But it 
 is hardly necessary. I see from the motion of your lips that you 
 
BROWN'S. 
 
 47 
 
 have been keeping your mouth open. And I hear from the tone 
 of your voice, that it is all there. There is no doubt about you, 
 if you have practised opening your mouth." 
 
 " At any rate you shall hear, and if you will stand there you 
 shall see." 
 
 Then the music lesson began, and Mr. Moss proved himself 
 to be an adept in his art. Rachel did not in the least doubt 
 his skill, and obeyed him in everything as faithfully as she would 
 have done, had he been personally a favourite with her. " Allow 
 me to express my great delight and my strong admiration for the 
 young debutante. As far as Miss O'Mahony is concerned the 
 word failure may be struck out of the language. And no epithet 
 should be used to qualify success, but one in the most superlative 
 
 degree. Allow me to " And he attempted to raise her hand 
 
 to his lips, and to express his homage in a manner certainly not 
 unusual with gentlemen of his profession. 
 
 " Mr. Moss," said the young lady starting up, " there need 
 be nothing of that kind. There had better not. When a young 
 woman is going to be married to a young man, she can't be too 
 careful. You don't know perhaps, but I'm going to be Mrs. 
 Jones. Mr. Jones is apt to dislike such things. If you'll wait 
 half a moment, I'll bring papa in." So saying she ran out of the 
 room, and in two minutes returned, followed by her father. The 
 two men shook hands, and each of them looked as though he did 
 not know what he was expected to say to the other. " Now 
 then, father, you must arrange things with Mr. Moss." 
 
 Mr. Moss bowed. " I don't exactly know what I have got 
 to arrange," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " We've got to arrange so that we shan't get into debt with 
 Mr. Moss." 
 
 " There need not be the least fear in the world as to that," 
 said Mr. Moss. 
 
 " Ah ; but that's just what we do fear, and what we must 
 fear." 
 
 "So unnecessary, — so altogether unnecessary," said Mr. 
 Moss, expecting to be allowed to be the banker for the occasion. 
 " If you will just draw on me for what you want." 
 
 "But that is just what we won't do." Then there was a 
 pause, and Mr. Moss shrugged his shoulders. " It's as well to 
 understand that at the beginning. Of course this place is too 
 expensive for us, and we must get out of it as soon as possible." 
 
 "Why in such a hurry?" said Mr. Moss raising his two 
 hands. 
 
 "And we must send back the piano. It was so good of you 
 to think of it ! But it must go back." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " shouted Mr. Moss. " The piano is my affair. 
 A piano more or less for a few months is nothing between me 
 and Erard's people. They are only too happy." 
 
4 3 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " I do not in the least doubt it. Messrs. Erard's people are 
 always glad to secure a lady who is about to come out as a 
 singer. But they send the bill in at last." 
 
 " Not to you ;— not to you." 
 
 " But to you. That would be a great deal worse, would it 
 not, father ? We might as well understand each other." 
 
 u Mr. O'Mahony and I will understand each other very 
 well." 
 
 "But it is necessary that Miss O'Mahony and you should 
 understand each other also. My father trusts me, and I cannot 
 tell you how absolutely I obey him." 
 
 " Or' he you," said Mr. Moss, laughing. 
 
 " At any rate we two know what we are about, sir. You will 
 not find us differing. Now Mr. Moss, you are to pay me twenty 
 shillings a day." 
 
 "Till Christmas ; — twenty shillings a night till Christmas." 
 
 " Of course we cannot live here on twenty shillings a day. 
 The rooms nearly take it all. We can't live on twenty shillings 
 a day anyhow." 
 
 " Then make it forty shillings immediately after the Christ- 
 mas holidays. 
 
 " I must have an agreement to that effect," said Rachel, " or 
 we must go back to Ireland. I must have the agreement before 
 Christmas, or we shall go back. We have a few pounds which 
 will take us away." 
 
 "You must not speak of going away, really, Miss 
 O'Mahony." 
 
 " Then I must have an agreement signed. You understand 
 that. And we shall look for cheaper rooms to-day. There is a 
 little street close by where we can manage it. But on the one 
 thing we are determined ; — we will not get into debt." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880. 
 
 On Christmas-day Rachel O'Mahony wrote a letter to her lover 
 at Morony Castle : — 
 
 " Cecil Street, Christmas-day, 1880, 
 
 "Dearest Frank, 
 
 "You do love me, don't you? What's the use of my 
 loving you, and thinking that you are everything, only that you 
 are to love me. I am quite content that it should be so. Only 
 let it be so. You'll ask me what reason I have to be jealous. 
 I am not jealous. I do think in my heart that you think that 
 
CHRISTMAS-DAY, i83o. 
 
 49 
 
 I'm — jast perfect. And when I tell myself that it is so, I lay 
 myself back in my chair and kiss at you with my lips till I am 
 tired of kissing the space where you ain't. But if I am wrong, 
 and if you are having a good time of it with Miss Considine at 
 Mrs. McKeon's ball, and are not thinking a bit of me and my 
 kisses, what's the use ? It's a very unfair bargain that a woman 
 
 makes with a man. 'Yes; I do love you,' I say, — 'but ' 
 
 Then there's a sigh. i Yes ; I'll love you,' you say ' if 
 
 Then there's a laugh. If I tell a fib, and am not worth having, 
 you can always recuperate. But we can't recuperate. I'm to 
 go about the world and be laughed at, as the girl that Frank 
 Jones made a fool of. Oh ! Mr. Jones, if you treat me in that 
 way, won't I punish you ? I'll jump into the lough with a label 
 round my neck telling the whole story. But I am not a bit 
 jealous, because I know you are good. 
 
 "And now I must tell you a bit more of my history. We 
 got rid of that lovely hotel, paying £6 ios., when that just earned 
 £i. And I have brought the piano with me. The man 
 at Erard's told me that I should have it for £2 ios. a month, 
 frankly owning that he hoped to get my custom. ' But Mr. Moss 
 is to pay nothing?' I asked. He swore that Mr. Moss would 
 have to pay nothing, and leave what occurred between him and 
 me. I don't think he will. ^30 a year ought to be enough for 
 the hire of a piano. So here we are established, at £10 a month 
 — the first-floor, with father's bedroom behind the sitting-room. 
 I have the room upstairs over the sitting-room. They are small 
 stumpy little rooms, — ' but mine own.' Who says — ' But mine 
 own?' Somebody does, and I repeat it. They are mine own, at 
 any rate till next Saturday. 
 
 "And we have settled this terrible engagement and signed it. 
 I'm to sing for Moss at ' The Embankment ' for four months, at 
 the rate of ^600 a year. It was a Jew's bargain, for I really had 
 filled the house for a fortnight. Fancy a theatre called ' The 
 Embankment ! J There is a nasty muddy rheumatic sound 
 about it ; but it's very prettily got up, and the exits and entrances 
 are also good. Father goes with me every night, but I mean to 
 let him off the terrible task soon. He smiles, and says he likes 
 it. I only tell him he would be a child if he did. They want 
 to change the piece, but I shall make them pay me for my 
 dresses; I am not going to wear any other woman's old clothes. 
 It's not the proper way to begin, you have to begin as a slave or 
 as an empress. Of course, anybody prefers to do the empress. 
 They try, and then they fail, and tumble down. I shall tumble 
 down, no doubt ; but I may as well have my chance. 
 
 "And now I'm going to make you say that I'm a beast. 
 And so I am. I make a little use of Mahomet M. M.'s passion 
 to achieve my throne instead of taking up at once with serfdom. 
 But I do it without vouchsafing him even the first corner of a 
 
 E 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 smile. The harshest treatment is all that he gets. Men such 
 as Mahomet M. will live on harsh treatment for a while, looking 
 forward to revenge when their time comes. But I shall soon 
 have made sure of my throne, or shall have failed ; and in 
 either case shall cease to care for Mahomet M. By bullying 
 him and by treating him as dust beneath my feet, I can do 
 something to show how proud I am, and how sure I am of 
 success. He offers me money— not paid money down, which 
 would have certain allurements. I shouldn't take it. I needn't 
 tell you that. I should like to have plenty of loose sovereigns, 
 so as to hire broughams from the yard, instead of walking, or 
 going in a 'bus about London, which is very upsetting to my 
 pride. Father and I go down to the theatre in a hansom, when 
 we feel ourselves quite smart. But it isn't money like that which 
 he offers. He wants to pay me a month in advance and suggests 
 that I shall get into debt, and come to him to get me out of it. 
 There was some talk of papa going to New York for a few weeks, 
 and he said he would come and look after me in his absence. 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Moss,' I said, 'but I'm not sure I should 
 want any looking after, only for such as you/ Those are the 
 very words I spoke, and I looked him full in the face. ( Why, 
 what do you expect from me?' he said. 4 Insult, 5 I replied, as 
 bold as brass. And then we are playing the two lovers at ' The 
 Embankment.' Isn't it a pretty family history ? He said nothing 
 at the moment, but came back in half an hour to make some 
 unnecessary remarks about the part. 4 Why did you say just 
 now that I insulted you ? ' he asked. ' Because you do/ I replied. 
 ' Never, never ! ' he exclaimed, with most grotesque energy. i I 
 have never insulted you.' You know, my dear, he has twenty 
 times endeavoured to kiss my hand, and once he saw fit to 
 stroke my hair. Beast ! If you knew the sort of feeling I have 
 for him — such as you would have if you found a cockroach in 
 your dressing-case. Of course in our life young women have to 
 put up with this kind of thing, and some of them like it. But he 
 knows that I am going to be married, or at any rate am engaged, 
 Mr. Frank. I make constant use of your name, telling every- 
 body that I am the future Mrs. Jones, putting such weight upon 
 the Jones. With me he knows that it is an insult ; but I don't 
 want to quarrel with him if I can help 'it, and therefore I 
 softened it down. 'You hear me say, Mr. Moss, that I'm an 
 engaged young woman. Knowing that, you oughtn't to speak 
 to me as you do.' ' Why, what do I say ? ' You should have 
 seen his grin as he asked me ; such a leer of triumph as though 
 he knew that he were getting the better of me. ( Mr. Jones 
 wouldn't approve if he were to see it.' ' But luckily he don't,' 
 said my admirer. Oh, if you knew how willingly I'd stand at a 
 tub and wash your shirts, while the very touch of his gloves 
 makes me creep all over with horror. ' Let us have peace for 
 
CHRISTMAS-DAY, 18S0. 
 
 5i 
 
 the future/ I said. ' I dislike all those familiarities. If you will 
 only give them up we shall go on like a house on fire. 5 Then 
 the beast made an attempt to squeeze my hand as he went out 
 of the room. I retreated, however, behind the table, and escaped 
 untouched on that occasion. 
 
 " You are not to come over, whatever happens, until I tell 
 you. You ought to know very well by this time that I can 
 fight my battles by myself ; and if you did come, there would be 
 an end altogether to the ,£200 which I am earning. To give him 
 his due, he's very punctual with his money, only that he wants 
 to pay me in advance, which I will never have. He has been 
 liberal about my dresses, telling me to order just what I want, 
 and have the bill sent in to the costume manager. When I 
 have worn them they become the property of the theatre. God 
 help any poor young woman that will ever be expected to get 
 into them. So now you know exactly how I am standing 
 with Mahomet M. M. 
 
 "Poor father goes about to public meetings, but never is 
 allowed to open his mouth for fear he should say something 
 about the Queen. I don't mean that he is really watched, but 
 he promised in Ireland not to lecture any more if they would let 
 him go, and he wishes to keep his word. But I fear it makes him 
 very unhappy. He has, at any rate, the comfort of coming 
 home and giving me the lecture, which he ought to have 
 delivered to more sympathetic ears. Not but what I do care 
 about the people ; only how am I to know whether they ought 
 to be allowed to make their own petticoats, or why it is that 
 they don't do so? He says it's the London Parliament; and 
 that if they had members in College Green, the young women 
 would go to work at once, and make petticoats for all the world. 
 I don't understand it, and wish that he had someone else to 
 lecture to. 
 
 " How are you getting on with all your own pet troubles ? Is 
 the little subsiding lake at Ballintubber still a lake ? And what 
 about poor Florian and his religion ? Has he told up as yet ? I 
 fear, I fear, that poor Florian has been fibbing, and that there 
 will be no peace for him or for your father till the truth has been 
 told. 
 
 " Now, sir, I have told you everything, just as a young woman 
 ought to tell her future lord and master. You say you ought to 
 know what Moss is doing. You do know, exactly, as far as I 
 can tell you. Of course you wouldn't like to see him, but then 
 you have the comfort of knowing that I don't like it either. I 
 suppose it is a comfort, eh, my bold young man ? Of course 
 you want me to hate the pig, and I do hate him. You may be 
 sure that I will get rid of him as soon as I conveniently can. 
 But for the present he is a necessary evil. If you had a home 
 to give me, I would come to it — oh, so readily ! There is some- 
 
 E 2 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 thing in the glitter of a theatre — what people call the boards, the 
 gaslights, the music, the mock love-maki ng, the pretence of being 
 somebody, the feeling of mystery which is attached to you, and 
 the feeling you have that you are generally unlike the world at 
 large— which has its charms. Even your name, blazoned in a 
 dirty play-bill, without any Mister or Mistress to guard you, so 
 unlike the ways of ordinary life, does gratify one's vanity. I 
 can't say why it should be so, but it is. I always feel a little 
 prouder of myself when father is not with me. I am Miss 
 O'Mahony, looking after myself, whereas other young ladies 
 have to be watched. It has its attractions. 
 
 " But — but to be the wife of Frank Jones, and to look after 
 Frank's little house, and to cook for him his chicken and 
 his bacon, and to feel that I am all the world to him, and to 
 
 think ! But, oh, Frank, I cannot tell you what things I 
 
 think. I do feel, as I think them, that I have not been made to 
 stand long before the glare of the gas, and that the time will 
 certainly come when I shall walk about Ballintubber leaning on 
 your arm, and hearing all your future troubles about rents not 
 paid, and waters that have come in. 
 
 " Your own, own girl, 
 
 "Rachel O'Mahony.' 5 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BLACK DALY. 
 
 Frank Jones received his letter just as he was about to leave 
 Castle Morony for the meet at Ballytowngal, the seat, as every- 
 body knows, of Sir Nicholas Bodkin. Ballytowngal is about 
 two miles from Claregalway, on the road to Oranmore. Sir 
 Nicholas is known all through the West of Ireland, as a sporting 
 man, and is held in high esteem. But there is, I think, some- 
 thing different in the estimation which he now enjoys from that 
 which he possessed twenty years ago. He was then, as now, a 
 Roman Catholic, — as were also his wife and children ; and, as 
 a Roman Catholic, he was more popular with the lower classes, 
 and with the priests, who are their natural friends, than with his 
 brother grand-jurors of the country, who were, for the most part, 
 Protestants. 
 
 Sir Nicholas is now sixty years old, and when he came to the 
 title at thirty, he was regarded certainly as a poor man's friend. 
 He always lived on the estate. He rarely went up to Dublin, 
 except for a fortnight, when the hunting was over, and when he 
 paid his respects to the Lord Lieutenant. The house at Bally- 
 towngal was said, in those days, to be as well kept up as any 
 
BLACK DALY. 
 
 53 
 
 mansion in County Gahvay. But the saying came probably from 
 those who were not intimate in the more gloriously maintained 
 mansions. Sir Nicholas had ^5,000 a year, and though 
 he did manage to pay his bills annually, spent every shilling of 
 it. He preserved his foxes loyally, and was quite as keen about 
 the fishing of a little river that he owned, and which ran down 
 from his demesne into Lough Corrib. He was particular also 
 about his snipe, and would boast that in a little spinney at 
 Ballytowngal were to be met the earliest woodcock found in the 
 West of Ireland. He was a thorough sportsman ; — but a Roman 
 Catholic — and as a Roman Catholic he was hardly equal in 
 standing to some of his Protestant neighbours. He voted for 
 Major Stackpoole, when Major Stackpoole stood for the county 
 on the Liberal interest, and was once requested to come forward 
 himself, and stand for the City as a Roman Catholic. This he 
 did not do, being a prudent man ; but at that period, from 
 twenty to thirty years ago, he was certainly regarded as inferior 
 to a Protestant by many of the Protestant gentlemen of the 
 country. 
 
 But things are changed now. Sir Nicholas's neighbours, 
 such of them at least that are Protestants, regard Sir Nicholas as 
 equal to themselves. They do not care much for his religion, 
 but they know that he is not a Home-Ruler, or latterly, since 
 the Land-league sprang into existence, a Land-leaguer. He is, in 
 fact, one of themselves as a county gentleman, and the question 
 of religion has gone altogether into abeyance. Had you known 
 the county thirty years ago, and had now heard Sir Nicholas 
 talking of county matters, you would think that he was one of 
 the old Protestants. It was so that the rich people regarded 
 him, — and so also the poor. But Sir Nicholas had not varied at 
 all. He liked to get his rents paid, and as long as his tenants 
 would pay them, he was at one with them. They had begun 
 now to have opinions of their own on the subject, and he 
 was at one with them no longer. 
 
 Frank Jones had heard in Galway, that there was to be a 
 difficulty about drawing the Ballytowngal coverts. The hounds 
 were to be allowed to draw the demesne coverts, but beyond 
 that they were to be interrupted. Foxes seldom broke from 
 Ballytowngal, or if they did they ran to Moytubber. At Moy- 
 tubber the hounds would probably change,— or would do so if 
 allowed to continue their sport in peace. But at Moytubber the 
 row would begin. Knowing this, Frank Jones was anxious to 
 leave his home in time, as he was aware that the hounds would 
 be carried on to Moytubber as quickly as possible. Black Daly 
 had sworn a solemn oath that he would draw Moytubber in 
 the teeth of every Home-Ruler and Land-leaguer in County 
 Galway. 
 
 A word or two must be said descriptive of Black Daly, as he 
 
51 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 was called, the master of the Galway hounds. They used to be 
 called the Galway blazers, but the name had nearly dropped out 
 of fashion since Black Daly had become their master, a quarter 
 of a century since. Who Black Daly was, or whence he had 
 come, many men, even in County Galway, did not know. It was 
 not that he had no property, but that his property was so small, 
 as to make it seem improbable that the owner of it should be 
 the master of the county hounds. But in truth Black Daly lived 
 at Daly's Bridge, in the neighbourhood of Castle Blakeney, 
 when he was supposed to be at home. And the house in which 
 he lived he had undoubtedly inherited from his father. But he 
 was not often there, and kept his kennels at Ahaseragh, five 
 miles away from Daly's Bridge. Much was not therefore 
 known of Mr. Daly, in his own house. 
 
 But in the field no man was better known, or more popular, 
 if thorough obedience is an element of popularity. The old 
 gentry of the county could tell why Mr. Daly had been put into 
 his present situation five-and-twenty years ago ; but the manner 
 of his election was not often talked about. He had no money, 
 and very few acres of his own on which to preserve foxes. He 
 had never done anything to earn a shilling since he had been born, 
 unless he may have been said to have earned shillings by his 
 present occupation. As he got his living out of it, he certainly 
 may have been said to have done so. He never borrowed a 
 shilling from any man, and certainly paid his way. But if he 
 told a young man that he ought to buy a horse the young man 
 certainly bought it. And if he told a young man that he must 
 pay a certain price, the young man generally paid it. But if the 
 young man were not ready with his money by the day fixed, that 
 young man generally had a bad time of it. Young men have 
 been known to be driven not only out of County Galway, but 
 out of Ireland itself, by the tone of Mr. Daly's voice, and by the 
 blackness of his frown. And yet it was said generally that 
 neither young men nor old men were injured in their dealings 
 with Air. Daly. " That horse won't be much the worse for his 
 splint, and he's worth £70 to you, because you can ride him ten 
 stone. You had better give me £jo for him." Then the young 
 man would promise the £70 in three months' time, and if he 
 kept his word, would swear by Black Daly ever afterwards. In 
 this way Mr. Daly sold a great many horses. 
 
 But he had been put into his present position because he 
 hunted the hounds, during the illness of a distant cousin, who 
 was the then master. The master had died, but the county had 
 the best sport that winter that it had ever enjoyed. " I don't see 
 why I should not do it as well as another," Tom Daly had said. 
 He was then known as Tom Daly. " You've got no money," 
 his cousin had said, the son of the old gentleman who was just 
 dead. It was well understood that the cousin wished to have the 
 
BLACK DALY. 
 
 55 
 
 hounds, but that he was thought not to have all the necessary- 
 attributes. " I suppose the county means to pay for all sport/' 
 said Tom. Then the hat went round, and an annual sum of 
 ^900 a year was voted. Since that the hounds have gone on, 
 and the bills have been paid ; and Tom has raised the number 
 of days' hunting to four a week, or has lowered it to two, 
 according to the amount of money given. He makes no 
 proposition now, but declares what he means to do. " Things 
 are dearer," he said last year, " and you won't have above five 
 days a fortnight, unless you can make the money up to ,£1,200. 
 I want ^400 a day, and ^400 I must have." The county had 
 then voted him the money in the plenitude of its power, and 
 Daly had hunted seven days a fortnight. But all the Galway 
 world felt that there was about to be a fall. 
 
 Black Daly was a man quite as dark as his sobriquet 
 described him. He was tall, but very thin and bony, and 
 seemed not to have an ounce of flesh about his face or body. 
 He had large, black whiskers, — coarse and jet black, — which 
 did not quite meet beneath his chin. And he wore no other 
 beard, no tuft, no imperial, no moustachios ; but when he was 
 seen before shaving on a morning, he would seem to be black 
 all over, and his hair was black, short, and harsh ; and though 
 black, round about his ears it was beginning to be tinged with 
 grey. He was now over fifty years of age ; but the hair on his 
 head was as thick as it had been when he first undertook the 
 hounds. He had great dark eyes in his head, deep down, so 
 that they seemed to glitter at you out of caverns. And above 
 them were great, bushy eyebrows, every hair of which seemed to 
 be black, and harsh, and hard. His nose was well formed and 
 prominent ; but of cheeks he had apparently none. Between 
 his whiskers and his nose, and the corners of his mouth there was 
 nothing but two hollow cavities. He was somewhat over six feet 
 high, but from his extraordinary thinness gave the appearance 
 of much greater height. His arms were long, and the waistcoat 
 which he wore was always long ; his breeches were very long ; 
 and his boots seemed the longest thing about him — unless his 
 spurs seemed longer. He had no flesh about him, and it was 
 boasted of him that, in spite of his length, and in spite of his 
 height, he could ride under twelve stone. Of himself and of his 
 doings, he never talked. They were secrets of his own, of which 
 he might have to make money. And no one had a right to ask 
 him questions. He did not conceive that it would be necessary 
 for a gentleman to declare his weight unless he were about to 
 ride a race. Now it was understood that for the last ten years 
 Black Daly had ridden no races. 
 
 He was a man of whom it might be said that he never joked. 
 Though his life was devoted in a peculiar manner to sport, and 
 there may be thought to be something akin between the amuse- 
 
56 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 merits and the lightness of life, it was all serious to 1 im. 
 Though he was bitter over it, or happy ; triumphant, cr 
 occasionally in despair — as when the money was not forth- 
 coming — he never laughed. It was all serious to him, and 
 apparently sad, from the first note of a hound in the early covert, 
 down to the tidings that a poor fox had been found poisoned 
 near his earth. He had much to do to find sport for the county 
 on such limited means, and he was always doing it. 
 
 He not only knew every hound in his pack, but he knew their 
 ages, their sires and their dams ; and the sires and the dams of 
 most of their sires and dams. He knew the constitution of each, 
 and to what extent their noses were to be trusted. " It's a very 
 heavy scent to-day," he would say, "because Gaylap carries it 
 over the plough. It's only a catching scent because the drops 
 don't hang on the bushes." His lore on all such matters was 
 incredible, but he would never listen to any argument. A man 
 had a right to his own opinion ; but then the man who differed 
 from him knew nothing. He gave out his little laws to favoured 
 individuals ; not by way of conversation, for which he cared 
 nothing, but because it might be well that the favoured individual 
 should know the truth on that occasion. 
 
 As a man to ride he was a complete master of his art. There 
 was nothing which a horse could do with a man on his back, 
 which Daly could not make him do ; and when he had ridden a 
 horse he would know exactly what was within his power. But 
 there was no desire with him for the showing off of a horse. He 
 often rode to sell a horse, but he never seemed to do so. He 
 never rode at difficult places unless driven to do so by the 
 exigencies of the moment. He was always quiet in the field, 
 unless when driven to express himself as to the faults of some 
 young man. Then he could blaze forth in his anger with great 
 power. He was constantly to be seen trotting along a road 
 when hounds were running, because he had no desire to achieve 
 for himself a character for hard riding. But he was always with 
 his hounds when he was wanted, and it was boasted of him that 
 he had ridden four days a week through the season on three 
 horses, and had never lamed one of them. He was rarely known 
 to have a second horse out, and when he did so, it was for some 
 purpose peculiar to the day's work. On such days he had 
 generally a horse to sell. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that Black Daly was an unmarried 
 man. No one who knew him could conceive that he should 
 have had a wife. His hounds were his children, and he could 
 have taught no wife to assist him in looking after them, with the 
 constant attention and tender care which was given to them by 
 Barney Smith, his huntsman. A wife, had she seen to the 
 feeding of the numerous babies, would have given them too much 
 to eat, and had she not undertaken this care, she would have been 
 
BLACK DALY. 
 
 57 
 
 useless at Daly's Bridge. But Barney Smith was invaluable ; 
 double the amount of work got usually from a huntsman was 
 done by him. There was no kennel man, no second horseman, 
 no stud-groom at the Ahaseragh kennels.- It may be said that 
 Black Daly filled all these positions himself, and that in each 
 Barney Smith was his first lieutenant. Circumstances had given 
 him the use of the Ahaseragh kennels, which had been the 
 property of his cousin, and circumstances had not enabled him 
 to build others at Daly's Bridge. Gradually he had found it 
 easier to move himself than the hounds. And so it had come to 
 pass that two rooms had been prepared for him close to the 
 kennels, and that Mr. Barney Smith gave him such attendance 
 as was necessary. Of strictly personal attendance Black Daly 
 wanted very little ; but the discomforts of that home, while 
 one pair of breeches were supposed to be at Daly's Bridge, and 
 the others at Ahaseragh, were presumed by the world at large to 
 be very grievous. 
 
 But the personal appearance of Mr. Daly on hunting 
 mornings, was not a matter of indifference. It was not that he 
 wore beautiful pink tops, or came out guarded from the dust by 
 little aprons, or had his cravat just out of the bandbox, or his 
 scarlet coat always new, and in the latest fashion, nor had his hat 
 just come from the shop in Piccadilly with the newest twist to 
 its rim. But there was something manly, and even powerful 
 about his whole apparel. He was always the same, so that by 
 men even in his own county, he would hardly have been known 
 in other garments. The strong, broad-brimmed high hat, with 
 the cord passing down his back beneath his coat, that had 
 known the weather of various winters ; the dark, red coat, with 
 long swallow tails, which had grown nearly black under many 
 storms ; the dark, buff striped waistcoat, with the stripes running 
 downwards, long, so as to come well down over his breeches ; 
 the breeches themselves, which were always of leather, but which 
 had become nearly brown under the hands of Barney Smith or 
 his wife, and the mahogany top-boots, of which the tops seemed 
 to be a foot in length, could none of them have been worn by 
 any but Black Daly. His very spurs must have surely been 
 made for him, they were in length and weight, and general 
 strength of leather, so peculiarly his own. He was unlike other 
 masters of hounds in this, that he never carried a horn ; but he 
 spoke to his hounds in aloud, indistinct chirruping voice, which 
 all County Galway believed to be understood to every hound in 
 the park. 
 
 One other fact must be told respecting Mr. Daly. He was a 
 Protestant — as opposed to a Roman Catholic. No one had ever 
 known him go to church, or speak a word in reference to 
 religion. He was equally civil or uncivil to priest and parson 
 when priest or parson appeared in the field. But on no account 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 would he speak to either of them if he could avoid it. But he 
 had in his heart a thorough conviction that all Roman Catholics 
 ought to be regarded as enemies by all Protestants, and that the 
 feeling was one entirely independent of faith and prayerbooks, 
 or crosses and masses. For him fox-hunting — fox-hunting for 
 others — was the work of his life, and he did not care to meddle 
 with what he did not understand. But he was a Protestant, and 
 Sir Nicholas Bodkin was a Roman Catholic, and therefore an 
 enemy — as a dog maybe supposed to declare himself a dog. and 
 a cat a cat, if called upon to explain the cause of the old family 
 quarrel. 
 
 Now there had come a cloud over his spirit in reference to 
 the state of his country. He could see that the quarrel was not 
 entirely one between Protestant and Catholic as it used to be, 
 but still he could not get it out of his mind, but that the old 
 causes were producing in a different way their old effects. 
 Whiteboys, Terryalts, Ribbonmen, Repeaters, Physical-Force- 
 men, Fenians, Home-Rulers, Professors of Dynamite, and 
 American- Irish, were, to his thinking, all the same. He never 
 talked much about it, because he did not like to expose his 
 ignorance ; but his convictions were not the less formed. It was 
 the business of a Protestant to take rent, and of a Roman 
 Catholic to pay rent. There were certain deviations in this 
 ordained rule of life, but they were only exceptions. The 
 Roman Catholics had the worst of this position, and the 
 Protestants the best. Therefore the Roman Catholics were of 
 course quarrelling with it, and therefore the Roman Catholics 
 must be kept down. Such had been Mr. Daly's general outlook 
 into life. But now the advancing evil of the time was about to 
 fall even upon himself, and upon his beneficent labours, done for 
 the world at large. It was whispered in County Galway that the 
 people were about to rise and interfere with fox-hunting ! It 
 may be imagined that on this special day Mr. Daly's heart was 
 low beneath his black-striped waistcoat, as he rode on his way 
 to draw the coverts at Ballytowngal. 
 
 At the cross-roads of Monivea he met Peter Bodkin, the 
 eldest son of Sir Nicholas. Now Peter Bodkin had quarrelled 
 long and very bitterly with his father. Every acre of the 
 property at Ballytowngal was entailed upon him, and Peter had 
 thought that under such circumstances his father was not doing 
 enough for him. The quarrel had been made up, but still the 
 evil rankled in Peter's bosom, who was driven to live with his 
 wife and family on ^500 a year ; and had found himself hardly 
 driven to keep himself out of the hands of the Jews. His father 
 had wished him to follow some profession, but this had been 
 contrary to Peter's idea of what was becoming. But though he 
 had only ^500 a year, and five children, he did manage to keep 
 two horses, and saw a good deal of hunting. 
 
BLACK DALY. 
 
 59 
 
 And among all the hunting men in County Galway he was 
 the one who lived on the closest terms of intimacy with Black 
 Daly. For, though he was a Roman Catholic, his religion did 
 not trouble him much ; and he was undoubtedly on the same 
 side with Daly in the feuds that were coming on the country. 
 Indeed, he and Daly had entertained the same feelings for some 
 years ; for, in the quarrels which had been rife between the 
 father and son, Mr. Daly had taken the son's part, as far as so 
 silent a man can be said to have taken any part at all. 
 
 "Well, Peter." "Well, Daly" were the greetings, as the 
 two men met ; and then they rode on together in silence for a 
 mile. " Have you heard what the boys are going to do ? " 
 asked the master. Peter shook his head. " I suppose there's 
 nothing in it ?" 
 
 " I fear there is." 
 
 " What will they do ? " asked Mr. Daly. 
 u Just prevent your hunting." 
 
 " If they touch me, or either of the men, by God ! I'll shoot 
 some of them." Then he put his hand into his pocket, as much 
 as to explain a pistol was there. After that the two men rode 
 on in silence till they came to the gates of Ballytowngal. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BALLYTOWNGAL. 
 
 Daly, among other virtues, or vices, was famed for punctuality. 
 He wore a large silver watch in his pocket which was as true as 
 the sun, or at any rate was believed by its owner to be so. 
 From Daly's watch on hunting mornings there was no appeal. 
 He always reached the appointed meet at five minutes before 
 eleven, by his watch, and by his watch the hounds were always 
 moved from their haunches at five minutes past eleven. Though 
 the Lord Lieutenant and the Chief Secretary and the Lord 
 Chancellor had been there, there would have been no deviation. 
 The interval of ten minutes he generally spent in whispered 
 confabulations with the earth-warners, secrets into which no 
 attendant horseman ever dived ; for Black Daly was a mysterious 
 man, who did not choose to be inquired into as to his movements. 
 On this occasion he said not a word to any earth-warner, though 
 two were in attendance ; but he sat silent and more gloomy than 
 ever on his big black horse, waiting for the minutes to pass by 
 till he should be able to run his hounds through the Ballytown- 
 gal coverts, and then hurry on to Moytubber. 
 
 Mr. Daly's mind was, in truth, fixed upon Moytubber, and 
 what would there be done this morning. He was a simple- 
 
Co 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 minded man, who kept his thoughts fixed for the most part on 
 one object. He knew that it was his privilege to draw the 
 coverts of Moytubber, and to hunt the country around ; and he 
 felt also, after some gallant fashion, that it was his business to 
 protect the rights of others in pursuit of their favourite amuse- 
 ment. No man could touch him or either of his servants in the 
 way of violence without committing an offence which he would 
 be bound to oppose by violence. He was no lawyer, and 
 understood not at all the statutes as fixed upon the subject. If 
 a man laid a hand upon him violently, and would not take his 
 hand off again when desired, he would be entitled to shoot that 
 man. Such was the law, as in his simplicity and manliness he 
 believed it to exist. He was a man not given to pistols ; but 
 when he heard that he was to be stopped in his hunting on this 
 morning, and stopped by dastardly, pernicious curs who called 
 themselves Land-leaguers, he went into Ballinasloe, and bought 
 himself a pistol. Black Daly was a sad, serious man, who could 
 not put up with the frivolities of life ; to whom the necessity of 
 providing for that large family of children was very serious ; but 
 he was not of his nature a quarrelsome man. But now he was 
 threatened on the tenderest point ; and with much simpler 
 thought had resolved that it would be his duty to quarrel. 
 
 But just when he had spoken the word on which Barney and 
 the hounds were prepared to move, Sir Nicholas trotted up to 
 him. Sir Nicholas and all the sporting gentlemen of County 
 Galway were there, whispering with each other, having collected 
 themselves in crowds much bigger than usual. There was much 
 whispering, and many opinions had been given as to the steps 
 which it would be well that the hunt should take if interrupted in 
 their sport. But at last Peter Bodkin had singled out his father, 
 and had communicated to him the fact of Black Daly's pistol. 
 " He'll use it, as sure as eggs are eggs," said Peter whispering 
 to his father. 
 
 " Then there'll be murder," said Sir Nicholas, who though 
 a good hunting neighbour had never been on very friendly 
 terms with Mr. Daly. 
 
 " When Tom Daly says he'll do a thing, he means to do it," 
 said Peter. u He won't be stopped by my calling it murder." 
 Then Sir Nicholas had quickly discussed the matter with 
 sundry other sportsmen of the neighbourhood. There were Mr. 
 Persse of Doneraile, and Mr. Blake of Letterkenny, and Lord 
 Ardrahan,and Sir Jasper Lynch, of Bohernane. During the ten 
 minutes that were allowed to them, they put their heads together, 
 and with much forethought made Mr. Persse their spokesman, 
 Lord Ardrahan and Sir Jasper might have seemed to take upon 
 themselves an authority which Daly would not endure. And 
 Blake of Letterkenny would have been too young to carry with 
 him sufficient weight. Sir Nicholas himself was a Roman 
 
BALLYTOWNGAL. 
 
 61 
 
 Catholic, and was Peter's father, and Peter would have been in 
 a scrape for having told the story of the pistol. So Mr. Persse 
 put himself forward. " Daly," he said, trotting up to the 
 master, " I'm afraid we're going to encounter a lot of these 
 Land-leaguers at Moytubber." 
 
 " What do they want at Moytubber ? Nobody is doing any- 
 thing to them." 
 
 " Of course not ; they are a set of miserable ruffians. I'm 
 sorry to say that there are a lot of my tenants among them. But 
 it's no use discussing that now." 
 
 " I can only go on," said Daly, "as though they were in bed," 
 Then he put his hand into his pocket, and felt that the pistol 
 was there. 
 
 Mr. Persse saw what he did, and knew that his hand was 
 on the pistol. " We have only a minute now to decide," he 
 said. 
 
 "To decide what?" asked Daly. 
 
 " There must be no violence on our side." Daly turned 
 round his face upon him, and looked at him from the bottom of 
 those two dark caverns. " Believe me when I say it ; there 
 must be no violence on our side." 
 
 " If they attempt to stop my horse ?" 
 
 " There must be no violence on our side to bring us, or 
 rather you, to further grief." 
 
 " By God ! I'd shoot the man who did it," said Daly. 
 
 " No, no ; let there be no shooting. Were you to do so, 
 there can be no doubt that you would be tried by a jury 
 and " 
 
 " Hanged," said Daly. " May be so ; I have got to look 
 that in the face. It is an accursed country in which we are 
 living." 
 
 " But you would not encounter the danger in carrying out a 
 trifling amusement such as this ? " 
 
 Daly again turned round and looked at him. Was this work 
 of his life, this employment on which he was so conscientiously 
 eager, to be called trifling ? Did they know the thoughts which 
 it cost him, the hard work by which it was achieved, the days 
 and nights which were devoted to it ? Trifling amusement ! To 
 him it was the work of his life. To those around him it was the 
 best part of theirs. 
 
 " I will not interfere with them," Daly said. 
 
 He alluded here to the enemies of hunting generally. He 
 had not hunted the country so long without having had many rows 
 with many men. Farmers, angry with him for the moment, had 
 endeavoured to stop him as he rode upon their land ; and they 
 had poisoned his foxes from revenge, or stolen them from 
 cupidity. He had borne with such men, expressing the severity 
 of his judgment chiefly by the look of his eyes ; but he had never 
 
62 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 quarrelled with them violently. They had been contemptible 
 people whom it would be better to look at than to shoot. But 
 here were men coming, or were there now, prepared to fight 
 with him for his rights. And he would fight with them, even 
 though hanging should be the end of it. 
 
 " I will not interfere with them, unless they interfere with 
 me." 
 
 " Have you a pistol with vou, Daly ?" said Persse. 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Then give it me." 
 
 " Not so. If I want to use a pistol it will be better to have 
 it in my own pocket than in yours. If I do not want to use it I 
 can keep it myself, and no one will be the wiser." 
 
 " Listen to me, Daly." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Persse?" 
 
 " Do not call me * Mr. Persse,' as though you were deter- 
 mined to quarrel with me. It will be well that you should take 
 advice in this matter from those whom you have known all your 
 life. There is Sir Nicholas Bodkin " 
 
 " He may be one of them for all that I can tell," said Daly. 
 
 " Lord Ardrahan is not one of them. And Sir Jasper Lynch, 
 and Blake of Letterkenny, they are all there, if you will speak to 
 them. In such a matter as this it is not worth your while 
 to get into serious trouble. To you and me hunting is of much 
 importance ; but the world at large will not regard it as one in 
 which blood should be shed. They will come prepared to make 
 themselves disagreeable, but if there be bloodshed it will simply 
 be by your hands. And think what an injury you would do to 
 vour side of the question, and what a benefit to theirs ! " 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " We are regarded as the dominant party, as gentlemen who 
 ought to do what is right, and support the laws." 
 
 " If I am attacked may I not defend myself? " 
 
 " No ; not by a pistol carried loaded into a hunting-field. 
 You would have all the world against you." 
 
 Then the two men rode on silently together. The hounds 
 were drawing the woods of Ballytowngal, but had not found, and 
 were prepared to go on to Moytubber. But, according to the 
 Galway custom, Barney Smith was waiting for orders from his 
 master. Daly now sat stock-still upon his horse for awhile, 
 looking at the dark fringe of trees by which the park was 
 surrounded. He was thinking, as well as he knew how to think, 
 of the position in which he was placed. To be driven to go 
 contrary to his fixed purpose by fear was a course intolerable to 
 him. But to have done that which was clearly injurious to his 
 party was as bad. And this Persse to whom he had shown his 
 momentary anger by calling him Mr., was a man whom he 
 greatly regarded. There was no one in the field whose word 
 
BALLYTOWNGAL. 
 
 63 
 
 would go further with him in hunting matters. He had clearly 
 been rightly chosen as a deputation. But Daly knew that as he 
 had gone to bed the previous night, and as he had got up in the 
 morning, and as he had trotted along by the Monivea cross-roads, 
 and had met Peter Bodkin, every thought of his mind had been 
 intent on the pistol within his pocket. To shoot a man who should 
 lay hold of him or his horse, or endeavour to stop his horse, 
 had seemed to him to be bare justice. But he had resolved 
 that he would first give some spoken warning to the sinner. 
 After that, God help the m«an ; for he would find no help in 
 Black Tom Daly. 
 
 But now his mind was shaken by the admonitions of Mr. 
 Persse. He could not say of Mr. Persse as he had said, most 
 unjustly, of Sir Nicholas, that he was one of them. Mr. Persse 
 was well-known as a Tory and a Protestant, and an indefatigable 
 opponent of Home-Rulers. To Sir Nicholas, in the minds of 
 some men, there attached a slight stain of his religion. " I will 
 keep the pistol in my pocket," said Tom Daly, without turning 
 his eyes away from the belt of trees. 
 
 " Had you not better trust it with me ? " said Mr. Persse. 
 
 " No, I am not such an idiot as to shoot a man when I do 
 not intend it.' 
 
 " Seeing how moved you are, I thought that perhaps the 
 pistol might be safer in my hands." 
 
 " No, the pistol shall remain with me." Then he turned 
 round to join Barney Smith, who was waiting for him up by 
 the gate out of the covert. But he turned again to say a word 
 to Mr. Persse. " Thank you, Persse, I am obliged to you. It 
 might be inconvenient being locked up before the season is 
 over." Then a weird grin covered his face ; which was the 
 nearest approach to laughter ever seen with Black Tom Daly. 
 
 From Ballytowngal to Moytubber was about a mile and a 
 half. Some few, during the conversation between Mr. Persse 
 and the master, had gone on, so that they might be the first to 
 see what was in store for them. But the crowd of horsemen had 
 remained with their eyes fixed upon Daly. He rode up to them 
 and passed on without speaking a word, except that he gave the 
 necessary orders to Barney Smith. Then two or three clustered 
 round Mr. Persse, asking him whispered questions. " It'll be all 
 right," said Persse, nodding his head ; and so the cortege passed 
 on. But not a word was spoken by Daly himself, either then or 
 afterwards, except a whispered order or two given to Barney 
 Smith. Moytubber is a gorse covert lying about three hundred 
 yards from the road, and through it the horsemen always passed, 
 on other occasions it was locked. Now the gate had been taken 
 off its hinges and thrown back upon the bank ; and Daly, as he 
 passed into the field, perceived that the covert was surrounded 
 by a crowd. 
 
64 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 MOYTUBBER. 
 
 " What's all this about?" said Tom as he rode up the covert 
 side, and addressing a man whose face he happened to know. 
 He was one Kit Mooney, a baker from Claregalway, who in 
 these latter days had turned Land-leaguer. But he was one who 
 simply thought that his bread might be better buttered for him 
 on that side of the question. He was not an ardent politician ; 
 but few local Irishmen were so. Had no stirring spirits been 
 wafted across the waters from America to teach Irishmen that 
 one man is as good as another, or generally better, Kit Mooney 
 would never have found it out. Had not his zeal been awakened 
 by the eloquence of Mr. O'Meagher, the member for Athlone, 
 who had just made a grand speech to the people at Athenry, Kit 
 Mooney would have gone on in his old ways, and would at this 
 moment have been touching his hat to Tom Daly, and whispering 
 to him of the fox that had lately been seen "staling away jist 
 there, Mr. Daly, 'fore a'most yer very eyes." But Mr. O'Meagher 
 had spent three glorious weeks in New York, and, having 
 practised the art of speaking on board the steamer as he 
 returned, had come to Athenry and filled the mind of Kit 
 Mooney and sundry others with political truth of the deepest 
 dye. But the gist of the truths so taught had been chiefly this : — 
 that if a man did not pay his rent, but kept his money in his 
 pocket, he manifestly did two good things ; he enriched himself, 
 and he so far pauperised the landlord, who was naturally his 
 enemy. What other teaching could be necessary to make Kit 
 understand, — Kit Mooney who held twenty acres of meadow 
 land convenient to the town of Claregalway, — that this was the 
 way to thrive in the world ? " Rent is not known in America, 
 that great and glorious country. Every man owns the fields 
 which he cultivates. Why should you here allow yourselves to 
 be degraded by the unmanly name of tenants ? The earth which 
 supports you should be as free to you as the air you breathe." 
 Such had been the eloquence of Mr. O'Meagher ; and it had 
 stirred the mind of Kit Mooney and made him feel that life 
 should be recommenced by him under new principles. Things 
 had not quite gone swimmingly with him since, because Nicholas 
 Bodkin's agent had caused a sheriff's bailiff to appear upon the 
 scene, and the notion of keeping the landlord's rent in the 
 pocket had been found to be surrounded by difficulties. But the 
 great principle was there, and there had come another eloquent 
 man, who had also been in America ; and Kit Mooney was now 
 a confirmed Land-leaguer. 
 
 " Faix thin, yer honour, it isn't much hunting the quality 
 
MOYTUBBER. 
 
 65 
 
 will see this day out of Moytubber ; nor yet nowhere round, av 
 the boys are as good as their word." 
 
 " Why should they not hunt at Moytubber ? " said Mr. Daly, 
 who, as he looked around saw indeed ample cause why there 
 should be no hunting. Heiiad thought as he trotted along the 
 road that some individual Land-leaguer would hold his horse by 
 the rein and cause him to stop him in the performance of his 
 duty ; but there were two hundred footmen there roaming at 
 will through the sacred precincts of the gorse, and Daly knew 
 well that no fox could have remained there with such a crowd 
 around him. 
 
 u The boys are just taking their pleasure themselves this fine 
 Christmas morning," said Kit, who had not moved from the bank 
 on which he had been found sitting. " Begorra, you'll find 'em all 
 out about the counthry, intirely, Mr. Daly. They're out to make 
 your honour welcome. There is lashings of 'em across in Phil 
 French's woods and all down to Peter Brown's, away at Oran- 
 more. There is not a boy in the barony but what is out to bid 
 yer honour welcome this morning." 
 
 Kit Mooney could not have given a more exact account of 
 what was being done by " the boys " on that morning had he 
 owned all those rich gifts of eloquence which Mr. O'Meagher 
 possessed. Tom Daly at once saw that there was no need for 
 shooting any culprit, and was thankful. The interruption to 
 the sport of the county had become much more general than he 
 had expected, and it was apparently so organised as to have 
 spread itself over all that portion of County Galway, in which 
 his hounds ran. " Bedad, Mr. Daly, what Kit says is thrue," 
 said another man whom he did not know. u You'll find 'em 
 out everywhere. Why ain't the boys to be having their 
 fun ? " 
 
 It was useless to allow a hound to go into the covert of 
 Moytubber. The crowd around was waiting anxiously to see 
 the attempt made, so that they might enjoy their triumph. To 
 watch Black Tom drawing Moytubber without a fox would be 
 nuts to them ; and then to follow the hounds on to the next 
 covert, and to the next, with the same result, would afford them 
 an ample day's amusement. But the Bodkins, and the Blakes, 
 and the Persses were quite alive to this, and so also was Tom 
 Daly. A council of war was therefore held, in order that the 
 line of conduct might be adopted which might be held to be 
 most conclusive to the general dignity of the hunt. 
 
 " I should send the hounds home," said Lord Ardrahan. u If 
 Mr. Daly would call at my place and lunch, as he goes by, I 
 should be most happy." 
 
 Tom Daly, on hearing this, only shook his head. The shake 
 was intended to signify that he did not like the advice tendered, 
 nor the accompanying hospitable offer. To go home would be 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 to throw clown their arms at once, and acknowledge themselves 
 beaten. If beaten to-day, why should they not be beaten on 
 another day, and then what would become of Tom Daly's 
 employment? A sad idea came across his mind, as he shook 
 his head, warning him that in this terrible affair of to-day, he 
 might see the end of all his life's work. Such a thought had 
 never occurred to him before. If a crowd of disloyal Roman 
 Catholics chose to prevent the gentry in their hunting, un- 
 doubtedly they had the power. Daly was slow at thinking, but 
 an idea when it had once come home to him, struck him forcibly. 
 As he shook his head at that moment he bethought himself, 
 what would become of Black Daly if the people of the county 
 refused to allow his hounds to run ? And a second idea struck 
 him, — that he certainly would not lunch with Lord Ardrahan. 
 Lord Ardrahan was, to his thinking, somewhat pompous, and 
 had been felt by Tom to expect that he, Tom, should acknow- 
 ledge the inferiority of his position by his demeanour. Now 
 such an idea as this was altogether in opposition to Tom's 
 mode of living. Even though the hounds were to be taken away 
 from him, and he were left at Daly's Bridge with the ^200 a 
 year which had come to him from his father, he would make no 
 such acknowledgment as that to any gentleman in County 
 Galway. So he shook his head, and said not a word in answer 
 to Lord Ardrahan. 
 
 " What do you propose to do, Daly ? " demanded Mr. 
 Persse. 
 
 " Go on and draw till night. There's a moon, and if we can 
 find a fox before ten, Barney and I will manage to kill him. 
 Those blackguards can't keep on with us." This was Daly's 
 plan, spoken out within hearing of many of the blackguards. 
 
 "You had better take my offer, and come to Ardrahan 
 Castle," said his lordship. 
 
 "No, my lord," said Daly, with the tone of authority 
 which a master of hounds always knows how to assume. " I 
 shall draw on. Barney, get the hounds together." Then he 
 whispered to Barney Smith that the hounds should go on to 
 Kilcornan. Now Kilcornan was a place much beloved by foxes, 
 about ten miles distant from Moytubber. It was not among the 
 coverts appointed to be drawn on that day, which all lay back 
 towards Ahaseragh. At Kilcornan the earths would be found to 
 open. But it would be better to trot off rapidly to some 
 distant home for foxes, even though the day's sport might be lost. 
 Daly was very anxious that it should not be said through the 
 country that he had been driven home by a set of roughs from 
 any one covert or another. The day's draw would be known — 
 the line of the country, that is, which, in the ordinary course of 
 things, he would follow on that day. But by going to Kilcornan 
 he might throw them off his scent. So he started for Kilcornan, 
 
MOYTUBBER. 
 
 67 
 
 having whispered his orders to Barney Smith, but communi- 
 cating his intentions to no one else. 
 
 "What will you do, Daly?" said Sir Jasper Lynch. 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " But where will you go ? }V inquired the baronet. He was a 
 man about Daly's age, with whom Daly was on comfortable 
 terms. He had no cause for being crabbed with Sir Jasper as 
 with Lord Ardrahan. But he did not want to declare his 
 purpose to any man. There is no one in the ordinary work of 
 his life so mysterious as a master of hounds. And among 
 masters no one was more mysterious than Tom Daly. And this* 
 too, was no ordinary day. Tom only shook his head and 
 trotted on in advance. His secret had been told only to 
 Barney Smith, and with Barney Smith he knew that it would be 
 safe. 
 
 So they all trotted off at a pace much faster than usual. 
 1 What's up with Black Tom now?" asked Sir Nicholas 
 of Sir Jasper. " What's Dalv up to now?" asked Mr. 
 Blake of Mr. Persse. They all shook their heads, and declared 
 themselves willing to follow their leader without further inquiry. 
 " I suppose he knows what he's about," said Mr. Persse ; u but 
 we, at any rate, must go and see." So they followed him ; and 
 in half an hour's time it became apparent that they were eoine 
 to Kilcornan. 7 to 6 
 
 But at Kilcornan they found a crowd almost equal to that 
 which had stopped them at Moytubber. Kilcornan is a large 
 demesne, into which they would, in the ordinary course, have 
 made their entrance through the lodge gate. At present they 
 went at once to an outlying covert, which was supposed to be 
 especially the abode of foxes ; but even here, as Barney trotted 
 up with his hounds, at a pace much quicker than usual, they 
 found that the ground before them had been occupied by Land- 
 leaguers. " You'll not do much in the hunting way to-day, 
 Muster Daly," said one of the intruders. " When we heard 
 you were a-coming we had a little hunt of our own. There ain't 
 a fox anywhere about the place now, Muster Daly." Tom Daly 
 turned round and sat on his big black horse, frowning at the 
 world before him ; a sorrowful man. What shall we do next ? 
 It does not behove a master of hounds to seek counsel in 
 difficulty from anyone. A man, if he is master, should be 
 sufficient to himself in all emergencies. No man felt this more 
 clearly than did Black Tom Daly. He had been ashamed of 
 himself once this morning, because he had taken advice from 
 Mr. Persse. But now he must think the matter out for himself 
 and follow his own devices. 
 
 It was as yet only two o'clock, but he had come on at a great 
 pace, taking much more out of his horse than was usual to him 
 on such occasions. But, sitting there, he did make up his mind. 
 
 F 2 
 
63 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 He would go on to Mr. Lambert's place at Clare, and would 
 draw the coverts, going there as fast as the horse's legs would 
 carry him. There he would borrow two horses if it were 
 possible, but one, at least, for Barney Smith. Then he would 
 draw back by impossible routes, to the kennels at Ahaseragh. 
 Men might come with him or might go ; but to none would he 
 tell his mind. If Providence would only send him a fox on the 
 route, all things, he thought, might still be well with him. It 
 would be odd if he and Barney Smith, between them, were not 
 able to give an account of that fox when they had done with 
 him. But if he should find no such fox — if he, the master of the 
 Galway hounds, should have ridden backwards and forwards 
 across County Galway, and have been impeded altogether in his 
 efforts by wretched Land-leaguers, then — as he thought— a final 
 day would have to come for him. 
 
 He spoke no word to anyone, but he did go on just as he 
 proposed to himself. He drew Clare, but drew it blank ; and 
 then, leaving his own horses, he borrowed two others for himself 
 and Barney, and went on upon his route. Before the day was 
 over — or rather, before the night was far advanced — he had 
 borrowed three others, in his course about the country, for him- 
 self and his servants. Quick as lightning he went from covert 
 to covert ; but the conspiracy had been well arranged, and a 
 holiday for the foxes in County Galway was established for that 
 day. Some men were very stanch to him, going with him 
 whither they knew not, so that "poor dear Tom" might not be 
 left alone ; but alone he was during the long evening of that 
 day, as far as all conversation went. He spoke to no one 
 except to Barney, and to him only a few words ; giving him a 
 direction as to where he should go next, and into what covert he 
 should put the hounds. They, too, must have been much 
 surprised and very weary, as they dragged their tired limbs to 
 their kennel, at about eight o'clock. And Tom Daly's ride 
 across the country will long be remembered, and the exertions 
 which he made to find a fox on that day. 
 
 But it was all in vain. As Tom ate his solitary mutton-chop, 
 and drank his cold whisky and water, and then took himself to 
 bed, he was a melancholy man. The occupation of his life, he 
 thought, was gone. These reprobates, w T hom he now hated 
 worse than ever, having learned their powers to disturb the 
 amusements of their betters, would never allow another day's 
 hunting in the county. He was aware now, though he 
 never had thought of it before, by how weak a hold his right of 
 hunting the country was held. He and his hounds could go 
 into any covert ; but so also could any other man, with or with- 
 out hounds. To disturb a fox, three or four men would suffice ; 
 one would suffice according to Tom's idea of a fox. The 
 occupation of his life was over. 
 
MOYTUBBER. 
 
 69 
 
 Tom Daly was by nature a melancholy man. All County 
 Galway knew that. He was a man not given to many words, 
 by no means devoted to sport in the ordinary sense. It was a 
 hard business that he had undertaken. The work was in every 
 sense hard, and the payment made was very small. In fact no 
 payment was made, other than that of his being lifted into a 
 position in which he was able to hold his head high among 
 gentlemen of property. What should he do with himself during 
 the remainder of his life, if hunting in County Galway was 
 brought to an end ? He was an intent, eager man, whom it was 
 hard to teach that the occupations of his life were less worthy 
 than those of other men. But there had come moments of 
 doubt as he had sat alone in his little room at Ahaseragh and had 
 meditated, whether the pursuit of vermin was worthy all the 
 energy which he had given to it. 
 
 " You may sell those brutes of yours now, and then perhaps 
 you'll be able to educate your children." So Sir Nicholas 
 Bodkin had addressed his eldest son, as they rode home 
 together on that occasion. 
 
 " Why so ? Peter had asked, thinking more of the " brutes " 
 alluded to than of the children. He was accustomed to the 
 tone of his father's remarks, and cared for them not more than 
 the ordinary son cares for the expression of the ordinary father's 
 ill-humour. But now he knew that some reference was intended 
 to the interruption that had been made in their day's sport, and 
 was anxious to learn what his father thought about it. " Why 
 so? " he asked. 
 
 u Because you won't want them for this game any longer. 
 Hunting is done with in these parts. When a blackguard like 
 Kit Mooney is able to address such a one as Tom Daly after 
 that fashion, anything that requires respect may be said to be 
 over. Hunting has existed solely on respect. I had intended 
 to buy that mare of French's, but I shan't now." 
 
 " What does all that mean, Lynch ? " said Mr. Persse to Sir 
 Jasper, as they rode home together. 
 
 "It means qurrelling to the knife." 
 
 " In a quarrel to the knife," said Mr. Persse, "all lighter 
 things must be thrown away. Daly had brought a pistol in his 
 pocket as you heard this morning. I have been thinking of it 
 ever since, and, putting two and two together, it seems to me 
 to be almost impossible that hunting should go on in County 
 Galway." 
 
 i 
 
70 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " DON'T HATE HIM, ADA." 
 
 Among those who had gone as far as Mr. Lambert's, but had 
 not proceeded further, had been Frank Jones. He had heard 
 and seen what has been narrated, and was as much impressed 
 as others with the condition of the country. The populace 
 generally — for so it had seemed to be — had risen en masse to put 
 down the amusement of the gentry, and there had been a secret 
 conspiracy, so that they had been able to do the same thing in 
 different parts of the county. Frank, as he rode back to 
 Morony Castle, a long way from Mr. Lambert's covert, was very 
 melancholy in his mind. The persecution of Mahomet M. Moss 
 and of the Land-leaguers together was almost too much for 
 him. 
 
 When he got home his father also was melancholy, and the 
 girls were melancholy. "What sport have you had, Frank?" 
 said the father. But he asked the question in a melancholy tone, 
 simply as being one which the son expects on returning from 
 hunting. In this expectation Mr. Jones gave way. Frank 
 shook his head, but did not utter a word. 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" asked the father. 
 
 " The whole country is in arms." This, no doubt, was an 
 exaggeration, as the only arms that had been brought to Moy- 
 tubber on that occasion had been the pistol in Tom Daly's 
 pocket. 
 
 " In arms ?" said Philip Jones. 
 
 " Well, yes ! I call it so. I call men in arms, when they 
 are prepared to carry out any illegal purpose by violence, and 
 these men have done that all through the County Galway." 
 
 " What have they done ? " 
 
 " You know where the meet was ; well, they drew Rally- 
 to wngal, and found no fox there. It was not expected, and 
 nothing happened there. The people did not come into old Nick 
 Bodkin's demesne, but we had heard by the time that we were 
 there that we should come across a lot of Land-leaguers at Moy- 
 tubber. There they were as thick as bees round the covert, 
 and there was one man who had the impudence to tell Tom 
 Daly that draw where he might, he would draw in vain for a 
 fox to-day in County Galway." 
 
 " Do you mean that there was a crowd? " asked Mr. Jones. 
 
 " A crowd ! Yes, all Claregalway seemed to have turned 
 out. Claregalway is not much of a place, but every one was 
 there from Oranmore and from Athenry, and half the town from 
 Galway city." This certainly was an exaggeration on the part 
 of Frank, but was excused by his desire to impress his father 
 with the real truth in the matter. " I never saw half such a 
 
"DON'T HATE HIM, ADA" 
 
 7i 
 
 number of people by a covert side. But the truth was soon 
 known. They had beat Moytubber, and kicked up such a row 
 as the foxes in that gorse had never heard before. And they 
 were not slow in obtaining their object." 
 " Their object was clear enough." 
 
 u They* didn't intend that the hounds should hunt that day 
 either at Moytubber or elsewhere. Daly did not put his hounds 
 into the covert at all ; but rode away as fast as his horse's legs 
 could carry him to Kilcornan." 
 
 " That must be ten miles at least," said his father. 
 
 "Twenty, I should think. But we rode away at a hand- 
 gallop leaving the crowd behind us." This again was an 
 exaggeration. (i But when we got to the covert at Kilcornan 
 there was just the same sort of crowd, and just the same 
 work had been on foot. The men there all told us that we need 
 not expect to find a fox. A rumour had got about the field by 
 this time that Tom Daly had a loaded pistol in his pocket. 
 What he meant to do with it I don't know. He could have 
 done no good without a regular massacre." 
 
 " Did he show his pistol ? " 
 
 " I didn't see it ; but I do believe it was there. Some of the 
 old fogies were awfully solemn about it." 
 
 " What was the end of it all ? " asked Edith, who together 
 with her sister was now listening to Frank's narrative. 
 
 "You know Mr. Lambert's place on the road towards Gort. 
 It's a long way off, and I'm a little out of my latitude there. 
 But I went as far as that, and found a bigger crowd than ever. 
 They said that all Gort was there ; but Tom having drawn the 
 covert, went on, and swore that he wouldn't leave a place in all 
 County Galway untried. He borrowed fresh horses, and went 
 on with Barney Smith as grim as death. He is still drawing his 
 covert somewhere." 
 
 It was thus that Frank Jones told the story of that day's • 
 hunting. To his father's ears it sounded as being very ominous. 
 He did not care much for hunting himself, nor would it much 
 perplex him if the Land-leaguers would confine themselves to 
 this mode of operations. But as he heard of the crowds 
 surrounding the coverts through the county, he thought also of 
 his many acres still under water, by the operation of a man who 
 had taken upon himself to be his enemy. And the whole 
 morning had been spent in fruitless endeavours to make 
 Florian tell the truth. The boy had remained surly, sullen, 
 and silent. " He will tell me at last," Edith had said to her 
 father. But her father had said, that unless the truth were now 
 told, he must allow the affair to go by. " The time for dealing 
 with the matter will be gone," he had said. " Pat Carroll is 
 going about the country as bold as brass, and says that he will 
 fix his own rent ; whereas I know, and all the tenants know, that 
 
72 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 he ought to be in Galway jail. There isn't a man on the estate 
 who isn't certain but that it was he, with five or six others, who 
 let the waters in upon the meadows." 
 
 " Then why on earth'cannot you make them tell ? " 
 
 " They say that they only think it," said Edith. 
 
 "The very best of them only think it," said Ada. 
 
 "And there is not one of them," said Mr. Jones, " whom you 
 could trust to put into a witness-box. To tell the truth, I do not 
 see what right I have to ask them to go there. If I was to select 
 a man, — or two, how can I say to them, ' forget yourself, forget 
 your wife and children, encounter possible murder, and probable 
 ruin, in order that I may get my revenge on this man ? " 
 
 " It is not revenge but justice," said Frank. 
 
 " It would be revenge to their minds. And if it came to pass 
 that there was a man who would thus sacrifice himself to me, 
 what must I do with him afterwards ? Were I to send him to 
 America with money, and take his land into my own hand, see 
 what horrible things would be said of me. The sort of witness 
 I want to back up others, who would then be made to come, is 
 Florian." 
 
 " What would they do to him ?" asked Edith. 
 
 u I could send him to an English school for a couple of 
 years, till all this should have passed by. I have thought of that." 
 
 " That, too, would cost money," said Ada. 
 
 " Of course it would cost money, but it would be forthcoming, 
 rather than the boy should be in danger. But the feeling to me, 
 as to the boy himself, comes uppermost. It is that he himself 
 should have such a secret in his bosom, and keep it there, locked 
 fast, in opposition to his own father. I want to get it out of him 
 while he is yet a boy, so that his name shall not go abroad as 
 one who, by such manifest falsehood, took part against his own 
 father. It is the injury done to him, rather than the injury done 
 to me." 
 
 " He has promised his priest that he will not tell," said Edith, 
 making what excuse she could for her brother. 
 
 " He has not promised his priest," said Mr. Jones. " He 
 has made no promise to Father Malachi, of Ballintubber. If he 
 has promised at all it is to that pestilent fellow at Headford. 
 The curate at Headford is not his priest, and why should a 
 promise made to any priest be more sacred than one made to 
 another, unless it were made in confession? I cannot under- 
 stand Florian. It seems as though he were anxious to take part 
 with these wretches against his country, against his religion, 
 and against his father. It is unintelligible to me that a boy of 
 his age should, at the same time, be so precocious and so stupid. 
 I have told him that I know him to be a liar, and that until he 
 will tell the truth he shall not come into my presence." Having 
 so spoken the father sat silent, while Frank went off to dress. 
 
DON'T HATE HIM, ADA:' 
 
 73 
 
 It was felt by them all that a terrible decision had been 
 come to in the family. A verdict had gone out and had pro- 
 nounced Florian guilty. They had all gradually come to think 
 that it was so. But now the judge had pronounced the doom. The 
 lad was not to be allowed into his presence during the continuance 
 of the present state of things. In the first place, how was he 
 to be kept out of his father's presence ? And the boy was one 
 who would turn mutinous in spirit under such a command. The 
 meaning of it was that he should not sit at table with his father. 
 But, in accordance with the ways of the family, he had always 
 done so. A separate breakfast must be provided for him, and 
 a separate dinner. Then would there not be danger that he 
 should be driven to look for his friends elsewhere ? Would he 
 not associate with Father Brosnan, or worse again with Pat 
 Carroll ? " Ada," said Edith that night as they sat together, 
 " Florian must be made to confess." 
 
 " How make him ? " 
 
 "You and I must do it." 
 
 " That's all very well," said Ada, " but how ? You have been 
 at him now for nine months, and have not moved him. He's 
 the most obstinate boy, I think, that ever lived." 
 
 " Do you know, there is something in it all that makes me 
 love him the better?" said Edith. 
 
 "Is there ? There is something in it that almost makes me 
 hate him." 
 
 " Don't hate him, Ada — if you can help it. He has got 
 some religious idea into his head. It is all stupid." 
 " It is beastly," said Ada. 
 
 " You may call it as you please," said the other, " it is stupid 
 and beastly. He is travelling altogether in a wrong direction, 
 and is putting everybody concerned with him in immense trouble. 
 It may be quite right that a person should be a Roman Catholic 
 — or that he should be a Protestant ; but before one turns from 
 one to the other, one should be old enough to know something 
 about it. It is very vexatious ; but with Flory there is, I think, 
 some idea of an idea. He has got it into his head that the 
 Catholics are a downtrodden people, and therefore he will be 
 one of them." 
 
 " That is such bosh," said Ada. 
 
 " It is so, to your thinking, but not to his. In loving him or 
 hating him you've got to love him or hate him as a boy. Of 
 course it's wicked that a boy should lie, — or a man, or a 
 woman, or a girl ; but they do. I don't see why we are to turn 
 against a boy of our own, when we know that other boys lie. 
 He has got a notion into his head that he is doing quite right, 
 because the priest has told him." 
 
 " He is doing quite wrong," said Ada. 
 
 " And now what are we to do about his breakfast ? Papa 
 
74 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 says that he is not to be allowed to come into the room, and 
 papa means it. You and I will have to breakfast with him and 
 dine with him, first one and then the other." 
 " But papa will miss us." 
 
 "We must go through the ceremony of a second breakfast 
 and a second dinner." This was the beginning of Edith's 
 scheme. " Of course it's a bore ; all things are bores. This 
 about the flood is the most terrible bore I ever knew. But I'm 
 not going to let Flory go to the devil without making an effort 
 to save him. It would be going to the devil, if he were left 
 alone in his present position." 
 
 " Papa will see that we don't eat anything." 
 
 " Of course he must be told. There never ought to be any 
 secrets in anything. Of course he'll grow used to it, and won't 
 expect us to sit there always and eat nothing. He thinks he's 
 right, and perhaps he is. Flory will feel the weight of his dis- 
 pleasure ; and if we talk to him we may persuade him." 
 
 This state of things at Morony Castle was allowed to go on 
 with few other words said upon the subject. The father became 
 more and more gloomy, as the floods held their own upon the 
 broad meadows. Pat Carroll had been before the magistrates 
 at Headford, and had been discharged, as all evidence was 
 lacking to connect him with the occurrence. Further effort 
 none was made, and Pat Carroll went on in his course, swearing 
 that not a shilling of rent should be paid by him in next March. 
 "The floods had done him a great injury," he said laughingly 
 among his companions, " so that it was unreasonable to expect 
 that he should pay." It was true he had owed a half-year's rent 
 last November ; but then it had become customary with Mr. 
 Jones's tenants to be allowed the indulgence of six months. No 
 more at any rate would be said about rent till March should 
 come. 
 
 And now, superinduced upon this cause of misery, had 
 come the tidings which had been spread everywhere through the 
 county in regard to the Galway hunt. Tom Daly nad gone on 
 regularly with his meets, and had not indeed been stopped 
 everywhere. His heart had been gladdened by a wonderful run 
 which he had had from Carnlough. The people had not 
 interfered there, and the day had been altogether propitious. 
 Tom had for the moment been in high good humour ; but the 
 interruption had come again, and had been so repeated as to 
 make him feel that bis occupation was in truth gone. The 
 gentry of the county had then held a meeting at Ballinasloe, 
 and had decided that the hounds should be withdrawn for the 
 remainder of the season. No one who has not ridden with the 
 hounds regularly can understand the effect of such an order. 
 There was no old woman with a turkey in her possession who 
 did not feel herself thereby entitled to destroy the fox who came 
 
EDITH'S ELOQUENCE. 
 
 75 
 
 lurking about her poultry-yard. Nor was there a gentleman 
 who owned a pheasant who did not feel himself animated in 
 some degree by the same feeling. " As there's to be an end of 
 fox-hunting in County Galway, we can do what we like with our 
 own coverts." "I shall go in for shooting," Sir Nicholas 
 Bodkin had been heard to say. 
 
 But Black Tom Daly sat alone gloomily in his room at 
 Ahaseragh, where it suited him still to be present and look after 
 the hounds, and told himself that the occupation of his life was 
 gone. Who would want to buy a horse even, now the chief 
 object for horses was at an end ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 EDITH'S ELOQUENCE. 
 
 THUS they lived through the months of January and February, 
 1 88 1, at Morony Castle, and Florian had not as yet told his 
 secret. As a boy his nature had seemed to be entirely altered 
 during the last six months. He was thoughtful, morose, and 
 obstinate to a degree, which his father was unable to fathom. 
 But during these last two months there had been no intercourse 
 between them. It may almost be said that no word had been 
 addressed by either to the other. No further kind of punish- 
 ment had been inflicted. Indeed, the boy enjoyed a much wider 
 liberty than had been given to him before, or than was good for 
 him. For his father not only gave no orders to him, but seldom 
 spoke concerning him. It was, however, a terrible trouble to 
 his mind, the fact that his own son should be thus possessed of 
 his own peculiar secret, and should continue from month to 
 month hiding it within his own bosom. With Father Malachi 
 Mr. Jones was on good terms, but to him he could say nothing 
 on the subject. The absurdity of the conversion, or perversion, 
 of the boy, in reference to his religion, made Mr. Jones unwilling 
 to speak of him to any Roman Catholic priest. Father Malachi 
 would no doubt have owned that the boy had been altogether 
 unable to see, by his own light, the difference between the two 
 religions. But he would have attributed the change to the 
 direct interposition of God. He would not have declared in so 
 many words that a miracle had been performed in the boy's 
 favour, but this would have been the meaning of the argument 
 he would have used. In fact, the gaining of a proselyte under 
 any circumstances would have been an advantage too great to 
 jeopardise by any arguments in the matter. The Protestant 
 clergyman at Headford, in whose parish Morony Castle was 
 supposed to have been situated, was a thin, bigoted Protestant, 
 
7 6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 of that kind which used to be common in Ireland. Mr. Arm- 
 strong was a gentleman, who held it to be an established fact 
 that a Roman Catholic must necessarily go to the devil. In all 
 the moralities he was perfect. He was a married man with a 
 wife and six children, all of whom he brought up and educated 
 on ^250 a year. He never was in debt ; he performed all his 
 duties — such as they were — and passed his time in making rude 
 and unavailing attempts to convert his poorer neighbours. 
 There was a union, — or poor-house — in the neighbourhood, to 
 which he would carry morsels of meat in his pocket on Friday, 
 thinking that the poor wretches who had flown in the face of 
 their priest by eating the unhallowed morsels, would then have 
 made a first step towards Protestantism. He was charitable 
 with so little means for charity ; he was very eager in his dis- 
 courses, in the course of which he would preach to a dozen 
 Protestants for three quarters of an hour, and would confine 
 himself to one subject, the iniquities of the Roman Catholic 
 religion. He had heard of Florian's perversion, and had made 
 it the topic on which he had declaimed for two Sundays. He 
 had attempted to argue with Father Brosnan, but had been like 
 a babe in his hands. He ate and drank of the poorest, and 
 clothed himself so as just to maintain his clerical aspect. All 
 his aspirations were of such a nature as to entitle him to a 
 crown of martyrdom. But they were certainly not of a nature to 
 justify him in expecting any promotion on this earth. Such was 
 Mr. Joseph Armstrong, of Headford, and from him no aid, or 
 counsel, or pleasant friendship could be expected in this matter. 
 
 The trouble of Florian's education fell for the nonce into 
 Edith's hands. He had hitherto worked under various pre- 
 ceptors ; his father, his sister, and his brother ; also a private 
 school at Galway for a time had had the charge of him. But 
 now Edith alone undertook the duty. Gradually the boy began 
 to have a way of his own, and to tell himself that he was only 
 bound to be obedient during certain hours of the morning. In 
 this way the whole day after twelve o'clock was at his own dis- 
 posal, and he never told any of the family what he then did. 
 Peter, the butler, perhaps knew where he went, but even to 
 Peter the butler, the knowledge was a trouble ; for Peter, though 
 a staunch Roman Catholic, was not inclined to side with anyone 
 against his own master. Florian, in truth, did see more of Pat 
 Carroll than he should have done ; and, though it would be 
 wrong to suppose that he took a part against his father, he no 
 doubt discussed the questions which were of interest to Pat 
 Carroll, in a manner that would have been very displeasing to 
 his father. " Faix, Mr. Flory," Pat would say to him, " 'av 
 you're one of us, you've got to be one of us ; you've had a 
 glimmer of light, as Father Brosnan says, to see the errors of 
 your way ; but you've got to see the errors of your way on 'arth 
 
EDITH'S ELOQUENCE. 
 
 77 
 
 as well as above. Dragging the rint out o' the body and bones 
 o' the people, like hair from a woman's head, isn't the way, and 
 so you'll have to larn." Then Florian would endeavour to argue 
 with his friend, and struggle to make him understand that in the 
 present complicated state of things it was necessary that a 
 certain amount of rent should go to Morony Castle to keep up 
 the expenses there. 
 
 " We couldn't do, you know, without Peter ; nor yet very 
 well without the carriage and horses. It's all nonsense saying 
 that there should be no rent ; where are we to get our clothes 
 from?" But these arguments, though very good of their kind, 
 had no weight with Pat Carroll, whose great doctrine it was that 
 rent was an evil per se j and that his world would certainly go 
 on a great deal better if there were no rent. 
 
 " Haven't you got half the land of Ballintubber in your 
 hands ? " said Carroll. Here Florian in a whisper reminded Pat 
 that the lands of Ballintubber were at this moment under water, 
 and had been put so by his operation. " Why wouldn't he make 
 me a statement when I asked for it ?" said Carroll with a coarse 
 grin, which almost frightened the boy. 
 
 " Flory," said Edith to the boy that afternoon, "you did see 
 the men at work upon the sluices that afternoon ? " 
 
 " I didn't," said Florian. 
 
 " We all believe that you did." 
 
 " But I didn't." 
 
 " You may as well listen to me this once. We all believe 
 that you did — papa and I, and Frank and Ada ; Peter believes 
 it ; there's not a servant about the place but what belives it. 
 Everybody believes it at Headford. Mr. Blake at Carnlough 
 and all the Blakes believe it." 
 
 " I don't care a bit about Mr. Blake," said the boy. 
 
 " But you do care about your own father. If you were to go 
 up and down to Galway by the boat, you would find that every- 
 body on board believes it. The country people would say that 
 you had turned against your father because of your religion. Mr. 
 Morris, from beyond Cong, was here the other day, and from 
 what he said about the floods it was easy to see that he believed 
 it." 
 
 u If you believe Mr. Morris better than you do me, you may 
 go your own ways by yourself." 
 
 * I don't see that, Flory. I may believe Mr. Morris in this 
 matter better than I do you, and yet not intend to go my own 
 ways by myself. I don't believe you at all on this subject." 
 
 * Very well, then, don't." 
 
 * But I want to find out, if I can, what may be the cause of 
 so terrible a falsehood on your part. It has come to that, that 
 though you tell the lie, you almost admit that it is a lie." 
 
 * I don't admit it." 
 
73 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " It is as good as admitted. The position you assume is this : 
 * I saw the gates destroyed, but I am not going to say so in 
 evidence, because it suits me to take part with Pat Carroll, and 
 to go against my own father.'" 
 
 " You've no business to put words like that into my mouth." 
 
 " I'm telling you what everybody thinks. Would your father 
 treat you as he does now without a cause ? And are you to 
 remain here, and to go down and down in the world till you 
 become such a one as Pat Carroll ? And you will have to live 
 like Pat Carroll, with the knowledge in everyone's heart that you 
 had been untrue to your father. They are becoming dishonest, 
 false knaves, untrue to their promises, the very scum of the 
 earth, because of their credulity and broken vows ; but what am 
 I to say of you ? You will have been as false and perfidious and 
 credulous as they. You will have thrown away everything good 
 to gratify the ambition of some empty traitor. And you will 
 have done it all against your own father." Here she paused 
 and looked at him. They were roaming at the time round 
 the demesne, and he walked on, but said nothing. " I know 
 what you are thinking of, Flory." 
 
 " What am I thinking of?" 
 
 " You're thinking of your duty ; you are thinking whether you 
 can bring yourself to make a clean breast of it, and break the 
 promises which you have made." 
 
 " Nobody should break a promise," said he. 
 
 " And nobody should tell a lie. When one finds oneself in 
 the difficulty one has to go back and find out where the evil 
 thing first began." 
 
 " I gave the promise first," said Florian. 
 
 " No such promise should ever have been given. Your first 
 duty in the matter was to your father.'' 
 
 " I don't see that at all," said Florian. " My first duty is to 
 my religion." 
 
 " Even to do evil for its sake ? Go to Father Malachi, and 
 ask him." 
 
 u Father Malachi isn't the man to whom I should like to tell 
 everything. Father Brosnan is a much better sort of clergy- 
 man. He is my confessor, and I choose to go by what he tells 
 me." 
 
 " Then you will be a traitor to your father." 
 " I am not a traitor," said Florian. 
 
 u And yet you admit that some promise has been given — 
 some promise which you dare not own. You cannot but know 
 in your own heart that I know the truth. You have seen that man 
 Carroll doing the mischief, and have promised him to hold your 
 tongue about it. Y'ou have not, then, understood at all the 
 nature or extent of the evil done. You have not, then, known 
 that it would be your father's duty to put down this turbulent 
 
RACHELS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 79 
 
 ruffian. You have promised, and having promised, Father 
 Brosnan has frightened you. He and Pat Carroll together have 
 cowed the very heart within you. The consequence is that you 
 are becoming one of them, and instead of moving as a gentleman 
 on the face of the earth, you will be such as they are. Tell the 
 truth, and your father will at once send you to some school in 
 England, where you will be educated as becomes my brother." 
 
 The boy was now sobbing in tears. He lacked the reso- 
 lution to continue his lie, but did not dare to tell the truth. 
 
 " I will/' he whispered. 
 
 "What will you do?" 
 
 " I well tell all that I know about it." 
 
 "Tell me, then, now." 
 
 "No, Edith, not now," he said. 
 
 " Will you tell papa, then ? " said Edith. 
 
 "Papa is so hard to me." 
 
 " Whom will you tell, and when? " 
 
 "I will tell you, but not now. I will first tell Father 
 Brosnan that I am going to do it ; I shall not then have told the 
 lie absolutely to my priest." 
 
 On this occasion Edith could do nothing further with him ; 
 and, indeed, the nature of the confession which she expected 
 him to make was such that it should be made to some person 
 beyond herself. She could understand that it must be taken 
 down in some form that would be presentable to a magistrate, 
 and that evidence of the guilt of Pat Carroll and evidence as to 
 the possible evidence of others must not be whispered simply 
 into her own ears. But she had now brought him to such a 
 condition that she did think that his story would be told. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 RACHEL'S CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 There was another cause of trouble at Morony Castle, which 
 at the present moment annoyed them much. Frank had 
 received three or four letters from Rachel O'Mahony, the pur- 
 port of them all being to explain her troubles with Mahomet M. 
 M., as she called the man ; but still so as to prevent Frank from 
 attempting to interfere personally. 
 
 " No doubt the man is a brute," she had said, " if a young 
 lady, without ceasing to be ladylike, may so describe so elegant a 
 gentleman. If not so, still he is a brute, because I can't declare 
 otherwise, even for the sake of being ladylike. But what you 
 say about coming is out of the question. You can't meddle with 
 my affairs till you've a title to meddle. Now, you know the 
 
So 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 truth. I'm going to stick to you, and I expect you to stick to 
 ine. For certain paternal reasons you want to put the marriage 
 off. Very well. I'm agreeable, as the folks say. If you would 
 say that you would be ready to marry me on the first of April, 
 again I should be agreeable. You can nowhere find a more 
 agreeable young woman than I am. But I must be one thing 
 or the other." 
 
 Then he wrote to her the sort of love-letter which the reader 
 can understand. It was full of kisses and vows and ecstatic 
 hopes, but did not name a day. In fact Mr. Jones, in the middle 
 of his troubles, was unable to promise an immediate union, and 
 did not choose that his son should marry in order that he might 
 be supported by a singing girl. But to this letter Frank added 
 a request — or rather a command — that he should be allowed to 
 come over at once and see Mr. Mahomet. It was no doubt true 
 that his father was, for the minute, a little backward in the 
 matter of his income ; but still he wanted to look after Mahomet, 
 and he wanted to be kissed. 
 
 " You must not come at all, and I won't even see you if you 
 do. You men are always so weak, and want such a lot of 
 petting. Mahomet tried to kiss me last night when I was 
 singing to him before going to dress. I have to practise with 
 him. I gave him such a blow in the face that I don't think he'll 
 repeat the experiment, and I had my eyes about me. You 
 needn't be at all afraid of me but what I am quick enough. He 
 was startled at the moment, and I merely laughed. I 'm not going 
 to give up ^100 a month because he makes a beast of himself ; and 
 I'm not going to call in father as long as I can help it ; nor do I 
 mean to call in your royal highness at all. I tell everybody that 
 I'm going to marry your royal highness, king Jones ; there isn't a 
 bit of a secret about it. I talk of my Mr. Jones just as if we were 
 married, because it all comes easier to me in that way. You 
 will see that I absolutely believe in you and I expect that you 
 shall absolutely believe in me. Send you a kiss ! Of course I 
 do ; I am not at all coy of my favours. You ask Mahomet also 
 as to what he thinks of the strength of my right arm. I 
 examined his face so minutely when I had to fall into his arms 
 on the stage, and there I saw the round mark of my fist, and 
 the swelling all around it. And I thought to myself as I was 
 singing my devotion that he should have it next time in his eye. 
 But, Frank, mark my words : I won't have you here till you can 
 come to marry me." 
 
 Frank did not go over, even on this occasion, as he was 
 detained, not only by his mistress's danger, but by his father's 
 troubles. Florian had almost, but had not quite, told the entire 
 truth. He had said that he had seen the sluices broken, but 
 had not quite owned who had broken them. He had declared 
 that Pat Carroll had done " mischief," but had not quite said of 
 what nature was the mischief which Carroll had done. It .was 
 
RACHELS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 81 
 
 now March, and the hunting troubles were still going on. The 
 whole gentry in County Galway had determined to take Black 
 Tom Daly's part, and to carry him on through the contest. But 
 the effect of taking Black Tom Daly's part was to take the part 
 against which the Land-leaguers were determined to enrol 
 themselves. For of all men in the county, Black Tom was the 
 most unpopular. And of all men he was the most determined ; 
 with him it was literally a question between God and Mammon. 
 A man could not serve both. In the simplicity of his heart, he 
 thought that the Land-leaguers were children of Satan, and that 
 to have any dealings with them, or the passage of any kindness, 
 was in itself Satanic. He said very little, but he spent whole 
 hours in thinking of the evil that they were doing. And among 
 the evils was the unparalleled insolence which they displayed in 
 entering coverts in County Galway. Now Frank Jones, who 
 had not hitherto been very intimate with Tom, had taken up 
 his part, and was fighting for him at this moment. Never- 
 theless the provocation to him to go to London was very 
 great, and he had only put it off till the last coverts should be 
 drawn on Saturday the 2nd of April. The hunt had determined 
 to stop their proceedings earlier than usual ; but still there was 
 to be one day in April, for the sake of honour and glory. 
 
 But in the latter days of March there came a third letter 
 from Rachel O'Mahony. Like the other letter it was cheer- 
 ful, and high-spirited ; but still it seemed to speak of impending 
 dangers, which Frank, though he could not understand them, 
 thought that he could perceive. 
 
 " My present engagement is to go on till the end of July, 
 with an understanding that I am to have twenty guineas a night, 
 for any evening that I may be required to sing in August. This 
 your highness will perceive is a very considerable increase, and 
 at three nights a week might afford an income on which your 
 highness would perhaps condescend to come and eat a potato, 
 in the honour of * ould ' Ireland till better times should come. 
 That would be the happy potato which would be the first bought 
 for such a purpose ! But you must see that I cannot expect a 
 continuance of my present engagement as the head of your 
 royal highness' seraglio. I should have to look for another 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should probably find him. 
 Mr. Mahomet M. Moss would hardly endure me as being part of 
 the properties belonging to your royal highness. 
 
 " And now I must tell you my own little news. Beelzebub 
 has taken a worse devil to himself, so that I am likely to be 
 trodden down into the very middle of the pit. I choose to tell 
 you because I won't have you think that I ever kept anything 
 secret from you. If I describe the roars of Mrs. Beelzebub to 
 you, and her red claws, and her forky tongue, and her fiery tail, 
 it is not because I like her as a subject of poetry, but because 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 this - special subject comes uppermost ; and you shall never 
 say to me, Why didn't you tell me when you were intro- 
 duced to Beelzebub's wife?' and assert, as men are apt to 
 do, that you would not have allowed me to make her 
 acquaintance. Mrs. Beelzebub appears on the stage as belong- 
 ing to Mahomet, but how they have mixed it all up together 
 among themselves, I do not quite know. I do not think 
 that they're in love with one another, because she is not 
 jealous of me. She is Madame Socani in the plot, and a 
 genuine American from New York ; but she can sing ; she 
 has a delicious soprano voice, soft and powerful ; but she has 
 also a temper and temperament such as no woman, nor yet no 
 devil, ought to possess. Of Monsieur Socani, or Signor Socani, 
 or Herr Socani, I never yet heard. But such men do not always 
 make themselves troublesome. I have to sing with her, and a 
 woman you may say would not be troublesome, but she and 
 Mahomet between them consider themselves competent to get 
 me under their thumb. I don't intend to be under their thumb. 
 I intend to be under nobody's thumb but yours ; and the sooner 
 the better. Now you know all about it ; but as you shall value 
 the first squeeze which you shall get when you do come, don't 
 come till your coming has been properly settled." 
 
 Then there was a fourth letter in which she described her 
 troubles, still humorously, and with some attempt at absolute 
 comedy. But she certainly wrote with a purpose of making him 
 understand that she was subjected to very considerable annoy- 
 ance. She was still determined not to call upon him for 
 assistance ; and she warned him that any assistance whatever 
 would be out of his power. A lover on the scene, who could 
 not declare his purpose of speedy marriage, would be worse 
 than useless. All that she saw plainly, — or at any rate declared 
 that she saw plainly, though she was altogether unable to explain 
 it to Frank Jones. " Mrs. Beelzebub is certainly the queen 
 of the dev ils. I remember when you read 4 Paradise Lost ' to 
 us at Morony Castle, which I thought very dull. Milton 
 arranged the ranks in Pandemonium differently ; but there has 
 been a revolution since that, and Mrs. Beelzebub has everything 
 just as she pleases. I am beginning to pity Mahomet, and 
 pity, they say, is akin to love. She urges him, — well, just to 
 make love to me. What reason there is between them I don't 
 know, but I am sure she wants him to get me altogether into his 
 hands. I'm not sure but what she is Mahomet's own wife. 
 This is a horrid kettle of fish, as you will see. But I think I'll 
 turn out to be head cook yet. If God does not walk atop of the 
 devils what's the use of running straight ? But I am sure He 
 will, and the more so because there is in truth no temptation. 
 
 " She told me the other day to my face, that I was a fool. ' I 
 knc v I am/ said I demurely, 4 but why ? ' Then she came out 
 
RACHELS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 •53 
 
 with her demand. It was very simple, and did not in truth 
 amount to much. I was to become— just mistress to Mr. Moss." 
 Frank Jones when he read this, crushed the paper up in his 
 hand and went upstairs to his bedroom, determined to pack up 
 immediately. But before he had progressed far, he got out the 
 letter and read the remainder. " ( You, 5 I said, 'are an intimate 
 acquaintance of Mr. Moss.' 
 
 ' I am his particular friend,' she said with that peculiar New 
 York aping of a foreign accent, which is the language that was, 
 I am sure, generally used by the devils. 
 
 " * Ask him, with my best compliments/ I said, c whether he 
 remembers the blow I hit him in the face. Tell him I can hit 
 much harder than that ; tell him that he will never find me 
 unprepared, for a moment.' 
 
 " Now I have got another little bit of news for you. Some 
 body has found out in New York that I am making money. It is 
 true, in a limited way. ,£100 a month is something, and so 
 they've asked papa to subscribe as largely as he can to a 
 grand Home-Rule-anti-Protestant, hate-the-English, stars-and- 
 stripes society. It is the most loyal and beneficent thing out, 
 and dear papa thinks I can do nothing better with my wealth 
 than bestow it upon these birds of freedom. I have no doubt 
 they are all right, because I am an American-Irish, and have not 
 the pleasure of knowing Black Tom Daly. I have given them 
 £200, and am' therefore, at this moment, nearly impecunious. 
 On this account I do not choose to give up my engagement — 
 £100 a month, with an additional possibility of twenty guineas 
 a night when August shall be here. You will tell me that after 
 the mild suggestion made by Mrs. Beelzebub, I ought to walk 
 out of the house, and go back to County Galway immediatelv. 
 I don't think so. I am learning every day how best to stand 
 fast on my own feet. I am earning my money honestly, and 
 men and women here in London are saying that in truth I can 
 sing. A very nice old gentleman called on me the other day 
 from Covent Garden, and, making me two low bows, asked 
 whether I was my own mistress some time in October next. I 
 thought at the moment that I was at any rate free from the 
 further engagement proposed by Mrs. Beelzebub, and told him 
 that I was free. Then he made me two lower bows, touched the 
 tips of my fingers, and said that he would be proud to wait upon 
 me in a few days with a definite proposal. This old gentleman 
 may mean twenty guineas a night for the whole of next winter, 
 or something like ,£250 a month. Think of that, Mr. Jones. 
 But how am I to go on in my present impecunious position if I 
 quarrel altogether with my bread and butter ? So now you 
 know all about it. 
 
 " Remember that I have told my father nothing as to Mrs. 
 Beelzebub's proposition. It is better not ; he would disown it, 
 
8 4 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 and would declare that I had invented it from vanity. I do 
 think that a woman in this country can look after herself if she 
 be minded so to do. I know that I am stronger than Mr. Moss 
 and Mrs. Beelzebub together. I do believe that he will pay me 
 his money as he has always done, and I want to earn my money. 
 I have some little precautions — just for a rainy day. I have told 
 you everything — everything, because you are to be my husband. 
 But you can do me no good by coming here, but may cause me 
 a peck of troubles. Now, good-bye, and God bless you. A 
 thousand kisses. 
 
 " Ever your own, 
 
 "R. , 
 
 " Tell everybody that I'm to be Mrs. Jones some day." 
 
 Frank finished packing up, and then told his father that he 
 was going off to Athenry at once, there to meet the night mail 
 train up to Dublin. 
 
 " Why are you going at once, in this sudden manner ? w 
 asked his father. 
 
 Frank then remembered that he could not tell openly the 
 story of Mrs. Beelzebub. Rachel had told him in pure simple- 
 minded confidence, and though he was prepared to disobey her, 
 he would not betray her. u She is on the stage," he said. 
 
 " I am aware of it," replied his father, intending to signify 
 that his son's betrothed was not employed as he would have 
 wished. 
 
 61 At the Charing Cross Opera," said the son, endeavouring 
 to make the best of it. 
 
 " Yes ; at the Charing Cross Opera, if that makes a differ- 
 ence." 
 
 " She is earning her bread honestly." 
 
 " I believe so," said Mr. Jones, " I do believe so, I do think 
 that Rachel O'Mahony is a thoroughly good girl." 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Ada and Edith almost in the same 
 breath. 
 
 "But not the less on that account is the profession dis- 
 tasteful to me. You do not wish to see your sisters on the 
 stage ? " 
 
 u I have thought of all that, sir," said Frank, " I have quite 
 made up my mind to make Rachel my wife, if it be possible." 
 
 " Do you mean to live on what she may earn as an actress ? " 
 Here Frank remained silent for a moment. " Because if you do, 
 I must tell you that it will not become you as a gentleman to 
 accept her income." 
 
 " You cannot give us an income on which we may live." 
 
 " Certainly not at this moment. With things as they are in 
 Ireland now, I do not know how long I may have a shilling with 
 which to bless myself. It seems to me that for the present it is 
 
CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON. 
 
 85 
 
 your duty to stay at home, and not to trouble Rachel by going 
 to her in London." 
 
 " At this moment I must go to her." 
 
 " You have given no reason for your going." Frank thought 
 of it, and told himself that there was in truth no reason. His 
 going would be a trouble to Rachel, and yet there were reasons 
 which made it imperative for him to go. " Have you asked 
 yourself what will be the expense ? " said his father. 
 
 " It may cost I suppose twelve pounds, going and coming." 
 
 " And have you asked yourself how many twelve pounds will 
 be likely to fall into your hands just at present ? Is she in any 
 trouble ? " 
 
 " I had rather not talk about her affairs," said Frank. 
 " Is not her father with her ? " 
 
 a I do not think he is the best man in the world to help a 
 girl in such an emergency." But he had not described what was 
 the emergency. 
 
 " You think that a young man, who certainly will be looked 
 on as the young lady's lover, but by no means so certainly as the 
 young lady's future husband, will be more successful ?" 
 
 " I do," said Frank, getting up and walking out of the room. 
 He was determined at any rate that nothing which his father 
 could say should stop him, as he had resolved to disobey all 
 the orders which Rachel had given him. At any rate, during 
 that night and the following day he made his way up to London. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON. 
 
 At this period of our story much had already been said in 
 the outside world as to flooding the meadows of Ballintubber. 
 Like other outrages of the same kind, it had not at first been 
 noticed otherwise than in the immediate neighbourhood ; and 
 though a terrible injury had been inflicted, equal in value to the 
 loss of five or six hundred pounds, it had seemed as though 
 it would pass away unnoticed, simply because Mr. Jones had 
 lacked evidence to bring it home to any guilty party. But 
 gradually it had become known that Pat Carroll had been the 
 sinner, and the causes also which had brought about the crime 
 were known. It was known that Pat Carroll had joined the 
 Land-leaguers in the neighbouring county of Mayo with great 
 violence, and that he had made a threat that he would pay no 
 further rent to his landlord. The days of the no-rent manifesta- 
 tion had not yet come, as the obnoxious Members of Parliament 
 were not yet in prison ; but no-rent was already firmly fixed in the 
 
86 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 minds of many men, about to lead in process of time to "Arrears 
 Bills," and other abominations of injustice. And among those 
 conspicuous in the West, who were ready to seize fortune by the 
 forelock, was Mr. Pat Carroll. In this way his name had come 
 forward, and inquiries were made of Mr. Jones which distressed 
 him much. For though he was ready to sacrifice his meadows 
 and his tenant, and his rent, he was most unwilling to do it if he 
 should be called upon at the same time to sacrifice his boy's 
 character for loyalty. 
 
 There had been a man stationed at Castlerea for some 
 months past, who in celebrity had almost beaten the notorious 
 Pat Carroll. This was one Captain Yorke Clayton, who, for^ 
 nearly twelve months had been in the County Mayo. It was' 
 supposed that he had first shown himself there as a constabulary 
 officer, and had then very suddenly been appointed resident 
 magistrate. Why he was Captain nobody knew. It was 
 the fact, indeed, that he had been employed as adjutant in 
 a volunteer regiment in England, having gone over there from 
 the police force in the- north of Ireland. His title had gone 
 with him by no fault or no virtue of his own, and he had 
 blossomed forth to the world of Connaught as Captain 
 Clayton before he knew why he was about to become famous. 
 Famous, however, he did become. 
 
 He had two attributes which, if Fortune helps, may serve to 
 make any man famous. They were recklessness of life and 
 devotion to an idea. If Fortune do not help, recklessness of life 
 amidst such dangers as those which surrounded Captain 
 Clayton will soon bring a man to his end, so that there 
 will be no question of fame. But we see men occasionally 
 who seem to find it impossible to encounter death. It 
 is not at all probable that this man wished to die. Life seemed 
 to him to be pleasant enough : he was no forlorn lover ; 
 he had fairly good health and strength ; people said of him 
 that he had small but comfortable private means ; he was 
 remarkable among all men for his good looks ; and he lacked 
 nothing necessary to make life happy. But he appeared to 
 be always in a hurry to leave it. A hundred men in Mayo had 
 sworn that he should die. This was told to him very freely ; but 
 he had only laughed at it, and was generally called " the wood- 
 cock," as he rode about among his daily employments. The 
 ordinary life of a woodcock calls upon him to be shot at ; but 
 yet a woodcock is not an easy bird to hit. 
 
 Then there was his devotion to an idea ! I will not call it 
 loyalty, lest I should seem to praise the man too vehemently for 
 that which probably was simply an instinct in his own heart. 
 He lived upon his hatred of a Land-leaguer. It was probably 
 some conviction on his own part that the original Land-leaguer 
 had come from New York, which produced this feeling. And 
 
CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON. 
 
 87 
 
 it must be acknowledged of him with reference to the lower 
 order of Land-leaguers that he did admit in his mind a possibility 
 that they were curable. There were to him Land-leaguers and 
 Land-leaguers ; but the Land-leaguer whom Captain Yorke 
 Clayton hated with the bitterest prejudice was the Land-leaguing 
 Member of Parliament. Some of his worst enemies believed 
 that he might be detected in breaking out into illegal expressions 
 of hatred, or, more unfortunately still, into illegal acts, and that 
 so the Government might be compelled to dismiss him with 
 disgrace. Others, his warmest friends, hoped that by such a 
 process his life might be eventually saved. But for the present 
 Captain Yorke Clayton had saved both his character and his 
 neck, to the great surprise both of those who loved him and the 
 reverse. He had lately been appointed Joint President 
 Magistrate for Galway, Mayo, and Roscommon, and had 
 removed his residence to Galway. To him also had Pat Carroll 
 become intimately known, and to him the floods of Ballintubber 
 were a peculiar case. It was one great desire of his heart to 
 have Pat Carroll incarcerated as a penal felon. He did not 
 very often express himself on this subject, but Pat Carroll knew 
 well the nature of his wishes. " A thundering bloody rapparee" 
 was the name by which Carroll delighted to call him. But 
 Carroll was one who exercised none of that control over his own 
 tongue for which Captain Clayton was said to be so conspicuous. 
 During the last month Mr. Jones had seen Captain Clayton 
 more than once at Galway, and on one occasion he had come 
 down to Morony Castle attended by a man who was supposed 
 to travel as his servant, but who was known by all the world to 
 be a policeman in disguise. For Captain Clayton had been 
 strictly forbidden by the authorities of the Castle to travel without 
 such a companion ; and an attempt had already been made to 
 have him dismissed for disobedience to these orders. 
 
 Captain Clayton, when he had been at Morony Castle, had 
 treated Flory with great kindness, declining to cross-question 
 him at all. " I would endeavour to save him from these gentle- 
 men," he had said to his father. " I don't quite think that we 
 understand what is going on within his mind ; " but this had 
 been before the conversation last mentioned which had taken 
 place between Flory and his sisters. Now he was to come 
 again, and make further inquiry, and meet half-a-dozen police- 
 men from the neighbourhood. But Florian had as yet but half 
 confessed, and almost hoped that Captain Clayton would appear 
 among them as his friend. 
 
 The girls, to tell the truth, had been much taken with the 
 appearance of the gallant Captain. It seems to be almost a 
 shame to tell the truth of what modest girls may think of any 
 man whom they may chance to meet. They would never tell 
 it to themselves. Even two sisters can hardly do so. And 
 
8cS 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 when the man comes before them, just for once or twice, to be 
 judged and thought of at a single interview, the girl, — such as 
 were these girls, — can hardly tell it to herself. " He is manly 
 and brave, and has so much to say for himself, and is so good- 
 looking, that what can any girl who has her heart at her own 
 disposal wish for better than such a lover?" It would have 
 been quite impossible that either of Mr. Jones's daughters 
 could ever have so whispered to herself. But was it not natural 
 that such an unwhispered thought should have passed through 
 the mind of Ada— Ada the beautiful, Ada the sentimental, Ada 
 the young lady who certainly was in want of a lover ? " He is 
 very nice, certainly," said Ada, allowing herself not another 
 word, to her sister. 
 
 " But what is the good of a man being nice when he is a 
 1 woodcock ? ' " said Edith. " Everybody says that his destiny 
 is before him. I daresay he is nice, but what's the use ? " 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you think he'll be killed ? " said 
 Ada. 
 
 " I do, and I mean to say that if I were a man, it might be 
 that I should have to be killed too. A man has to run his 
 chance, and if he falls into such a position as this, of course he 
 must put up with it. I don't mean to say that I don't like him 
 the better for it." 
 
 " Why does he not go away and leave the horrid country ? " 
 said Ada. 
 
 " Because the more brave men that go away the more horrid 
 the country will become. And then I think a man is always 
 the happier if he has something really to think of. Such a one 
 as Captain Clayton does not want to go to balls." 
 
 " I suppose not," said Ada plaintively, as though she thought 
 it a thousand pities that Captain Clayton should not want to go 
 to balls. 
 
 " Such a man," said Edith with an air of firmness, " finds a 
 woman when he wants to marry who will suit him, — and then 
 he marries her. There is no necessity for any balls there." 
 
 " Then he ought not to dance at all. Such a man ought not 
 to want to get married." 
 
 " Not if he means to be killed out of hand," said. Edith. 
 " The possible young woman must be left to judge of that. I 
 shouldn't like to marry a ' woodcock,' however much I might 
 admire him. I do think it well that there should be such men 
 as Captain Clayton. I feel that if I were a man I ought to wish 
 to be one myself. But I am sure I should feel that I oughtn't 
 to ask a girl to share the world with me. Fancy marrying a 
 man merely to be left a sorrowing widow ! It is part of the 
 horror of his business that he shouldn't even venture to dance, 
 lest some poor female should be captivated." 
 
 " A girl might be captivated without dancing," said Ada. 
 
CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON. 
 
 89 
 
 " I don't mean to say that such a man should absolutely tie 
 himself up in a bag so that no poor female should run any 
 possible danger, but he oughtn't to encourage such risks. To 
 tell the truth, I don't think that Captain Clayton does." 
 
 Ada that afternoon thought a great deal of the position, — 
 not, of course, in reference to herself. Was it proper that such 
 a man as Captain Yorke Clayton should abstain from falling in 
 love with a girl, or even from allowing a girl to fall in love with 
 him because he was in danger of being shot ? It was certainly 
 a difficult question. Was any man to be debarred from the 
 pleasures, and incidents, and natural excitements of a man's life 
 because of the possible dangers which might possibly happen to 
 a possible young woman ? Looking at the matter all round, Ada 
 did not see that the man could help himself unless he were to 
 be shut up in a bag, as Edith had said, so as to prevent a young 
 woman from falling in love with him. Although he were a 
 " woodcock," the thing must go on in its own natural course. If 
 misfortunes did come, why misfortunes must come. It was the 
 same thing with any soldier or any sailor. If she were to fall in 
 love with some officer, — for the supposition in its vague, undefined 
 form was admissible even to poor Ada's imagination, — she would 
 not be debarred from marrying him merely by the fact that he 
 would have to go to the wars. Of course, as regarded Captain 
 Yorke Clayton, this was merely a speculation. He might be 
 engaged to some other girl already for anything she knew ; — 
 " or cared," as she told herself with more or less of truth. 
 
 Captain Yorke Clayton came down by the boat that afternoon 
 to Morony Castle, Frank Jones having started for London two or 
 three days before. He reached the pier at about four o'clock, 
 accompanied by his faithful follower, and was there met by 
 Mr. Jones himself, who w r alked up with him to the Castle. There 
 was a short cut across the fields to Mr. Jones's house ; and as 
 they left the road about a furlong up from the pier, they were 
 surrounded by the waters which Mr. Carroll had let in upon the 
 Ballintubber meadows. 
 
 " You won't mind my fellow coming with us ? " said Captain 
 Clayton. 
 
 u ' Your fellow/ as you call him, is more than welcome. I 
 came across this way because some of Pat Carroll's friends may 
 be out on the high road. If they fire half-a-dozen rifles from 
 behind a wall at your luggage, they won't do so much harm as 
 if they shot at yourself." 
 
 " There won't be any shooting here," said Clayton, shaking 
 his head, " he's not had time to get a stranger down and pay 
 him. They always require two or three days' notice for that 
 work ; and there isn't a wall about the place. You're not giving 
 Mr. Pat Carroll a fair chance for his friends. I could dodge 
 them always with perfect security by myself, only the beaks up 
 
9 o 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 in Dublin have given a strict order. As they pay for the pistols 
 I am bound to carry them." Then he lifted up the lappets of 
 his coat and waistcoat, and showed half-a-dozen pistols stuck 
 into his girdle. " Our friend there has got as many more." 
 
 u I have a couple myself/' said Mr. Jones, indicating their 
 whereabouts, and showing that he was not as yet so used to 
 carry them, as to have provided himself with a belt for the 
 purpose. 
 
 Then they walked on, chatting indifferently about the Land- 
 leaguers till they reached the Castle. u The people are not 
 cowards," Captain Clayton had said. " I believe that men do 
 become cowards when they are tempted to become liars by 
 getting into Parliament. An Irishman of a certain class does 
 at any rate. But those fellows, if they were put into a regiment, 
 would fight like grim death. That man there," and he pointed 
 back over his shoulder, " is as brave a fellow as I ever came 
 across in my life. I don't think that he would hesitate a 
 moment in attacking three or four men armed with revolvers. 
 And gold wouldn't induce him to be false to me. But if Mr. 
 Pat Carroll had by chance got hold of him before he had come 
 my way, he might have been the very man to shoot you or me 
 from behind a wall, with a bit of black crape on his face. 
 What's the reason of it ? I love that man as my brother, but I 
 might have hated him as the very devil." 
 
 " The force of example, sir," said Mr. Jones, as he led the 
 way into the quiet, modern residence which rejoiced to call itself 
 Morony Castle. 
 
 " What are we to do about this boy ? " said Mr. Jones, when 
 they had seated themselves in his study. 
 
 " Are you friends with him yet ?" 
 
 " No ; I declared to his sister that I would not sit down to 
 table with him till he had told the truth, and I have kept my 
 
 word." 
 
 " How does he bear it ? " 
 
 " But badly," said the father. " It has told upon him very 
 much. He complains to his sister that I have utterly cast him 
 off." 
 
 " It is the oddest case I ever heard of in my life," said the 
 Captain. li I suppose his change of religion has been at the 
 bottom of it — that and the machinations of the priest down at 
 Headford. When we recollect that there must have been quite 
 a crowd of people looking on all the while, it does seem odd that 
 we should be unable to get a single witness to tell the truth, 
 knowing as we do, that this lad was there. If he would only 
 name two who were certainly there, and who certainly saw the 
 deed done, that would be enough ; for the people are not, in 
 themselves, hostile to you." 
 
 " You know he has owned that he did see it," said the 
 
CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON. 
 
 91 
 
 father. " And he has acknowledged that Pat Carroll was there, 
 though he has never mentioned the man's name. His sisters 
 have told him that I will not be satisfied unless I hear him declare 
 that Pat Carroll was one of the offenders." 
 
 i( Let us have him in, sir, if you don't mind." 
 
 " Just as he is ? " 
 
 "I should say so. Or let the young ladies come with him, 
 if you do not object. Which of them has been most with him 
 since your edict went forth ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones declared that Edith had been most with her 
 brother, and the order went forth that Edith and Florian should 
 be summoned into the apartment. 
 
 Ada and Edith were together when the order came. Edith 
 was to go down and present herself before Captain Yorke 
 Clayton. 
 
 " Mercy me," said Edith, jumping up, " I hope they won't 
 shoot at him through the window whilst I am there." 
 
 " Oh ! Edith, how can you think of such a thing ? " 
 
 " It would be very unpleasant if some assassin were to take 
 my back hair for Captain Clayton's brown head. They're very 
 nearly the same colour." 
 
 And Edith prepared to leave the room, hearing her brother's 
 slow, heavy step as he passed before the door. 
 
 " Won't you go first and brush your hair ? " said Ada ; "and 
 do put a ribbon on your neck." 
 
 " I'll do nothing of the kind. It would be a sheer manoeuvring 
 to entrap a man who ought to be safeguarded against all such 
 female wiles. Besides, I don't believe a bit that Captain Clayton 
 would know the difference between a young lady with or without 
 a ribbon. What evidence can I give ? — that's the question." 
 
 So saying, Edith descended to her father's room. 
 
 She found Florian with his hand upon the door, and they 
 both entered the room. I have said that Captain Clayton was a 
 remarkably good-looking man, and I ought, perhaps to give 
 some explanation of the term when first introducing him to the 
 reader in the presence of a lady who is intended to become the 
 heroine of this story ; but it must suffice that I have declared 
 him to be good-looking, and that I add to that the fact that 
 though he was thirty-five years old, he did not look to be more 
 than five-and-twenty. The two peculiarities of his face were 
 very light blue eyes, and very long moustachios. " Florian and 
 I have come to see the latter-day hero," said Edith, laughing as 
 she entered the room ; tt though I know that you are so done up 
 with pistols that no peaceable young woman ought to come near 
 you." To this he made some sportive reply, and then before a 
 minute had passed over their heads he had taken Florian by the 
 •hand. 
 
92 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE. 
 
 "Well, my boy, how are you ?" asked the Captain. 
 
 "There's nothing particularly the matter with me," said 
 Florian. 
 
 " I suppose all this is troubling you ?" 
 
 " All what ? You mean about Pat Carroll. Of course it's 
 troubling me. Nobody will believe a word that I say." 
 
 " But they do believe you now that you are telling the truth," 
 said Edith. 
 
 " Do you hold your tongue, miss," said the boy, f< I don't 
 see why you should have so much to say about it." 
 
 " She has been your best friend from first to last," said the 
 father. " If it had not been for Edith I would have turned you 
 out of the house. It is terrible to me to think that a boy of mine 
 should refuse to say what he saw in such a matter as this. You 
 are putting yourself on a par with the enemies of your own family. 
 You do not know it, but you are nearly sending me to the 
 grave." Then there was a long pause, during which the Captain 
 kept his eyes fixed on the boy's face. And Edith had moved 
 round so as to seat herself close to her brother, and had taken 
 his hand in hers. 
 
 " Don't, Edith," said the boy. " Leave me alone, I don't 
 want to be meddled with," and he withdrew his hand. 
 
 " Oh, Florian ! " said the girl, " try to tell the truth and be a 
 gentleman : whether it be for you or against you, tell the truth." 
 
 " I'm not to mind a bit about my religion then ? w 
 
 " Does your religion bid you tell a lie ?" asked the Captain. 
 
 " I'm not telling a lie, 1 am just holding my tongue. A 
 Catholic has a right to hold his tongue when he is among 
 Protestants." 
 
 " Even to the ruin of his father ?" suggested the Captain. 
 
 " I don't want to ruin papa. He said he was going to turn — 
 to turn me out of the house. I would go and drown myself in 
 the lake if he did, or in one of those big dykes which divide the 
 meadows. I am miserable among them — quite miserable. 
 Edith never gives me any peace, day or night. She comes and 
 sits in my bedroom, begging me to tell the truth. It ought to 
 be enough when I say that I will hold my tongue. Papa can 
 turn me out to drown myself if he pleases. Edith goes on 
 cheating the words out of me till I don't know what I'm saying. 
 If I am to be brought up to tell it all before the judge I shan't 
 know what I have said before, or what I have not said." 
 
 " Nil conscire tibi? said the father, who had already taught 
 his son so much Latin as that. 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE. 93 
 
 " But you did see the sluice gates torn down, and thrown 
 back into the water ? " said the Captain. Here Florian shook 
 his head mournfully. " I understood you to acknowledge that 
 you had seen the gates destroyed." 
 
 " I never said as much to you," said the boy. 
 
 " But you did to me," said Edith. 
 
 " If a fellow says a word to you, it is repeated to all the 
 world. I never would have you joined with me in a secret. 
 
 You are a great deal worse than , well, those fellows that 
 
 you abuse me about. They never tell anything that they have 
 heard among themselves, to people outside." 
 
 " Pat Carroll, you mean ? " asked the Captain. 
 
 " He isn't the only one. There's more in it than him." 
 
 " Oh yes ; we know that. There were many others in it 
 besides Pat Carroll, when they let the waters in through the 
 dyke gates. There must have been twenty there." 
 
 " No, there weren't — not that I saw." 
 
 " A dozen, perhaps ! " 
 
 " You are laying a trap for me, but I am not going to be 
 caught. I was there, and I did see it. You may make the 
 most of that. Though you have me up before the judge, I 
 needn't say a word more than I please." 
 
 " He is more obstinate," said his father, " than any rebel 
 that you can meet." 
 
 "But so mistaken," said the Captain, "because he can 
 refuse to answer us who are treating him with such tenderness 
 and affection, who did not even want to wound his feelings 
 more than we can help, he thinks that he can hold his peace in 
 the same fashion, before the entire court ; and that he can do 
 so, although he has owned that he knows the men." 
 
 " I have never owned that," said the boy. 
 
 " Not to your sister ? " 
 
 " I only owned to one." 
 
 " Pat tarroll ? " said the Captain ; but giving the name 
 merely as a hint to help the boy's memory. 
 
 But the boy was too sharp for him. " That's another of 
 your traps, Captain Clayton. If she says Pat Carroll, I can 
 say it was Tim Brady. A boy's word will be as good as a girl's, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " A lie can never be as good as the truth, whether from a 
 boy or a girl," said the Captain, endeavouring to look him through 
 and through. The boy quavered beneath his gaze, and the 
 Captain went on with his questioning. " I suppose we may 
 take it for granted that Pat Carroll was there, and that you did 
 see him ? " 
 
 " You may take anything for granted." 
 
 " You would have to swear before a jury that Pat Carroll was 
 there." 
 
94 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Then there was another pause, but at last, with a long sigh, 
 the boy spoke out. " He was there, and I did see him." Then 
 he burst into tears and threw himself down on the ground, and 
 hid his face in his sister's lap. 
 
 " Dear Flory," said she. " My own brother ! I knew that 
 you would struggle to be a gentleman at last." 
 
 " It will all come right with him now," said the Captain. But 
 the father frowned and shook his head. " How many were there 
 with him ? " asked the Captain, intent on the main business. 
 
 But Florian, feeling that it would be as good to be hung for 
 a sheep as a lamb, and feeling also that he had at last cast aside 
 all the bonds which bound him to Pat Carroll and Father 
 Brosnan, — feeling that there was nothing left for him but the 
 internecine enmity of his old friends, — got up from the floor, 
 and wiping away the tears from his face, spoke out boldly the 
 whole truth as he knew it. " It was dark, and I didn't see them 
 all. There were only six whom I could see, though I know that 
 there were many others round about among the meadows whose 
 names I had heard, though I do not remember them." 
 
 " We will confine ourselves to the six whom you did see," 
 said the Captain, preparing to listen quietly to the boy's story. 
 The father took out a pen and ink, but soon pushed it on one 
 side. Edith again got hold of the boy's hand, and held it within 
 her own till his story was finished. 
 
 " I didn't see the six all at once. The first whom I did see 
 was Pat Carroll, and his brother Terry, and Tim Brady. They 
 were up there just where the lane has turned down from the 
 steamboat road. I had gone down to the big sluice gates before 
 anyone had noticed me, and there were Tim and Terry smashing 
 away at the gate hinges, up to their middles in mud ; and Pat 
 Carroll was handing them down a big crowbar. Terry, when 
 he saw me, fell flat forward into the water, and had to be picked 
 out again." 
 
 " Did they say anything to threaten you?" said the Captain. 
 
 "Tim Brady said that I was all right, and was a great friend 
 of Father Brosnan's. Then they whispered together, and I 
 heard Terry say that he wouldn't go against anything that 
 Father Brosnan might say. Then Pat Carroll came and stood 
 over me with the crowbar." 
 
 " Did he threaten you ? " 
 
 " He didn't do it in a threatening way ; but only asked me 
 to be hand and glove with them." 
 
 " Had you been intimate with this man before?" asked the 
 Captain. 
 
 " He had been very intimate with him," said the father. 
 " All this calamity has come of his intimacy. He has changed 
 his religion and ceased to be a gentleman." Here the boy again 
 sobbed, but Edith still squeezed his hand. 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE. 95 
 
 "What did you say/' asked the Captain, "when he bade you 
 be hand and glove with him ? " 
 
 " I said that I would. Then they made the sign of a cross, 
 and swore me on it. And they swore me specially to say nothing 
 up here. And they swore me again when they met down at 
 Tim Rafferty's house in Headford. I intended to keep my 
 word, and I think that you ought to have let me keep it." 
 
 " But there were three others whom you saw," urged the 
 Captain. 
 
 " There was Con Heffernan, and a man they call Lax, who 
 had come from Lough Conn beyond Castlebar." 
 " He's not a man of this county." 
 
 " I think not, though I had seen him here before. He has 
 had something to do with the Land-leaguers up about Foxford." 
 
 " I think I have a speaking acquaintance with that Mr. 
 Lax," said the Captain ; and everybody could perceive that the 
 tone of his voice was altered as he spoke about Mr. Lax. " And 
 who was the sixth ? " 
 
 "There was that old man, papa, whom they call Terry. But 
 he wasn't doing anything in particular." 
 
 " He is the greatest blackguard on the estate/' said the 
 father. 
 
 "But we will confine ourselves to the five," said the Captain, 
 "not forgetting Mr. Lax. What was Mr. Lax doing?" 
 
 " I can't remember what they were all doing. How is a 
 fellow to remember them all ? There were those two at the 
 hinges, and Pat Carroll was there pulling his brother out of the 
 water." 
 
 "Terry was Pat's brother ?" 
 
 " They are brothers," said the father. 
 
 " And then they went on, and took no notice of me for a 
 time. Lax came up and scowled at me, and told me that if a 
 word was said I should never draw the breath of life again." 
 
 " But he didn't do anything ? " asked the Captain. 
 
 " I don't remember. How is a fellow to remember after so 
 many months ? " 
 
 " Why didn't you tell the truth at the time ? " said his father 
 angrily. Another tear stood in each of the poor boy's eyes, and 
 Edith got closer to him, and threw her left arm round his waist. 
 " You are spoiling him by being so soft with him," said the 
 father. 
 
 " He is doing the best he can, Mr. Jones," said the Captain. 
 " Don't be harsh with him now. Well, Florian, what came 
 next ? " 
 
 " They bade me go away, and again made me swear another 
 oath. It was nearly dark then, and it was quite dark night 
 before I got up to the house. But before I went I saw that there 
 were many others standing idle about the place." 
 
9 6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " Do you remember any particularly ? " 
 
 " Well, there was another of the Carrolls, a nephew of Pat's; 
 and there was Tony Brady, Tim's brother. I can't at this 
 moment say who else there were." 
 
 "It would be as well to have as many as we do know, not to 
 prosecute them, but to ask them for their evidence. Three or 
 four men will often contradict each other, and then they will 
 break down. I think we have enough now. But you must 
 remember that I have only questioned you as your friend and 
 as your father's friend. I have not taken down a word that you 
 have said. My object has been simply that we might all act 
 together to punish a vindictive and infamous outrage. Pat 
 Carroll has had nothing to get by flooding your father's 
 meadows. But because your father has not chosen to forgive 
 him his rent, he has thought fit to do him all the injury in his 
 power. I fear that there are others in it, who are more to blame 
 even than Pat Carroll. But if we can get hold of this gentle- 
 man, and also of his friend Mr. Lax, we shall have done 
 much." 
 
 Then the meeting was over for that evening, and Captain 
 Clayton retired to his own room. " You needn't mind following 
 me here, Hunter," he said to the policeman. 
 
 " I wouldn't be too sure, sir." 
 
 "You maybe sure in Mr. Jones's house. And no one in 
 the country has any idea of committing murder on his own 
 behalf. I am safe till they would have had time to send for 
 someone out of another county. But we shall be back in Galway 
 to-morrow." So saying, Hunter left his master alone, and the 
 Captain sat down to write an account of the scene which had 
 just taken place. In this he gave every name as the boy had 
 given it, with accuracy ; but, nevertheless, he added to his 
 little story the fact that it had been related from memory. 
 
 Edith took her brother away into her own room, and there 
 covered him with kisses. " Why is papa so hard to me ? " said 
 the boy, sobbing. Then she explained to him as gently as she 
 could, the grounds which had existed for hardness on his father's 
 part. She bade him consider how terrible a thing it must be to 
 a father, to have to think that his own son should have turned 
 against him, while the country was in such a condition. 
 
 " It is not the flood, Flory, nor the loss of the meadows being 
 under water. It is not the injury that Pat Carroll has done him, 
 or any of the men whom Pat Carroll has talked into enmity. 
 That, indeed, is very dreadful. To these very men he has been 
 their best friend for many years. And now they would help in 
 his ruin, and turn us and him out as beggars upon the world, 
 because he has not chosen to obey the unjust bidding of one of 
 them." Here the boy hung down his head, and turned away 
 this face. " But it is not that. All that has had no effect in 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE. 97 
 
 nigh breaking his heart. Money is but money. No one can 
 bear its loss better than our papa. Though he might have to 
 starve, he would starve like a gallant man ; and we could starve 
 with him. You and I, Frank and Ada, would bear all that he 
 
 could bear. But " The boy looked up into her face again, 
 
 as though imploring her to spare him, but she went on with her 
 speech. " But that a son of his should cease to feel as a gentle- 
 man should feel, — and a Christian! It is that which moves 
 him to be hard, as you call it. But he is not hard ; he is a 
 man, and he cannot kiss you as a woman does ; — as your sister 
 does ;" here she almost smothered the boy with kisses, "but, 
 Florian, it is not too late ; it is never too late while you still see 
 that truth is god-like, and that a lie is of all things the most 
 devilish. It is never too late while you feel what duty calls you 
 to do." And again she covered him with kisses, and then 
 allowed him to go away to his own room. 
 
 When Edith was alone she sat back in an easy-chair, with 
 her feet on the fender before the turf fire, and began to 
 consider how things might go with her poor brother. " If they 
 should get hold of him, and murder him ! " she said to herself. 
 The thought was very dreadful, but she comforted herself with 
 reflecting that he might be sent out of the country, before the 
 knowledge of what he had done should get abroad. And then 
 by means of that current of thought, which always runs where 
 it listeth, independent of the will of the thinker, her ideas flew 
 off to Captain Yorke Clayton. In her imagination she had 
 put down Captain Clayton as a possible lover for her sister. 
 She possessed a girlish intuition into her sister's mind which 
 made her feel that her sister would not dislike such an arrange- 
 ment. Ada was the beauty of the family, and was supposed, 
 at any rate by Edith, to be the most susceptible of the two 
 sisters. She had always called herself a violent old maid, who 
 was determined to have her own way. But no one had ever 
 heard Ada speak of herself as an old maid. And then as to 
 that danger of which Ada had spoken, Edith knew that such 
 perils must be overlooked altogether among the incidents of 
 life. If it came to her would she refuse her hand to a man 
 because his courage led him into special perils. She knew 
 that it would only be an additional ground for her love. And 
 of Ada, in that respect, she judged as she did of herself. She 
 knew that Ada thought much of manly beauty, and her eyes 
 told her that Captain Yorke Clayton was very handsome. " If 
 he were as black as Beelzebub/' she said to herself, " I should 
 like him the better for it ; but Ada would prefer a man to be 
 beautiful." She went to work to make a match in her own 
 mind between Ada and Captain Clayton ; but the more she 
 made it, the more she continued to think — on her own behalf — 
 that of all men she had ever seen, this man had pleased her 
 
 H 
 
9 8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 fancy most. " But Captain Yorke Clayton, you were nevei 
 more mistaken in all your life if you think that Edith Jones 
 has taken a fancy to your handsome physiognomy." This she 
 said in almost audible words. " But nevertheless, I do think 
 that you are a hero. For myself, I don't want a hero — and if I 
 did, I shouldn't get one." But the arrangements made in the 
 house that night were those which are customary for a favoured 
 young man's reception when such matters are left to the 
 favouring young lady in the family. 
 
 When Mr. Jones found himself alone in his study, he began 
 to think of the confession which Florian had made. It had 
 gradually come to pass that he had been sure of the truth for 
 some months, though he had never before heard it declared 
 by his son's lips. Since the day on which he had called on 
 Mr. Blake at Carnlough, he had been quite sure that Edith 
 was right. He was almost sure before. Now the truth was 
 declared exactly as she had surmised it. And what should he 
 do with the boy ? He could not merely put him forward as a 
 witness in this case. Some reason must be given, why the 
 truth had not been told during the last six months. As he 
 thought of this, he felt that the boy had disgraced himself for 
 ever. 
 
 And he thought of the boy's danger. He had rashly 
 promised that the boy should be sent to England out of harm's 
 way ; but he now told himself that the means of doing so were 
 further from him than ever ; and that he was daily becoming a 
 poorer, if not a ruined man. Of the rents then due to him, not 
 a penny would, he feared, be paid. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 RACHEL IS FREE. 
 
 Rachel O'Mahony found her position to be very embarrassing. 
 She had though it out to the best of her ability, and had told 
 herself that it would be better for her not to acquaint her father 
 with all the circumstances. Had he been told the nature of the 
 offer made to her by Madame Socani, he would at once, she 
 thought, have taken her away from the theatre. She would 
 have to abandon the theatre, at which she was earning her 
 money. This would have been very bad. There would have been 
 some lawsuit with Mahomet Moss, as to which she could not have 
 defended herself by putting Madame Socani into the witness- 
 box. There had been no third person present, and any possible 
 amount of lying would have been very easy to Madame Socani. 
 Rachel was quick enough, and could see at a moment all that 
 
RACHEL IS FREE. 
 
 99 
 
 lying could do against her. " But he tried to kiss me," she 
 would have had to say. Then she could see how, with a shrug 
 of his shoulders, her enemy would have ruined her. From 
 such a contest a man like Moss comes forth without even a 
 scratch that can injure him. But Rachel felt that she would 
 have been utterly annihilated. She must tell someone, but 
 that someone must be he whom she intended to marry. 
 
 And she, too, had not been quite prudent in all respects 
 since she had come to London. It had been whispered to her 
 that a singer of such pretensions should be brought to the 
 theatre and carried home in her private brougham. Therefore, 
 she had spent more money than was compatible with the 
 assistance given to her father, and was something in debt. It 
 was indispensable to her that she should go on with her 
 engagement. 
 
 But she told her father that it was absolutely necessary that 
 he should go with her to the theatre every night that she sang. 
 It was but three nights a week, and the hours of her work were 
 only from eight till ten. He had, however, unfortunately made 
 another engagement for himself. There was a debating society, 
 dramatic in its manner of carrying on its business, at which 
 three or four Irish Home-Rulers were accustomed to argue 
 among themselves, before a mixed audience of Englishmen and 
 Irishmen, as to the futility of English government. Here 
 Mr. O'Mahony was popular among the debaters, and was paid 
 for his services. Not many knew that the eloquent Irishman 
 was the father of the singer who, in truth, was achieving for 
 herself a grand reputation. But such was the case. A stop had 
 been put upon his lecturings at Galway ; but no policeman in 
 London seemed to be aware that the Galway incendiary and the 
 London debater were one and the same person. So there came 
 to him an opening for picking up a few pounds towards their 
 joint expenses. 
 
 " But why should you want me now, more than for the last 
 fortnight ?" he said, contending for the use of his own time. 
 
 " Mr. Moss is disagreeable." 
 
 " Has he done anything new ? " he asked. 
 
 "He is always doing things new — that is more beastly — one 
 day than the day before." 
 
 "He doesn't come and sing with you now at your own 
 rooms." 
 
 " No ; I have got through that, thank Heaven ! To tell the 
 truth, father, I am not in the least afraid of Mr. Moss. Before 
 he should touch me you may be sure that he would have the 
 worst of it." 
 
 " Of course I will do what you want," said her father ; " but 
 
 only if it be not necessary " 
 
 " It is necessary. Of course, I do not wish to be dragged up 
 
 H 2 
 
IOO 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 to the police-court for sticking Mr. Moss in the abdomen. That's 
 what it would come to if we were left together." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you require my presence to pre- 
 vent anything so disagreeable as that ? " 
 
 " If they know, or if he knows that you're in the house, there 
 will be nothing of the kind. Can't you arrange your debates 
 for the other nights ? " 
 
 So it was, in fact, settled. Everybody about the theatre 
 seemed to be aware that something was wrong. Mr. O'Mahony 
 had not comeback to be constantly on the watch, like a Newfound- 
 land dog, without an object. To himself it was an intolerable 
 nuisance. He suspected his daughter not at all. He was so 
 far from suspecting her that he imagined her to be safe, though 
 half-a-dozen Mosses should surround her. He could only stand 
 idle behind the scenes, or sit in her dressing-room and yawn. 
 But still he did it, and asked no further questions. 
 
 Then while all this was going on, the polite old gentleman 
 from Covent Garden had called at her lodgings in Cecil Street 
 and had found both her and her father at home. 
 
 " Oh, M. Le Gros," she had said, "I am so glad that you 
 should meet my father here." 
 
 Then there was a multiplicity of bowing, and M. Le Gros 
 had declared that he had never had so much honour done him 
 as in being introduced to him who was about to become the 
 father of the undoubted prima donna of the day. At all which 
 Mr. O'Mahony made many bows, and Rachel laughed very 
 heartily; but in the end an engagement was proposed and thank- 
 fully accepted, which was to commence in the next October. It 
 did not take two minutes in the making. It was an engagement 
 only for a couple of months ; but, as M. Le Gros observed, 
 such an engagement would undoubtedly lead to one for all time. 
 If Covent Garden could only secure the permanent aid of 
 Mademoiselle O'Mahony, Covent Garden's fortune would be 
 as good as made. M. Le Gros had quite felt the dishonesty of 
 even suggesting a longer engagement to mademoiselle. The 
 rate of payment would be very much higher, ve-ry, ve-ry, ve-ry 
 much higher when mademoiselle's voice should have once been 
 heard on the boards of a true operatic theatre. M. Le Gros 
 had done himself the honour of being present on one or two 
 occasions at the Charing Cross little playhouse. He did believe 
 himself to have some small critical judgment in musical matters. 
 He thought he might venture — he really did think that he might 
 venture — to bespeak a brilliant career for mademoiselle. Then, 
 with a great many more bowings and scrapings, M. Le Gros, 
 having done his business, took his leave. 
 
 " I like him better than Mahomet M.," said Rachel to her 
 father. 
 
 " They're both very civil," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
RACHEL IS FREE. 
 
 101 
 
 " One has all the courtesy of hell ! With the other it is — 
 well, not quite the manners of heaven. I can imagine something 
 brighter even than M. Le Gros ; but it does very well for earth. 
 M. Le Gros knows that a young woman should be treated as a 
 human being ; and even his blandishments are pleasant enough 
 as they are to take the shape of golden guineas. As for me, M. 
 Le Gros is quite good enough for my idea of this world." 
 
 But on the next day, a misfortune took place which well-nigh 
 obliterated all the joy which M. Le Gros had produced. It was 
 not singing night, and Mr. O'Mahony had just taken up his hat 
 to go away to his debating society, when Frank Jones was 
 announced. 1 ' Frank, what on earth did you come here for?" 
 These were the words with which the lover was greeted. He 
 had endeavoured to take the girl in his arms, but she had 
 receded from his embrace. 
 
 " Why, Rachel ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " I told you not to come. I told you especially that you 
 were not to come." 
 
 " Why did you tell him so ?" said Mr. O'Mahony ; " and why 
 has he come?" 
 
 " Not one kiss, Rachel ?" said the lover. 
 
 " Oh, kisses, yes ! If I didn't kiss you father would think 
 that we had already quarrelled. But it may be that we must do 
 so. When I had told you everything, that you should rush up 
 to London to look after me — as though you suspected me ! " 
 
 " What is there to suspect ? " said the father. 
 
 "Nothing — I suspect nothing," said Frank. " But there 
 were things which made it impossible that I should not wish to 
 be nearer. She was insulted." 
 
 "Who insulted her?" 
 
 "The devil in the shape of a woman," said Rachel. "He 
 takes that shape as often as the other." 
 
 " Rachel should not be left in such hands," said Frank. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Jones, you have no right to say in what hands 
 I shall be left. My father and I have got to look after that 
 between us. I have told you over and over again what are my 
 intentions in the matter They have been made in utter dis- 
 regard of myself, and with the most perfect confidence in you. 
 You tell me that you cannot marry me." 
 
 " Not quite at present." 
 
 " Very well ; I have been satisfied to remain as engaged to 
 you ; but I am not satisfied to be subject to your interference." 
 " Interference ! " he said. 
 
 " Well now ; I'm going." This came from Mr. O'Mahony. 
 " I've got to see if I can earn a few shillings, and tell a few 
 truths. I will leave you to fight out your battles among you." 
 
 " There will be no battles," said Frank. 
 
 " I hope not, but I feel that I can do no good. I have such 
 
I02 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 absolute trust in Rachel, that you may be quite sure that I shall 
 back her up in whatever she says. Now, good-night," and with 
 that he took his leave. 
 
 " I am glad he has gone, because he would do us no good," 
 said Rachel. " You were angry with me just now because 
 I spoke of interference. I meant it. I will not admit of any 
 interference from you." Then she sat with her two hands on 
 her knees, looking him full in the face. " I love you with all my 
 heart, and am ready to tell everyone that I am to become your 
 wife. They have a joke about it in the theatre, calling me Mrs. 
 Jones ; and because nobody believes what anybody says they 
 think you're a myth. I suppose it is queer that a singing girl 
 should marry Mr. Jones. I'm to go in the autumn to Covent 
 Garden, and get ever so much more money, and I shall still 
 talk about Mr. Jones, — unless you and I agree to break it off." 
 
 " Certainly not that," said he. 
 
 " But it is by no means certain. Will you go back to Ireland 
 to-morrow morning, and undertake not to see me again until 
 you come prepared to marry me ? If not, we must break it off." 
 
 f< I can hardly do that." 
 
 " Then," said she, rising from her chair, " it is broken off, 
 and I will not call myself Mrs. Jones any more." He too rose 
 from his chair and frowned at her by way of an answer. " I 
 have one other suggestion to make," she said. " I shall receive 
 next October what will be quite sufficient for both of us, and 
 for father too. Come and bear the rough and the smooth to- 
 gether with us." 
 
 " And live upon you ? " 
 
 " I should live upon you without scruple if you had got 
 it. And then I shall bear your interference without a word 
 of complaint. Nay, I shall thank you for it. I shall come 
 to you for advice in everything. What you say will be my law. 
 You shall knock down all the Mosses for me ; — or lock them up, 
 which would be so much better. But you must be my husband." 
 
 " Not yet. You should not ask me as yet. Think of my 
 father's position. Let this one sad year pass by." 
 
 " Two — three, if there are to be two or three sad years ! I 
 will wait for you till you are as grey as old Peter, and I have not 
 a note left in my throat. I will stick to you like beeswax. But 
 I will not have you here hanging about me. Do you think that 
 it would not be pleasant for me to have a lover to congratulate 
 me every day on my little triumphs ? Do you think that I should 
 not be proud to be seen leaning always on your arm, with the 
 consciousness that Mr. Moss would be annihilated at his very 
 first word ? But when a year had passed by, where should I 
 be? No, Frank, it will not do. If you were at Morony Castle 
 things would go on very well. As you choose to assume to your- 
 self the right of interference, we must part." 
 
RACHEL IS FREE. 
 
 103 
 
 " When you tell me of such a proposition as that made to 
 you by the woman, am I to say nothing ? 55 
 
 " Not a word ; — unless it be by letter from Morony Castle, 
 and then only to me. I will not have you here meddling with 
 my affairs. I told you, though I didn't tell my father, because 
 I would tell you everything." 
 
 "And I am to leave you, — without another word ? " 
 
 " Yes, without another word. And remember that from this 
 moment I am free to marry any man that may come the way." 
 
 " Rachel ! " 
 
 " I am free to marry any man that may come the way. I 
 don't say I shall do so. It may take me some little time to 
 forget you. But I am free. When that has been understood 
 between us I am sure you will interfere no longer ; you will not 
 be so unkind as to force upon me the necessity of telling the 
 truth to all the people about the theatre. Let us understand 
 each other." 
 
 " I understand," said he, with the air of a much injured man. 
 
 " I quite know your position. Trusting to your own pro- 
 spects, you cannot marry me at present, and you do not choose 
 to accept such income as I can give you. I respect and even 
 approve your motives. I am living a life before the public as a 
 singer, in which it is necessary that I should encounter certain 
 dangers. I can do so without fear, if I be left alone. You 
 won't leave me alone. You won't marry me, and yet you won't 
 leave me to my own devices ; therefore, we had better part." 
 He took her by the hand sorrowfully, as though preparing to 
 embrace her. " No, Mr. Jones," she said, " that is all done. I 
 kissed you when my father was here, because I was then en- 
 gaged to be your wife. That is over now, and I can only say 
 good-bye." So saying, she retired, leaving him standing there 
 in her sitting-room. 
 
 He remained for awhile meditating on his position, till he 
 began to think that it would be useless for him to remain there. 
 She certainly would not come down ; and he, though he were 
 to wait for her father's return, would get no more favourable 
 reply from him. He, as he had promised, would certainly " back 
 up " his daughter in all that she had said. As he went down 
 out of the room with that feeling of insult which clings to a man 
 when he has been forced to quit a house without any farewell 
 ceremony, he certainly did feel that he had been ill-used. But 
 he could not but acknowledge that she was justified. There 
 was a certain imperiousness about her which wounded his 
 feelings as a man. He ought to have been allowed to be 
 dominant. But then he knew that he could not live upon her 
 income. His father would not speak to him had he gone back 
 to Morony Castle expressing his intention of doing so. 
 
104 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST. 
 
 To tell the truth, Rachel had a thorough good cry before she 
 went to bed that night. Though there was something hard, 
 fixed, imperious, almost manlike about her manner, still she was 
 as soft-hearted as any other girl. We may best describe her 
 by saying that she was an American and an actress. It was 
 impossible to doubt her. No one who had once known her 
 could believe her to be other than she had declared herself. 
 She was loyal, affectionate, and dutiful. But there was missing 
 to her a feminine weakness, which of all her gifts is the most 
 valuable to an English woman, till she makes the mistake of 
 bartering it away for women's rights. We can imagine, how- 
 ever, that the stanchest woman's-right lady should cry for her 
 lost lover. And Rachel O'Mahony cried bitterly for hers. "It 
 had to be done," she said, jumping up at last in her bedroom, 
 and clenching her fist as she walked about the chamber. "It 
 had to be done. A girl situated as I am cannot look too close 
 after herself. Father is more like my son than my father ; he 
 has no idea that I want anything done for me. Nor do I want 
 much," she said, as she went on rapidly taking the short course 
 of the room. " No one could say a word about me till I brought 
 my lover forward and showed him to the theatre. I think they 
 did believe him to be a myth ; but a myth in that direction does 
 no harm till he appears in the flesh. They think that I have 
 made an empty boast about my Mr. Jones. The ugliest girl that 
 ever came out may do the same thing, and nobody ever thinks 
 anything of it. A lover in the clouds never does any harm, and 
 now my lover is in the clouds. I know that he has gone, and 
 will never come to earth again. How much better I love him 
 because he would not take my offer. Then there would have 
 been a little contempt. And how could I expect him to yield to 
 me in everything, with this brute Moss insulting me at every 
 turn ? I do not think he had the courage to send me that 
 message, but still ! What could I do but tell Frank? And then 
 what could Frank do but come ? I would have come, let any 
 girl have bade me to stay away ! " Here she had imagined herself 
 to be the lover, and not the girl who was loved. " But it only 
 shows that we are better apart. He cannot marry me, and I 
 cannot marry him. The Squire is at his wit's end with grief." 
 By "the Squire " Mr. Jones had been signified. " It is better 
 as it is. Father and the Squire ought never to have been brought 
 together, — nor ought I and Frank. I suppose I must tell them 
 all at the theatre that Mr. Jones belongs to me no longer. Only 
 if I did so, they would think that I was holding out a lure to 
 Mahomet M. There's papa. I'll go down and tell him all that 
 
FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST. 105 
 
 need be told about it." So saying, she ascended to their 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " Well, my dear, what did you do with Frank ? " 
 
 " He has gone back to Ireland under the name of Mr. 
 Jones." 
 
 " Then there was a quarrel ? " 
 
 " Oh dear yes ! there was safe to be a quarrel." 
 
 " Does it suit your book upon the whole ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. You see before you the most wretched 
 heroine that ever appeared on the boards of any theatre. You 
 may laugh, but it's true. I don't know what I've got to say to 
 Mr. Moss now. If he comes forward in a proper manner, and 
 can prove to me that Madame Socani is not Madame Mahomet 
 M. Moss, I don't know what I can do but accept him. The 
 Adriatic is free to wed another." Then she walked about the 
 room, laughing to prevent her tears. 
 
 " Did you hear anything about Castle Morony ?" 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " Or the boy Florian ? " 
 
 " Not a syllable ; — though I was most anxious to ask the 
 question. When you are intent upon any matter, it does not do 
 to go away to other things. I should have never made him 
 believe that he was to leave me in earnest, had I allowed him 
 to talk about Florian and the girls. He has gone now. Well ; 
 — good-night, father. You and I, father, are all in all to 
 each other now. Not but what somebody else will come, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Do you wish that somebody else should come, as you 
 say?" 
 
 " I suppose so. Do not look so surprised, father. Girls 
 very seldom have to say what they really wish. I have done 
 with him now. I had him because I really loved him, — like a 
 fool as I was. I have got to go in for being a singing girl. A 
 singing woman is better than a singing girl. If they don't have 
 husbands, they are supposed to have lovers. I hope to have 
 one or the other, and I prefer the husband. Mr. Jones has 
 gone. Who knows but what the Marquis de Carabas may 
 come next ? " 
 
 " Could you change so soon ? " 
 
 " Yes ; — immediately. I don't say I should love the Marquis, 
 but I should treat him well. Don't looked so shocked, dear 
 father. I never shall treat a man badly,— unless I stick a knife 
 into Mahomet M. Moss. It would be best perhaps to get a 
 singing Marquis, so that the two of us might go walking about 
 the world together, till we had got money enough to buy a 
 castle. I am beginning to believe M. Le Gros. I think I can 
 sing. Don't you think, father, that I can sing ? " 
 
 " They all say so." 
 
io6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "It is very good to have one about me, like you, who are not 
 enthusiastic. But I can sing, and I am pretty too ; — pretty 
 enough along with my singing to get some fool to care for me. 
 Yes ; you may look astonished. Over there in Galway I was 
 fool enough to fall in love. What has come of it ? The man 
 tells me that he cannot marry me. And it is true. If he were 
 to marry me what would become of you ?" 
 
 " Never mind me," said her father. 
 
 " And what would become of him ? And what would become 
 of me ? And what would become of the dreadful little impedi- 
 ments which might follow ? Of course to me Frank Jones is 
 the best of men. I can't have him ; and that is just all about 
 it. I am not going to give up the world because Frank Jones is 
 lost. Love is not to be lord of all with me. I shall steer my 
 little boat among the shiny waters of the London theatres, and 
 may perhaps venture among the waves of Paris and New York; 
 but I shall do so always with my eyes open. Gas is the atmo- 
 sphere in which I am destined to glitter ; and if a Marquis comes 
 in the way, — why, I shall do the best I can with the Marquis. 
 I won't bring you to trouble if I can help it, or anyone else with 
 whom I have to do. So good-night, father." Then she kissed 
 his forehead, and went up to bed leaving him to wonder at the 
 intricacies of his position. 
 
 He had that night been specially eloquent and awfully indig- 
 nant as to the wrongs done to Ireland by England. He had 
 dealt with millions of which Great Britain was supposed by him 
 to have robbed her poor sister. He was not a good financier, 
 but he did in truth believe in the millions. He had not much 
 capacity for looking into questions of political economy, but he 
 had great capacity for arguing about them and for believing his 
 own arguments. The British Parliament was to him an abomi- 
 nation. He read the papers daily, and he saw that the number 
 of votes on his side fell from sixty to forty, and thirty, and 
 twenty ; and he found also that the twenty were men despised 
 by their own countrymen as well as Englishmen ; that they 
 were men trained to play a false game in order to achieve their 
 objects ; — and yet he believed in the twenty against all the 
 world, and threw in his lot without a scruple and without a 
 doubt. Nor did he understand at all the strength of his own 
 words. He had been silenced in Ireland and had rigorously 
 obeyed the pledge that he had given. For he was a man to 
 whom personally his word was a bond. Now he had come over 
 to London, and being under no promise, had begun again to 
 use the words which came to him without an effort. As he 
 would sweep back his long hair from his brows, and send sparks 
 of fire out of his eyes, he would look to be the spirit of patriotic 
 indignation ; but he did not know that he was thus powerful. 
 To tell the truth, — and as he had said to earn a few shillings, — 
 
FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST. 107 
 
 was the object of his ambition. But now, on this evening, three 
 London policemen in their full police uniform, with their fearful 
 police helmets on, had appeared in the room in which his 
 dramatic associates had on this evening given way to Gerald 
 O'Mahony's eloquence. Nothing had been said to him ; but 
 as he came home he was aware that two policemen had watched 
 him. And he was aware also that his words had been taken 
 down in shorthand. Then he had encountered his daughter, 
 and all her love troubles. He had heard her expound her 
 views as to life, and had listened as she had expressed her 
 desire to meet with some Marquis de Carabas. She had said 
 nothing with which he could find fault ; but her whole views of 
 life were absolutely different from his. According to his ideas, 
 there should be no Marquises, no singing girls making huge 
 fortunes — only singing girls in receipt of modest sums of money; 
 and that when dire necessity compelled them. There should 
 be no gorgeous theatres flaring with gas, and certainly no 
 policemen to take down men's words. Everything in the world 
 was wrong, — except those twenty Members of Parliament. 
 
 Three or four days after this, Rachel found that a report 
 was abroad at the theatre that she had dissolved her engage- 
 ment with Mr. Jones. At this time the three policemen 
 had already expressed their opinion about Mr. O'Mahony; but 
 they, for the present, may be left in obscurity. " Est-il vrai 
 que M. Jones rtexiste plus ? " These words were whispered to 
 her, as she was dressing, by Madame Socani, while Mr. 
 O'Mahony had gone out to say a word to a police detective, 
 who had called to see him at the theatre. As Madame Socani 
 was an American woman, there was no reason why she should 
 not have asked the question in English — were it not that as it 
 referred to an affair of love it may be thought that French was 
 the proper language. 
 
 u Mr. Jones isn't any more, as far as I am concerned," said 
 Rachel, passing on. 
 
 " Oh, he has gone ! " said Madame Socani, following her into 
 the slips. They were both going on to the stage, but two 
 minutes were allowed to them, while Mahomet M. Moss 
 declared in piteous accents, the woe which awaited him because 
 Alberta, — who was personated by Rachel, — had preferred the 
 rustic Trullo to him who was by birth a Prince of the Empire. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Jones has gone, Madame, — as you are so anxious 
 to know." 
 
 " But why? Can it be that there was no Mr. Jones ? " Then 
 Rachel flashed round upon the woman. " 1 suppose there was 
 no Mr. Jones." 
 
 " 0, mio tesorP These last three words were sung in a 
 delicious contralto voice by Elmira, — the Madame Socani of 
 the occasion, — and were addressed to the Prince of the Empire, 
 
io8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 who, for the last six weeks, had been neglecting her charms. 
 Rachel was furious at the attack made upon her, but in the 
 midst of her fury she rushed on to the stage, and kneeling 
 at the feet of Elmira, declared her purpose of surrendering the 
 Prince altogether. The rustic Trullo was quite sufficient for 
 her. " Go, fond girl. Trullo is there, tying up the odoriferous 
 rose." Then they all four broke out into that grand quartette, 
 in the performance of which M. Le Gros had formed that 
 opinion which had induced him to hold out such golden hopes 
 to Rachel. Rachel looked up during one of her grand shakes 
 and saw Frank Jones seated far back among the boxes. " Oh, 
 he hasn't left London yet," she said to herself, as she prepared 
 for another shake. 
 
 " Your papa desires me to say with his kindest love, that he 
 has had to leave the theatre." This came from Mr. Moss when 
 the piece was ended. 
 
 He was dressed as princes of the empire generally do dress 
 on the stage, and she as the daughter of the keeper of the king's 
 garden. 
 
 " So they tell me ; very well, I will go home. I suppose he 
 has had business." 
 
 "A policeman, I fear. Some little pecuniary embarrass- 
 ment." A rumour had got about the theatre that Mr. 
 O'Mahony was overwhelmed with money difficulties. Mr. 
 Moss had probably overheard the rumour. 
 
 " I don't believe that at all. It is something political, more 
 likely." 
 
 " Very likely, I don't know, I will see you to your house." 
 And Mahomet M. looked as though he were going to jump 
 into the brougham in the garments of the imperial prince. 
 
 " Mr. Moss, I can go very well alone." And she turned 
 round upon him and stood in the doorway so as to oppose his 
 coming out, and frowned upon him with that look of anger 
 which she knew so well how to assume. 
 
 " I have that to say to you which has to be said at once." 
 
 "You drive about London with me in that dress? It would 
 be absurd. You are painted all round your eyes. I wouldn't 
 get into a carriage with you on any account." 
 
 " In five minutes I will have dressed myself." 
 
 " Whether dressed or undressed it does not signify. You 
 know very well that I would on no account get into a carriage 
 with you. You are taking advantage of me because my father 
 is not here. If you accompany me I will call for a policeman 
 directly we get into the street." 
 
 "Ah, you do not know," said Mr. Moss. And he looked at 
 her exactly as he had looked about an hour ago when he was 
 making love to her as Trullo's betrothed. 
 
 " Here is my father," she said ; for at that moment Mr. 
 
FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST. 109 
 
 O'Mahony appeared within the theatre, having made his way 
 up from the door in time to take his daughter home. 
 
 " Mr. O'Mahony," said Mr. Moss, " I shall do myself the 
 honour of calling to-morrow and seeing your daughter at her 
 apartments in Gower Street." 
 
 " You will see father too," said Rachel. 
 
 " I shall be delighted/' said Moss. "It will give me the 
 greatest pleasure on earth to see Mr. O'Mahony on this 
 occasion." So saying the imperial prince made a low bow, 
 paint and all, and allowed the two to go down into the street, 
 and get into the brougham. 
 
 Mr. O'Mahony at once began with his own story. The 
 policeman who had called for him had led him away round the 
 corner into Scotland Yard, and had there treated him with the 
 utmost deference. Nothing could be more civil to him than had 
 been the officer. But the officer had suggested to him that he had 
 been the man who had said some rough words about the Queen 
 in Galway, and had promised to abstain in future from lecturing. 
 " To this I replied," said he, " that I had said nothing rough 
 about the Queen. I had said that the Queen was as nearly an 
 angel on earth as a woman could be. I had merely doubted 
 whether there should be Queens. Thereupon the policeman 
 shook his head and declared that he could not admit any doubt 
 on that question. 'But you wouldn't expect me to allow it 
 in New York/ said I. ' You've got to allow it here,' said he. 
 ' But my pledge was made as to Ireland/ said I. ' It is all 
 written down in some magistrate's book, and you'll find it if you 
 send over there.' Then I told him that I wouldn't break my 
 word for him or his Queen either. Upon that he thanked 
 me very much for my civility, and told me that if I would hurry 
 back to the theatre I should be in time to take you home. If 
 it was necessary he would let me hear from him again. 6 You 
 will know where to find me/ said I, and I gave him our address 
 in Farringdon Street, and told him I should be there to-morrow 
 at half-past eight. He shook hands with me as though I had 
 been his brother ; — and so here I am." 
 
 Then she began to tell her story, but there did not seem to 
 be much of interest in it. "I suppose he'll come?" said Mr. 
 O'Mahony. 
 
 " Oh, yes, he'll come." 
 
 " It's something about M. Le Gros/' said he. " You'll find 
 that he'll abuse that poor Frenchman." 
 
 " He may save himself the trouble," said Rachel. Then 
 they reached Gower Street, and went to bed, having eaten two 
 mutton chops apiece. 
 
 On the next morning at eleven o'clock tidings were brought 
 up to Rachel in her bedroom that Mr. Moss was in the sitting- 
 room downstairs. 
 
no 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "Father is there ? "» exclaimed Rachel. 
 
 Then the girl, who had learned to understand that Mr. Moss 
 was not regarded as a welcome visitor, assured her that he was 
 at the moment entertained by Mr. O'Mahony. " He's a-telling 
 of what the perlice said to him in the City, but I don't think as 
 the Jew gentleman minds him much." From which it may be 
 gathered that Rachel had not been discreet in speaking of her 
 admirer before the lodging-house servant. 
 
 She dressed herself, not in a very great hurry. Her father, 
 she knew, had no other occupation at this hour in the morning, 
 and she did not in the least regard how Mr. Moss might waste 
 his time. And she had to think of many things before she 
 could go down to meet him. Meditating upon it all, she was 
 inclined to think that the interview was intended as hostile to 
 M. Le Gros. M. Le Gros would be represented, no doubt, as a 
 Jew twice more Jewish than Mr. Moss himself. But Rachel had 
 a strong idea that M. Le Gros was a very nice old French 
 gentleman. When he had uttered all those " ve-rys," one after 
 another with still increasing emphasis, Rachel had no doubt 
 believed them all. And she was taking great trouble with her- 
 self, practising every day for two hours together, with a looking- 
 glass before her on the pianoforte, as Mr. Moss had made her 
 quite understand that the opening of her mouth wide was the 
 chief qualification necessary to her, beyond that which Nature 
 had done for her. Rachel did think it possible that she might 
 become the undoubted prima donna of the day, as M. Le Gros 
 had called her ; and she thought it much more probable that 
 she should do so under the auspices of M. Le Gros, than those 
 of Mr. Moss. When, therefore, she went down at last to the 
 sitting-room, she did so, determined to oppose Mr. Moss, as 
 bidding for her voice, rather than as a candidate for her love. 
 When she entered the room, she could not help beginning with 
 something of an apology, in that she had kept the man waiting ; 
 but Mr. Moss soon stopped her. " It does not signify the least 
 in the world," he said, laying his hand upon his waistcoat. " If 
 only I can get this opportunity of speaking to you while your 
 father is present." Then, when she looked at the brilliance of 
 his garments, and heard the tones of his voice, she was sure 
 that the attack on this occasion was not to be made on M. Le 
 Gros. She remained silent, and sat square on her chair, looking 
 at him. A man must be well versed in feminine wiles, who 
 could decipher under Rachel's manners her determination to 
 look as ugly as possible on the occasion. In a moment she had 
 flattened every jaunty twist and turn out of her habiliments, 
 and had given to herself an air of absolute dowdyism. Her 
 father sat by without saying a word. "Miss O'Mahony, if I 
 may venture to ask a question, I trust you may not be offended.'' 
 
 " I suppose not as my father is present," she replied. 
 
FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST, nt 
 
 "Am I right in believing the engagement to be over which 
 bound you to Mr. Jones?" 
 
 " You are,'' said Rachel, quite out loud, giving another quite 
 unnecessary twist to her gown, 
 
 " That obstacle is then removed ? " 
 
 " Mr. Jones is removed, and has gone to Ireland." Then 
 Mr. Moss sighed deeply. " I can manage my singing very well 
 without Mr. Jones." 
 
 " Not a doubt. Not a doubt. And I have heard that you 
 have made an engagement in all respects beneficial with M. Le 
 Gros, of Covent Garden. M. Le Gros is a gentleman for whom 
 I have a most profound respect." 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 " Had I been at your elbow, it is possible that something 
 better might have been done ; but two months ; — they run by — 
 oh, so quickly ! " 
 
 " Quite so. If I can do any good I shall quickly get another 
 engagement." 
 
 " You will no doubt do a great deal of good. But Mr. Jones 
 is now at an end." 
 
 " Mr. Jones is at an end," said Rachel, with another blow at 
 her gown. " A singing girl like me does better without a lover, 
 — especially if she has got a father to look after her." 
 
 " That's as may be," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " That's as may be," said Mr. Moss, again laying his hand 
 upon his heart. The tone in which Mr. Moss repeated Mr. 
 O'Mahony's words was indicative of the feeling and poetry 
 within him. " If you had a lover such as is your faithful Moss," 
 the words seemed to say, " no father could look after you half 
 so well." 
 
 " I believe I could do very well with no one to look after me." 
 " Of course you and I have misunderstood each other 
 hitherto." 
 
 " Not at all," said Rachel. 
 
 " I was unaware at first that Mr. Jones was an absolute 
 reality. You must excuse me, but the name misled me." 
 
 " Why shouldn't a girl be engaged to a man named Jones ? 
 Jones is as good a name as Moss, at any rate ; and a deal 
 
 more " She had been going to remark that Jones was the 
 
 more Christian of the two, but stopped herself. 
 
 " At any rate you are now free ? " he said. 
 
 " No, I am not. Yes, I am. I am free, and I mean to 
 remain so. Why don't you tell him, father ? " 
 
 " I have got nothing to tell him, my dear. You are so much 
 better able to tell him everything yourself." 
 
 " If you would only listen to me, Miss O'Mahony." 
 
 " You had better listen to him, Rachel." 
 
 "Very well; I will listen. Now go on." Then she again 
 
1 12 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 thumped herself. And she had thumped her hair, and thumped 
 herself all round till she was as limp and dowdy as the elder 
 sister of a Low Church clergyman of forty. 
 
 " I wish you to believe, Miss O'Mahony, that my attachment 
 to you is most devoted." She pursed her lips together ard 
 looked straight out of her eyes at the wall opposite. " We 
 belong to the same class of life, and our careers lie in the same 
 groove." Hereupon she crossed her hands before her on her 
 lap, while her father sat speculating whether she might not have 
 done better to come out on the comic stage. " I wish you to 
 believe that I am quite sincere in the expression which I make 
 of a most ardent affection." Here again he slapped his waist- 
 coat and threw himself into an attitude. He was by no means 
 an ill-looking man, and though he was forty years old, he did 
 not appear to be so much. He had been a public singer all his 
 life, and was known by Rachel to have been connected for many 
 years with theatres both in London and New York. She had 
 heard many stories of his amorous adventures, but knew nothing 
 against his character in money matters. He had, in truth, 
 always behaved well to her in whatever pecuniary transactions 
 there had been between them. But he had ventured to make 
 love to her, and had done so in a manner which had altogether 
 disgusted her. She now waited till he paused for a moment in 
 his eloquence, and then she spoke a word. 
 
 " What about Madame Socani?" 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE AND NEWPORT. 
 
 "What about Madame Socani?" Rachel, as she said this, 
 abandoned for the moment her look against the wall, and shook 
 herself instantly free of all her dowdiness. She flashed fire at 
 him from her eyes, and jumping up from her seat, took hold of 
 her father by his shoulder. He encircled her waist with his 
 arm, but otherwise sat silent, looking Mr. Moss full in the face. 
 It must be acknowledged on the part of Rachel that she was 
 prepared to make her accusation against Mr. Moss on perhaps 
 insufficient grounds. She had heard among the people at the 
 theatre, who did not pretend to know much of Mr. Moss and 
 his antecedents, that there was a belief that Madame Socani 
 was his wife. There was something in this which offended her 
 more grossly than ever, — and a wickedness which horrified her. 
 But she certainly knew nothing about it ; and Madame Socani's 
 proposition to herself had come to her from Madame Socani, 
 and not from Mr. Moss. All she knew of Madame Socani was 
 
FIFTH AVENUE AND NEWPORT, 
 
 "3 
 
 that she had been on the boards in New York, and had there 
 made for herself a reputation. Rachel had on one occasion sung 
 with her, but it had been when she was little more than a child. 
 
 " What is Madame Socani to me ? " said Mr. Moss. 
 
 " I believe her to be your wife." 
 
 " Oh, heavens ! My wife ! I never had a wife, Miss 
 O'Mahony ; — not yet ! Why do you say things so cruel to me ? " 
 
 He, at any rate, she was sure, had sent her that message. 
 Shs thought that she was sure of his villainous misconduct to 
 her in that respect. She believed that she did know him to be 
 a devil, whether he was a married man or not. 
 
 "What message did you send to me by Madame Socani ? " 
 
 " What message ? None ! " and again he laid his hand upon 
 his waistcoat. 
 
 " He asked me to be " But she could not tell her father 
 
 of what nature was the message, " Father, he is a reptile ! If 
 you knew all, you would be unable to keep your hands from his 
 throat. And now he dares to come here and talk to me of his 
 affection. You had better bid him leave the room and have done 
 with him." 
 
 "You hear what my daughter says, Mr. Moss." 
 
 " Yes, I hear her," answered the poor, innocent-looking tenor. 
 " But what does she mean ? Why is she so fierce ? " 
 
 "He knows, father," said Rachel. " Have nothing further to 
 cay to him." 
 
 " I don't think that I do quite know," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 " But you can see, at any rate, Mr. Moss, that she does not 
 return your feeling." 
 
 " I would make her my wife to-morrow," said Mr. Moss, 
 slapping his waistcoat once more. "And do you, as the young 
 lady's papa, think of what we two might do together. I know 
 myself, I know my power. Madame Socani is a jealous woman. 
 She would wish to be taken into partnership with me, — not a 
 partnership of hearts, but of theatres. She has come with some 
 insolent message, but not from me ; — ah, not from me ! " 
 
 "You never tried to kiss me? You did not make two 
 attempts ? " 
 
 " I would make two thousand if I were to consult my own 
 heart." 
 
 " When you knew that I was engaged to Mr. Jones ! " 
 
 "'What was Mr. Jones to me ? Now I ask your respectable 
 parent, is Miss Rachel unreasonable ? When a gentleman has 
 lost his heart in true love, is he to be reproached because he 
 endeavours to seize one little kiss ? Did not Mr. Jones do the 
 same ? " 
 
 " Bother Mr. Jones ! " said Rachel, overcome by the 
 absurdity of the occasion. " As you observed just now, Mr. 
 Jones and I are two. Things have not turned out happily, 
 
 I 
 
ii4 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 though I am not obliged to explain all that to you. But 
 Mr. Jones is to me all that a man should be ; you, Mr. Moss, 
 are not. Now, father, had he not better go ? " 
 
 " I don't think any good is to be done, I really don't," said 
 Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " Why am I to be treated in this way ? 91 
 
 " Because you come here persevering when you know it's no 
 good." 
 
 " I think of what you and I might do together with Moss's 
 theatre between us." 
 " Oh, heavens ! " 
 
 "You should be called the O'Mahony. Your respectable 
 papa should keep an eye to your pecuniary interest." 
 " I could keep an eye myself for that." 
 " You would be my own wife, of course — my own wife." 
 " I wouldn't be anything of the kind." 
 
 "Ah, but listen!" continued Mr. Moss. "You do not 
 know how the profits run away into the pockets of impresarios 
 and lessees and money-lenders. We should have it all our- 
 selves. I have ,£30,000 of my own, and my respectable parent 
 in New York has as much more. It would all be the sajne as 
 ours. Only think ! Before long we would have a house on the 
 Fifth Avenue so furnished that all the world should wonder ; 
 and another at Newport, where the world should not be admitted 
 to wonder. Only think ! " 
 
 " And Madame Socani to look after the furniture ! " said 
 Rachel. 
 
 " Madame Socani should be nowheres." 
 
 "And I also will be nowheres. Pray remember that in 
 making all your little domestic plans. If you live in the Fifth 
 Avenue, I will live in 350 Street ; or perhaps I should like it 
 better to have a little house here in Albert Place. Father, don't 
 you think Mr. Moss might go away ? " 
 
 " I think you have said all that there is to be said." Then 
 Mr. O'Mahony got up from his chair as though to show Mr. 
 Moss out of the room. 
 
 " Not quite, Mr. O'Mahony. Allow me for one moment. 
 As the young lady's papa you are bound to look to these 
 things. Though the theatre would be a joint affair, Miss 
 O'Mahony would have her fixed salary; that is to say, Mrs. 
 Moss would." 
 
 " I won't stand it," said Rachel getting up. " I won't allow 
 any man to call me by so abominable a name, — or any woman." 
 Then she bounced out of the room. 
 
 " It's no good, you see," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 "I by no means see that so certain. Of course a young 
 lady like your daughter knows her own value, and does not 
 yield all at once." 
 
FIFTH AVENUE AND NEWPORT. 115 
 
 " I tell you it's no good. I know my own daughter." 
 u Excuse me, Mr. O'Mahony, but I doubt whether you know 
 the sex." 
 
 The two men were very nearly of an age ; but O'Mahony 
 assumed the manners of an old man, and Mr. Moss of a young 
 one. 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " They have been my study up from my cradle," said Mr. 
 Moss. 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 " And I think that I have carried on the battle not without 
 some little eclat." 
 
 " I am quite sure of it." 
 
 " I still hope that I may succeed with your sweet daughter." 
 
 "Here the battle is of a different kind," not without a touch 
 of satire in the tone of his voice, whatever there might be in 
 the words which he used. " In tournaments of love, you have, 
 I do not doubt, been very successful ; but here it seems to me 
 that the struggle is for money." 
 
 " That is only an accident." 
 
 " But the accident rises above everything. It does not 
 matter in the least which comes first. Whether it be for love 
 or money my daughter will certainly have a will of her" own. You 
 may take my word that she is not to be talked out of her mind." 
 
 " But Mr. Jones is gone ?" asked Moss. 
 
 " But she is not on that account ready to transfer her 
 affections at a moment's notice. To her view of the matter 
 there seems to be something a little indelicate in the idea." 
 
 " Bah ! " said Mr. Moss. 
 
 "You cannot make her change her mind by saying bah." 
 " Professional interests have to be considered," said Mr. 
 Moss. 
 
 " No doubt ; my daughter does consider her professional 
 interests every day when she practises for two hours." 
 
 " That is excellent, — and with' such glorious effects ! She 
 
 has only now got the full use of her voice. My G ! what 
 
 could she not do if she had the full run of Moss's Theatre ! 
 She might choose whatever operas would suit her best ; and 
 she would have me to guide her judgment ! I do know my pro- 
 fession, Mr. O'Mahony. A lady in her line should always marry 
 a gentleman in mine ; that is, if she cares about matrimony." 
 
 " Of course she did intend to be married to Mr. Jones." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones ! I am sick of Mr. Jones. 
 What could Mr. Jones do ? He is only a poor ruined Irishman. 
 You must feel that Mr. Jones was only in the way. I am 
 offering her all that professional experience and capital can do. 
 What are her allurements ? " 
 
 " I don't in the least know, Mr. Moss." 
 
 I 2 
 
n6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " Only her beauty." 
 
 " I thought, perhaps it was her singing-." 
 
 "That joined," said Mr. Moss. " No doubt her voice and 
 her beauty joined together. Madame Socani's voice is as 
 valuable, — almost as valuable." 
 
 " I would marry Madame Socani if I were you." 
 
 "No! Madame Socani is, — well a leetle past her prime. 
 Madame Socani and I have known each other for twenty years. 
 Madame Socani is aware that I am attached to your daughter. 
 Well ; I do not mind telling you the truth. Madame Socani 
 and I have been on very intimate terms. I did offer once to 
 make Madame Socani my wife. She did not see her way in 
 money matters. She was making an income greater than mine. 
 Things have changed since that. Madame Socani is very well, 
 but she is a jealous woman. Madame Socani hates your 
 daughter. Oh, heavens, yes ! But she was never my wife. 
 Oh, no ! A woman at this profession grows old quicker than a 
 man. And she has never succeeded in getting a theatre of her 
 own. She did try her hand at it in New York, but that came 
 to nothing. If Miss Rachel will venture along with me, we 
 will have 500,000 dollars before five years are gone. She shall 
 have everything that the world can offer — jewels, furniture, 
 hangings ! She shall keep the best table in New York, and 
 shall have her own banker's account. There's no such success 
 to be found anywhere for a young woman. If you will only just 
 turn it in your mind, Mr. O'Mahony." Then Mr. Moss brushed 
 his hat with the sleeve of his coat and took his leave. 
 
 He had nearly told the entire truth to Mr. O'Mahony. He 
 had never married Madame Socani. As far as Madame Socani 
 knew, her veritable husband, Socani, was still alive. And it 
 was not true that Mr. Moss had sent that abominable message 
 to Rachel. The message, no doubt, had expressed a former 
 wish on his part ; but that wish was now in abeyance. Miss 
 O'Mahony's voice had proved itself to him to be worth 
 matrimony ; — that and her beauty together. In former days, 
 when he had tried to kiss her, he had valued her less highly. 
 Now, as he left the room, he was fully content with the bargain 
 he had suggested. Mr. Jones was out of the way, and her voice 
 had proved itself to his judgment to be worth the price he had 
 offered. 
 
 When her father saw her again he began meekly to plead 
 for Mr. Moss. 
 
 "Do you mean to say, father," she exclaimed, " that you 
 have joined yourself to him ? " 
 
 " I am only telling you what he says." 
 
 " Tell me nothing at all. You ought to know that he is an 
 abomination. Though he had the whole Fifth Avenue to offer 
 to me I would not touch him with a pair of tongs." 
 
BOYCOTTING. 
 
 117 
 
 But she, in the midst of her singing, had been much touched 
 by seeing Frank Jones among the listeners in the back of one 
 of the boxes. When the piece was over there had come upon 
 her a desire to go to him and tell him that, in spite of all she 
 had said, she would wait for him if only he would profess 
 himself ready to wait for her. There was not much in it,— that 
 a man should wait in town for two or three days, and should 
 return to the theatre to see the girl whom he professed to 
 regard. It was only that, but it had again stirred her love. 
 She had endeavoured to send to him when the piece was over; 
 but he was gone, and she saw him no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 BOYCOTTING. 
 
 Frank Jones went back to County Galway, having caught a 
 last glimpse of his lady-love. But his lady-love could not very 
 well make herself known to him from the stage as she was 
 occupied at the moment with Trullo. And as he had left the 
 theatre before her message had been brought round, he did so 
 with a bitter conviction that everything between them was over. 
 He felt very angry with her, — no doubt unreasonably. The 
 lady was about to make a pocketful of money ; and had offered 
 to share it with him. He refused to take any part of it, and 
 declined altogether to incur any of the responsibilities of 
 marriage for the present. His father's circumstances too were 
 of such a nature as to make him almost hopeless for the future. 
 What would he have had her do ? Nevertheless he was very 
 angry with her. 
 
 As he made his way westward through Ireland he heard 
 more and more of the troubles of the country. He had not in 
 fact been gone much more than a week, but during that week 
 sad things had happened. Boycotting had commenced, and 
 had already become very prevalent. To boycott a man, or a 
 house, or a fiim, or a class of men, or a trade, or a flock of 
 sheep, or a drove of oxen, or unfortunately a county hunt, had 
 become an exact science, and was exactly obeyed. It must be 
 acknowledged that throughout the south and west of Ireland 
 the quickness and perfection with which this science was 
 understood and practised was very much to the credit of the 
 intelligence of the people. We can understand that boycotting 
 should be studied in Yorkshire, and practised, — after an ex- 
 perience of many years. Laying on one side for the moment 
 all ideas as to the honesty and expediency of the measure, we 
 think that Yorkshire might in half a century learn how to boy- 
 
n8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 cott its neighbours. A Yorkshire man might boycott a Lancashire 
 man, or Lincoln might boycott Nottingham. It would require 
 much teaching ; — many books would have to be written, and an 
 infinite amount of heavy slow imperfect practice would follow. 
 But County Mayo and County Galway rose to the requirements 
 of the art almost in a night ! Gradually we Englishmen learned 
 to know in a dull glimmering way what they were about ; but 
 at the first whisper of the word all Ireland knew how to ruin 
 itself. This was done readily by people of the poorer class, — 
 without any gifts of education, and certainly the immoderate 
 practice of the science displays great national intelligence. 
 
 As Frank Jones passed through Dublin he learned that 
 Morony Castle had been boycotted ; and he was enough of an 
 Irishman to know immediately what was meant. And he heard, 
 too, while in the train that the kennels at Ahaseragh had been 
 boycotted. He knew that with the kennels would be included 
 Black Daly, and with Morony Castle his unfortunate father. 
 According to the laws on which the practice was carried on 
 nothing was to be bought from the land of Morony Castle, and 
 nothing sold to the owners of it. No service was to be done for 
 the inhabitants, as far as the laws of boycotting might be made 
 to prevail. He learned from a newspaper he bought in Dublin 
 that the farm-servants had all left the place, and that the maids 
 had been given to understand that they would encounter the 
 wrath of the new lords in the land if they made a bed for any 
 Jones to lie upon. 
 
 As he went on upon his journey his imagination went to work 
 to picture to himself the state of his father's life under these 
 circumstances. But his imagination was soon outstripped by 
 the information which reached him from fellow-travellers. 
 " Did ye hear what happened to old Phil Jones down at 
 Morony ? " said a passenger, who got in at Moate, to another 
 who had joined them at Athlone. 
 
 " Divil a hear thin." 
 
 " Old Phil wanted to get across from Ballyglunin to his own 
 place. He had been down to Athenry. There was that chap 
 who is always there with a car. Divil a foot would he stir for 
 Phil. Phil has had some row with the boys there about his 
 meadows, and he's trying to prosecute. More fool he. A quiet, 
 aisy-going fellow he used to be. But it seems he has been 
 stirred now. He has got some man in Galway jail, and all the 
 country is agin him. Anyways he had to foot it from Ballyglunin 
 to Headford, and then to send home to Morony for his own car." 
 In this way did Frank learn that his father had in truth incurred 
 boycotting severity. He knew well the old man who had 
 attended the Ballyglunin station with almost a hopeless desire 
 of getting a fare, and was sure that nothing short of an imperious 
 edict from the great Land-leaguing authorities in the district, 
 
BOYCOTTING. 
 
 119 
 
 would have driven him to the necessity of repudiating a 
 passenger. 
 
 But when he had reached the further station of Ballinasloe 
 he learned sadder tidings in regard to his friend Tom Daly. 
 Tom Daly had put no man in prison, and yet the kennels at 
 Ahaseragh had been burned to the ground. This had occurred 
 only on the preceding day ; and he got the account of what had 
 happened from a hunting man he knew well. "The hounds 
 were out, you know, last Saturday week as a finish, and poor Tom 
 did hope that we might get through withouf any further trouble. 
 We met at Ballinamona, and we drew Blake's coverts without a 
 word. We killed our fox too and then went away to Pulhaddin 
 gorse. I'll be blest if all the county weren't there. I never saw 
 the boys swarm about a place so thick. Pulhaddin is the best 
 gorse in the county. Of course it was no use drawing it ; but 
 as we were going away on the road to Loughrea the crowd was 
 so thick that there was no riding among them. Ever so many 
 horsemen got into the fields to be away from the crowd. But 
 Tom wouldn't allow Barney and the hounds to be driven from 
 the road. I never saw a man look so angry in my life. You 
 could see the passion that was on him. He never spoke a word, 
 nor raised a hand, nor touched his horse with his spur; but he 
 got blacker and blacker, and would go on whether the crowd 
 moved asunder or not. And he told Barney to follow him with 
 the hounds, which Barney did, looking back ever and anon at 
 the poor brutes, and giving his instructions to the whips to see 
 well after that they did not wander. They threatened Barney 
 scores of times with their sticks, but he came on, funking 
 awfully, but still doing whatever Tom told him. I was riding 
 just behind him among the hounds so that I could see all that 
 took place. At last a ruffian with his shillelagh struck Barney 
 over the thigh. I had not time to get to him ; indeed I doubt 
 
 whether I should have done so, but Tom, ; by George, he 
 
 saw out of the back of his head. He turned round, and, with- 
 out touching his horse with spur or whip, rode right at the 
 ruffian. If they had struck himself, I think he would have 
 borne it more easily." 
 
 "How did it end?" 
 
 " They said that the blackguard was hurt, but I saw him 
 escape and get away over the fence. Then they all set upon 
 
 Tom, but by G it was glorious to see the way in which he 
 
 held his own. Out came that cross of his, four foot and a half 
 long, with a thong as heavy as a flail. He soon had the road 
 clear around him, and the big black horse you remember, stood 
 as steady as a statue till he was bidden to move on. Then when 
 he had the hounds, and Barney Smith and the whips to himself, 
 — and I was there— we all rode off at a fast trot to Loughrea." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
120 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "We could do nothing but go home ; the whole county- 
 seemed to be in a ferment. At Loughrea we went away in our 
 own directions, and poor Tom with Barney Smith rode home to 
 Ahaseragh. But not a word did he speak to anyone, even to 
 Barney ; nor did Barney dare to speak a word to him. He trotted 
 all the way to Ahaseragh in moody silence, thinking of the 
 terrible ill that had been done him. I have known Tom for 
 ; twenty years, and I think that if he loves any man he loves me. 
 But he parted from me that day without a word." 
 
 " And then the kennels were set on fire ?" 
 
 " Before I left Loughrea I heard the report, spread about 
 everywhere, that Tom Daly had recklessly ridden down three 
 or four more poor countrymen on the road. I knew then that 
 some mischief would be in hand. It was altogether untrue that 
 he had hurt anyone. And he was bound to interfere on behalf 
 of his own servant. But when I heard this morning that a score 
 of men had been there in the night and had burned the kennels 
 to the ground, I was not surprised." Such was the story that 
 Frank Jones heard as to Tom Daly before he got home. 
 
 On reaching Ballyglunin he looked out for the carman, but 
 he was not there. Perhaps the interference with his task had 
 banished him. Frank went on to Tuam, which increased 
 slightly the distance by road to Morony. But at Tuam he 
 found that Morony had in truth been boycotted. He could not 
 get a car for love or money. There were many cars there, 
 and the men would not explain to him their reasons for declining 
 to take him home ; but they all refused. "We can't do it, Mr. 
 Frank," said one man ; and that was the nearest approach to 
 an explanation that was forthcoming. He walked into town 
 and called at various houses ; but it was to no purpose. It was 
 with difficulty that he found himself allowed to leave his baggage 
 at a grocer's shop, so strict was the boycotting exacted. And 
 then he too had to walk home through Headford to Morony 
 Castle. 
 
 When he reached the house he first encountered Peter, the 
 butler. "Faix thin, Mr. Frank," said Peter, "throubles niver 
 corned in 'arnest till now. Why didn't they allow Mr. Flory 
 just to hould his pace and say nothing about it to no one ? " 
 ( " Why has all this been done ? " demanded Frank. 
 
 "It's that born divil, Pat Carroll," whispered Peter. "I 
 wouldn't be saying it so that any of the boys or girls should 
 hear me, — not for my throat's sake. I am the only one of 'em," 
 he added, whispering still lower than before, " that's doing a 
 ha'porth for the masther. There are the two young ladies 
 a-working their very fingers off down to the knuckles. As for 
 me, I've got it all on my shoulders." No doubt Peter was true 
 to his master in adversity, but he did not allow the multiplicity 
 of his occupations to interfere with his eloquence. 
 
BOYCOTTING. 
 
 121 
 
 Then Frank went in and found his father seated alone in his 
 magistrate's room. " This is bad, father," said Frank, taking 
 him by the hand. 
 
 " Bad ! yes, you may call it bad. I am ruined, I suppose. 
 There are twenty heifers ready for market next week, and I am 
 told that not a butcher in County Galway will look at one of 
 them." 
 
 " Then you must send them on to Westmeath ; I suppose the 
 Mullingar butchers won't boycott you ? " 
 " It's just what they will do." 
 "Then send them on to Dublin." 
 
 "Who's to take them to Dublin?" said the father, in his 
 distress. 
 
 u I will if there be no one else. We are not going to be 
 knocked out of time for want of two or three pairs of hands." 
 
 " There are two policemen here to watch the herd at night. 
 They'd cut the tails off them otherwise as they did over at 
 Ballinrobe last autumn. To whom am I to consign 'em in 
 Dublin ? While I am making new arrangements of that kind 
 their time will have gone by. There are five cows should be 
 milked morning and night. Who is to milk them ? * 
 
 " Who is milking them ? " 
 
 "Your sisters are doing it, with the aid of an old woman 
 who has come from Galway. She says she has not long to live, 
 and with the help of half-a-crown a day cares nothing for the 
 Land-leaguers. I wish someone would pay me half-a-crown 
 a day, and perhaps I should not care." 
 
 Then Frank passed on through the house to find his sisters, 
 or Flory as it might be. He had said not a word to his father 
 in regard to Florian, fearing to touch upon a subject which, as 
 he well knew, must be very sore. Had Florian told the truth 
 when the deed was done, Pat Carroll would have been tried at 
 once, and, whether convicted or acquitted, the matter would 
 have been over long ago. In those days Pat Carroll had not 
 become a national or even a county hero. But now he was 
 able to secure the boycotting of his enemy even as far distant 
 as Ballyglunin or Tuam. In the kitchen he found Ada and 
 Edith, who had no comfort in these perilous days except when 
 they could do everything together. At the present moment 
 they were roasting a leg of mutton and boiling potatoes, which 
 Frank knew were intended especially for his own eating. 
 
 " Well, my girls, you are busy here," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, busy ! " said Ada, who had put up her face to be 
 kissed so as not to spoil her brother's coat by touching it with 
 her hands. " How is Rachel ? " 
 
 " Rachel is pretty well, I believe. We will not talk of Rachel 
 just at present." 
 
 " Is anything wrong? 99 asked Edith. 
 
122 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " We will not talk about her, not now. What is all this that 
 has happened here ?" 
 
 " We are just boycotted/ 5 said Ada ; " that's all." 
 
 " And you think that it's the best joke in the world ? " 
 
 " Think it a joke ! " said Edith. 
 
 " Why, we have to be up every morning at five o'clock," said 
 Ada ; " and at six we are out with the cows." 
 
 " It is no joke," said Edith, very seriously. " Papa is 
 broken-hearted about it. Your coming will be of the greatest 
 comfort to us, if only because of the pair of hands you bring. 
 And poor Flory ! " 
 
 "How has it gone with Flory?" he asked. Then Edith 
 told the tale as it had to be told of Florian, and of what had 
 happened because of the evidence he had given. He had 
 come forward under the hands of Captain Yorke Clayton and 
 repeated his whole story, giving it in testimony before the 
 magistrates. He declared it all exactly as he had done before 
 in the presence of his father and his sister and Captain Clayton. 
 And he had sworn to it, and had had his deposition read to 
 him. He was sharp enough, and understood well what he was 
 doing. The other two men were brought up to support him, — 
 the old man Terry and Con Heffernan. They of course had 
 not been present at the examination of Flory, and were asked, 
 — first one and then the other, — what they knew of the trans- 
 actions of the afternoon on which the waters had been let in on 
 the meadows of Ballintubber. They knew nothing at all, they 
 said. They " disremembered " whether they had been there on 
 the occasion, " at all, at all." Yes ; they knew that the waters 
 had been in upon the meadows, and they believed that they 
 were in again still. They didn't think that the meadows were of 
 much good for this year. They didn't know who had done it, 
 "at all, at all." People did be saying that Mr. Florian had 
 done it himself, so as to spite his father because he had turned 
 Catholic. They couldn't say whether Mr. Florian could do it 
 alone or not. They thought Mr. Florian and Peter, the butler, 
 and perhaps one other, might do it amongst them. They 
 thought that Yorke Clayton might perhaps have been the man 
 to help him. They didn't know that Yorke Clayton hadn't 
 been in the county at that time. They wished with all their 
 hearts that he wasn't there now, because he was the biggest 
 blackguard they had ever heard tell of. 
 
 Such was the story which was now told to Frank of the 
 examination which took place in consequence of Florian's 
 concession. The results were that Pat Carroll was in Gal way 
 jail, committed to take his trial at the next assizes in August 
 for the offence which he had committed ; and that Florian had 
 been bound over to give evidence. " What does Florian do 
 with himself?" his brother asked. 
 
BOYCOTTING. 
 
 123 
 
 " I'm afraid he is frightened, " said Ada. 
 
 " Of course he is frightened,'' said her sister. " How should 
 he not be frightened ? These men have been telling him for 
 the last six months that they would surely murder him if he 
 turned round and gave evidence against them. Oh, Frank, 
 I fear that i have been wrong in persuading him to tell the 
 truth." 
 
 " Not though his life were sacrificed to-morrow. To have 
 kept the counsels of such a ruffian as that against his own 
 father would have been a disgrace to him for ever. Does not 
 my father think of sending him to England ? " 
 
 " He says that he has not the money," said Edith, 
 
 " Is it so bad as that with him ? " 
 
 " I am afraid it is very bad, — bad at any rate, for the time 
 coming. He has not had a shilling of rent for this spring, and 
 he has to pay the money to Mrs. Pulteney and the others. 
 Poor papa is sorely vexed, and we do not like to press him. 
 He suggested himself that he would send Florian over to 
 Mr. Blake's ; but we think that Carnlongh is not far enough, 
 and that it would be unfair to impose such a trouble on another 
 man." 
 
 "Could he not send him to Mrs. Pulteney ? " Now Mrs. 
 Pulteney was a sister of Mr. Jones. 
 
 " He does not like to ask her," said Edith. " He thinks 
 that Mrs. Pulteney has not shown herself very kind of late. 
 We are waiting till you speak to him about it." 
 
 " But what does Florian do with himself?" he asked. 
 
 " You will see. He does little or nothing, but roams about 
 the house and talks to Peter. He did not even go to mass last 
 Sunday, He says that the whole congregation would accuse him 
 of being a liar." 
 
 u Does he not know that he has done his dutv by the lie he 
 has told?" 
 
 " But to go alone among these people ! " said Ada. 
 
 "And to hear their damnable taunts ! " said Edith. " It is 
 very hard upon him. I think it is papa's idea to keep him here 
 till after the trial in August, and then, if possible, to send him 
 to England. There would be the double journey else, and papa 
 thinks that there would be no real danger till his evidence had 
 been given." 
 
 Then Frank went out of the house and walked round the 
 demesne, so that he might think at his ease of all the troubles 
 of his family. 
 
124 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LAX, THE MURDERER. 
 
 Frank Jones found his brother Florian alone in the butler's 
 pantry, arid was told that Peter was engaged in feeding the 
 horses and cleaning out the stables. " He's mostly engaged in 
 that kind of work now, v said Florian. 
 
 " Who lays the tablecloth ?" asked Frank. 
 
 " I do ; or Edith ; sometimes we don't have any tablecloth, 
 or any clean knives and forks. Perhaps they'll have one to-day 
 because you have come." 
 
 " I wouldn't give them increased trouble," said Frank. 
 
 " Papa told them to put their best foot forward because you 
 are here. I don't think he minds at all about himself. I think 
 papa is very unhappy." 
 
 " Of course he's unhappy, because they have boycotted him. 
 How should he not be unhappy ? ' ; 
 
 " It's worse than that, 5 whispered Florian. 
 
 " What can be worse ? " 
 
 " If you'll come with me I'll tell you. I don't want to say 
 it here, because the girls will hear me, — and that old Peter will 
 know everything that's said." 
 
 " Come out into the grounds, and take a turn before dinner." 
 At this Florian shook his head. " Why not, Flory ? " 
 
 " There are feilows about," said Flory. 
 
 "What fellows?" 
 
 " The very fellows that said they'd kill me. Do you know 
 that fellow Lax ? He's the worst of them." 
 " But he doesn't live here." 
 " All the same, I saw him yesterday." 
 " You were out then, yesterday ? " 
 
 " Not to say out," said Flory. " I was in the orchard just 
 behind the stables ; and I could see across into the ten-acre 
 piece. There, at the further side of the field, I saw a fellow 
 who I am sure was Lax. Nobody walks like him, he ; s got 
 that quick, suspicious way of going. It was just nearly dark ; it 
 was well-nigh seven, and I had been with Peter in the stables, 
 helping to make up the horses, and I am sure it was Lax." 
 
 " He won't come near you and me on the broad walk/' said 
 Frank. 
 
 " Won't he ? You don't know him. There are half-a-dozen 
 places there where he could hit us from behind the wall. Come 
 up into your room, and I'll tell you what it is that makes papa 
 unhappy." Then Frank led the way upstairs to his bedroom, 
 and Florian followed him. When inside he shut the door, and 
 seated himself on the bed close to his brother. " Now I'll tell 
 you," said he. 
 
LAX, THE MURDERER. 
 
 125 
 
 " What is it ails him ? " 
 
 " He's frightened, 5 ' said Florian, "because he doesn't wish me 
 to be — murdered." 
 
 " My poor boy ! Who could wish it ?" Here Florian shook 
 his head. " Of course he doesn't wish it." 
 
 " He made me tell about the meadow gates." 
 
 "You had to tell that, Flory." 
 
 " But it will bring them to murder me. If you had heard 
 them make me promise and had seen their looks ! Papa never 
 thought about that till the man had come and worked it all out 
 of me." 
 
 " What man ? " 
 
 " The head of the policemen, Yorke Clayton. Papa was so 
 fierce upon me then, that he made me do it." 
 
 u You had to do it," said Frank. " Let things go as they 
 might, you had to do it. You would not have it said of you that 
 you had joined these ruffians against your father." 
 
 " I had sworn to Father Brosnan not to tell. But you care 
 nothing for the priest, of course." 
 
 " Nothing in the least." 
 
 " Nor does father. But when I had told it all at his bidding, 
 and had gone before the magistrates, and they had written it down, 
 and that man Clayton had read it all and I had signed it, and 
 papa had seen the look which Pat Carroll had turned upon me, 
 then he became frightened. I knew that that man Lax was in 
 the room at the moment. I did not see him, but I felt that he 
 was there. Now I don't go out at all, except just into the 
 orchard and front garden. I won't go even there, as I saw 
 Lax about the place yesterday. I know that they mean to 
 murder me." 
 
 " There will be no danger," said Frank, " unless Carroll be 
 convicted. In that case your father will have you sent to a 
 school in England." 
 
 " Papa hasn't got the money ; I heard him tell Edith so. 
 And they wouldn't know how to carry me to the station at 
 Ballyglunin. Those boys from Ballintubber would shoot at 
 me on the road. It's that that makes papa so unhappy." 
 
 Then they all went to dinner with a cloth laid fair on the 
 table, for Frank, who was as it were a stranger. And there 
 were many inquiries made after Rachel and her theatrical per- 
 formances. Tidings as to her success had already reached 
 Morony, and wonderful accounts of the pecuniary results. 
 They had seen stories in the newspapers of the close friendship 
 which existed between her and Mr. Moss, and hints had been 
 given for a closer tie. " I don't think it is likely," said Frank. 
 
 " But is anything the matter between you and Rachel ? " 
 asked Edith. 
 
 At that moment Peter was walking off with the leg of mutton, 
 
126 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 and Ada had run into the kitchen to fetch the rice pudding, 
 which she had made to celebrate her brother's return. Edith 
 winked at her brother to show that all questions as to the tender 
 subject should be postponed for the moment. 
 
 " But is it true," said Ada, "that Rachel is making a lot of 
 money ? 99 
 
 " That is true, certainly," said her brother. 
 "And that she sings gloriously ? " 
 
 " She always did sing gloriously," said Edith. " I was sure 
 that Rachel was intended for a success." 
 
 " I wonder what Captain Yorke Clayton would think about 
 her," said Ada. " He does understand music, and is very fond 
 of young ladies who can sing. I heard him say that the Miss 
 Ormesbys of Castlebar sang beautifully ; and he sings himself, 
 I know." 
 
 " Captain Clayton has something else to do at present than 
 to watch the career of Miss O'Mahony in London." This was 
 said by their father, and was the first word he had spoken since 
 they had sat down to dinner. It was felt to convey some reproach 
 as to Rachel ; but why a reproach was necessary was not 
 explained. 
 
 Peter was now out of the room, and the door was shut. 
 
 " Rachel and I have come to uuderstand each other/' said 
 Frank. " She is to have the spending of her money by herself, 
 and I by myself am to enjoy life at Morony Castle." 
 
 " Is this her decision ? " asked Edith. 
 
 It was on Frank's lips to declare that it was so ; but he 
 remembered himself, and swallowed down the falsehood un- 
 spoken. 
 
 " No," he said ; " it was not her decision. She offered to 
 share it all with me." 
 
 " And you ? " said his father. 
 
 " Well, I didn't consent ; and so we arranged that matters 
 should be brought to an end between us." 
 " I knew what she would do," said Ada. 
 
 "Just what she ought," said Edith. " Rachel is a fine girl. 
 Nothing else was to be expected from her." 
 
 " And nothing else was possible with you," said their father. 
 And so that conversation was brought to an end. 
 
 On the next day Captain Clayton came up the lake from 
 Gal way, and was again engaged, — or pretended to be engaged, 
 — in looking up for evidence in reference to the trial of Pat 
 Carroll. Or it might be that he wanted to sun himself again in 
 the bright eyes of Ada Jones. Again he brought Hunter, his 
 double, with him, and boldly walked from Morony Castle into 
 Headford, disregarding altogether the loaded guns of Pat Carrol /'s 
 friends. In company with Frank he paid a visit to Tom Lafferty 
 in his own house at Headford. But as he went there he insisted 
 
LAX, THE MURDERER, 
 
 127 
 
 that Frank should carry a brace of pistols in his trousers' pockets, 
 " It's as well to do it, though you should never use them, or a 
 great deal better that you should never use them. You don't 
 want to get into all the muck of shooting a wretched, cowardly 
 Land-leaguer. If all the leaders had but one life among them 
 there would be something worth going in for. But it is well that 
 they should believe that you have got them. They are such 
 cowards that if they know you've got a pistol with you they will 
 be afraid to get near enough to shoot you with a rifle. If you 
 are in a room with fellows who see that you have your hand in 
 your trousers' pocket, they will be in such a funk that you cow 
 half-a-dozen of them. They look upon Hunter and me as 
 though we were an armed company of policemen." So Frank 
 carried the pistols. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Lafferty, how are things going with you to-day?" 
 
 " 'Deed, then, Captain Clayton, it ain't much as I'm able to 
 say for myself. I've the decentry that bad in my innards as I'm 
 all in the twitters." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that, Mr. Lafferty. Are you well enough to 
 tell me where did Mr. Lax go when he left you this morning ? " 
 
 " Who's Mr. Lax ? I don't know no such person." 
 
 "Don't you, now? I thought that Mr. Lax was as well 
 known in Headford as the parish priest. Why, he's first cousin 
 to your second cousin, Pat Carroll." 
 
 "'Deed and he ain't then ;— not that I ever heard tell of." 
 
 " I've no doubt you know what relations he's got in these 
 parts." 
 
 " I don't know nothin' about Terry Lax." 
 " Except that his name is Terry," said the Captain. 
 u I don't know nothin' about him, and I won't tell nothin' 
 either." 
 
 " But he was here this morning, Mr. Lafferty? " 
 
 " Not that I know of. I won't say nothin' more about him. 
 It's as bad as lying you are with that d d artful way of en- 
 trapping a fellow." 
 
 Here Terry Carroll, Pat's brother, entered the cabin, and 
 took off his hat with an air of great courtesy. " More power to 
 you, Mr. Frank," he said, " it's I that am glad to see you back 
 from London. These are bad tidings they got up at the Castle. 
 To think of Mr. Flory having such a story to tell as that." 
 
 " It's a true story at any rate," said Frank. 
 
 "Musha thin, not one o' us rightly knows. It's a long time 
 ago, and if I were there at all, I disremember it. Maybe I was, 
 though I wasn't doing anything on me own account. If Pat 
 was to bid me, I'd do that or any other mortal thing at Pat's 
 bidding." 
 
 " If you are so good a brother as that, your complaisance is 
 likely to bring you into trouble, Mr. Carroll. Come along, 
 
128 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Jones, I've got pretty nearly what I wanted from them." Then 
 when they were in the street, he continued speaking to Frank. 
 "Your brother is right though, I wouldn't have believed it on 
 any other testimony than one of themselves. That man Lax 
 was here in the county yesterday. A more murderous fellow 
 than he is not to be found in Connaught ; and he's twice worse 
 than any of the fellows about here. They will do it for revenge, 
 or party purposes. He, has a regular tariff for cutting throats. 
 I should not wonder if he has come here for the sake oi 
 carrying out the threats which they made against your poor 
 brother." 
 
 "Do you mean that he will be murdered ? " 
 
 " We must not let it come to that. We must have Lax up 
 before the magistrate for having been present when they broke 
 the flood gates." 
 
 " Have you got evidence of that?" 
 
 " We can make the evidence serve its purpose for a time. 
 If we can keep him locked up till after the trial we shall have 
 done much. By heavens, there he is ! " 
 
 As he spoke the flash of a shot glimmered across their eyes, 
 and seemed to have been fired almost within a yard of them ; 
 but they were neither of them hit. Frank turned round and 
 fired in the direction from whence the attack had come, but it 
 was in vain. Clayton did bring his revolver from out his pocket, 
 but held his fire. They were walking in a lane just out of the 
 town that would carry them by a field-path to Morony Castle, 
 and Clayton had chosen the path in order that he might be 
 away from the public road. It was still daylight though it 
 was evening, and the aggressor might have been seen had he 
 attempted to cross their path. The lane was, as it were, built 
 up on both sides with cabins, which had become ruins, each one 
 of which might serve as a hiding-place. Hunter was standing 
 close to them before another word was spoken. 
 
 " Did you see him ? " demanded Clayton. 
 
 " Not a glimpse ; but I heard him through there, where the 
 dead leaves are lying." There are a lot of dead leaves strewed 
 about, some of which were in sight, within an enclosure separated 
 from them by a low ruined wall. On leaving this the Captain 
 was over it in a moment, but he was over it in vain. " For God's 
 sake, sir, don't go after him in that way," said Hunter, who 
 followed close upon his track. " It's no more than to throw your 
 life away." 
 
 " I'd give the world to have one shot at him," said Clayton. 
 " I don't think I would miss him within ten paces." 
 
 " But he'd have had you, Captain, within three, had he 
 waited for you." 
 
 " He never would have waited. A man who fires at you 
 from behind a wall never will wait. Where on earth has he 
 
MORONY CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED. 129 
 
 taken himself?" And Clayton, with the open pistol in his hand, 
 began to search the neighbouring hovels. 
 
 " He's away out of that by this time," said Hunter. 
 
 " I heard the bullet pass by my ears," said Frank. 
 
 " No doubt you did, but a miss is as good as a mile any day. 
 That a fellow like that who is used to shooting shouldn't do 
 better is a disgrace to the craft. It's that, fellow Lax, and as I'm 
 standing on the ground this moment I'll have his life before I've 
 done with him." 
 
 Nothing further came from this incident till the three started 
 on their walk back to Morony Castle. But they did not do this 
 till they had thoroughly investigated the ruins. " Do you know 
 anything of the man ? " said Frank, " as to his whereabouts ? or 
 where he comes from ? " Then Clayton gave some short account 
 of the hero. He had first come across him in the neighbourhood 
 of Foxford near Lough Conn, and had there run him very hard, 
 as the Captain said, in reference to an agrarian murder. He 
 knew, he said, that the man had received thirty shillings for 
 killing an old man who had taken a farm from which a tenant 
 had been evicted. But he had on that occasion been tried and 
 acquitted. He had since that lived on the spoils acquired after 
 the same fashion. He was supposed to have come originally 
 from Kilkenny, and whether his real name was or was not Lax, 
 Captain Clayton did not pretend to say. 
 
 " But he had a fair shot at me/' said Captain Clayton, " and 
 it shall go hard with me but I shall have as fair a one at him. 
 I think it was Urlingford gave the fellow his birth. I doubt 
 whether he will ever see Urlingford again." 
 
 So they walked back, and by the time they had reached the 
 Castle were quite animated and lively with the little incident. 
 " It may be possible," said the Captain to Mr. Jones, " that he 
 expected my going to Headford. It certainly was known in 
 Galway yesterday, that I was to come across the lake this 
 morning, and the tidings may have come up by some fellow- 
 traveller. He would drop word with some of the boys at 
 Ballintubber as he passed by. And they might have thought it 
 likely that I should go to Headford. They have had their 
 chance on this occasion, and they have not done any good 
 with it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MORONY CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 The men seemed to make a good joke of the afternoon's 
 employment, but not so the young ladies. In the evening they 
 had a little music, and Captain Clayton declared that the Miss 
 
 K 
 
13° 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Ormesbys were grand performers. u And I am told that they 
 are lovely girls," said Ada. 
 
 " Well, yes ; lovely is a very strong word." 
 
 " I'd rather be called lovely than anything," said Ada. 
 
 " Now, Captain Clayton," said Edith, " if you wish for my 
 respect, don't fall into the trap which Ada has so openly laid for 
 you." 
 
 " I meant nothing of the kind," said Ada. " I hope that 
 Captain Clayton knows me better. But, Captain Clayton, you 
 don't mean that you'll walk down to the boat to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Why not ? He'll never have the pluck to fire at me two 
 days running. And I doubt whether he'll allow me so fair a 
 chance of seeing him." 
 
 " I wonder how you can sleep at night, knowing that such a 
 man as this is always after your life." 
 
 " I wonder whether he sleeps at night, when he thinks such 
 a man as I am after his life. And I allow him, to boot, all his 
 walks and hiding-places." Then Ada began to implore him 
 not to be too rash. She endeavoured to teach him that no 
 good could come from such foolhardiness. If his life was of no 
 value to himself, it was of great value to others ; — to his mother, 
 for instance, and to his sister. "A man's life is of no real 
 value," said the Captain, " until he has got a wife and family — 
 or at any rate, a wife." 
 
 "You don't think the wife that is to be need mind it?" said 
 Edith. 
 
 " The wife that is to be must be in the clouds, and in all 
 probability, will never come any nearer. I cannot allow that a 
 man can be justified in neglecting his duties for the sake of a 
 cloudy wife." 
 
 " Not in neglecting absolute duties," said Ada, sadly. 
 
 " A man in my position neglects his duty if he leaves a stone 
 unturned in pursuit of such a blackguard as this. And when a 
 man is used to it, he likes it. There's your brother quite enjoyed 
 being shot at, just as though he were resident magistrate ; at 
 any rate, he looked as though he did." 
 
 So the conversation went on through the evening, during the 
 whole of which poor Florian made one of the party. He said 
 very little, but sat close to his sister Edith, who frequently had 
 his hand in her own. The Captain constantly had his eye upon 
 him without seeming to watch him, but still was thinking of 
 him as the minutes flew by. It was not that the boy was in 
 danger ; for the Captain thought the danger to be small, and 
 that it was reduced almost to nothing as long as he remained in 
 the house, — but what would be the effect of fear on the boy's 
 mind ? And if he were thus harassed could he be expected to 
 give his evidence in a clear manner ? Mr. Jones was not present 
 after dinner, having retired at once to his own room. But just 
 
MORONY CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 as the girls had risen to go to bed, and as Florian was pre* 
 paring to accompany them, Peter brought a message saying 
 that Mr. Jones would be glad to see Captain Clayton before he 
 went for the night. Then the Captain got up, and bidding 
 them all farewell, followed Peter to Mr. Jones's room. " I shall 
 go on by the early boat," he said as he was leaving the room. 
 
 " You'll have breakfast first, at any rate," said Ada. The 
 Captain swore that he wouldn't, and the girls swore that he 
 should. " We never let anybody go without breakfast," said 
 Ada. 
 
 "And particularly not a man," said Edith, "who has just 
 been shot at on our behalf." But the Captain explained that it 
 might be as well that he should be down waiting for the boat 
 half an hour at any rate before it started. 
 
 "I and Hunter," said he, "would have a fair look-out 
 around us there, so that no one could get within rifle shot of us 
 without our seeing them, and they won't look out for us so early. 
 I don't think much of Mr. Lax's courage, but it may be as well 
 to keep a watch when it can be so easily done." Then Ada 
 went off to her bed, resolving that the breakfast should be 
 ready, though it was an hour before the boat time. The boat 
 called at the wharf at eight in the morning, and the wharf was 
 three miles distant from the house. She could manage to have 
 breakfast ready at half-past six. 
 
 " Ada, my girl," said Edith, as they departed together, "don't 
 you make a fool of that young man." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 "Didn't you tell me that a man who has to be shot at ought 
 not to be married ; and didn't he say that he would leave his 
 future wife up among the clouds ? " 
 
 " He may leave her where he likes for me," said Ada. 
 " When a man is doing so much for us oughtn't he to have his 
 breakfast ready for him at half-past six o'clock ? " There was 
 no more then said between them on that subject ; but Edith 
 resolved that as far as boiling the water was concerned, she 
 would be up as soon as Ada. 
 
 When the Captain went into Mr. Jones's room he was asked 
 to sit down, and had a cigar offered to him. " Thanks, no ; I 
 don't think I'll smoke. Smoking may have some sort of effect 
 on a fellow's hand. There's a gentleman in these parts who I 
 should be sorry should owe his life to any little indulgence of 
 that sort on my behalf." 
 
 " You are thinking of the man who fired at you ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; I am. Not that I shall have any chance at him 
 just at present. He won't come near me again this visit. The next 
 that I shall hear from him will be from round some corner in 
 the neighbourhood of Galway. I think I know every turn in 
 that blackguard's mind." 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " Have you been speaking to Florian about him, Captain 
 
 Clayton?" 
 
 "Not a word." 
 
 " Nor has his brother?" 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " What am I to do about the poor boy ? n said the anxious 
 father. 
 
 " Because of his fear about this very man?" 
 " He is only a boy, you know." 
 
 " Of course he is only a boy. You've no right to expect from 
 him the pluck of a man. When he is as old as his brother he'll 
 have his brother's nerve. I like to see a man plucky under 
 fire when he is not used to it. When you've got into the way 
 of it, it means nothing." 
 
 " What am I to do about Florian ? There are four month? 
 before the assizes. He cannot remain in the house for four 
 months." 
 
 "What would he be at the end of it?" said the Captain. 
 " That is what we have to think of." 
 " Would it alter him ? " 
 
 " I suppose it would, — if he were here with his sister, talking 
 of nothing but this wretched man, who seems to haunt him. We 
 have to remember, Mr. Jones, how long it was before he came 
 forward with his story." 
 
 " I think he will be firm with it now." 
 
 " No doubt, — if he had to tell it out in direct evidence. 
 When he is there in the court telling it, he will not think much 
 of Mr. Lax, nor even of Pat Carroll, who will be in the dock 
 glaring at him ; nor would he think much of anything but his 
 direct story, while a friendly barrister is drawing it out of him ; 
 but when it comes to his cross-examination, it will be different. 
 He will want all his pluck then, and all the simplicity which he 
 can master. You must remember that a skilful man will have 
 been turned loose on him with all the ferocity of a bloodhound ; 
 a man will have all the cruelty of Lax, but will have nothing to 
 fear ; a man who will be serving his purpose all round if he can 
 only dumbfound that poor boy by his words and his looks. A 
 man, when he has taken up the cause of these ruffians, learns to 
 sympathise with them. If they hate the Queen, hate the laws, 
 hate all justice, these men learn to hate them too. When they 
 get hold of me, and I look into the eyes of such a one, I see 
 there my bitterest enemy. He holds Captain Yorke Clayton up 
 to the hatred of the whole court, as though he were a brute 
 unworthy of the slightest mercy, — a venomous reptile, against 
 whom the whole country should rise to tear him in pieces. And 
 I look round and see the same feeling written in the eyes of 
 them all. I found it more hard to get used to that than to the 
 snap of a pistol ; but I have got used to it. Poor Florian will 
 
MORONY CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 have had no such experience. And there will be no mercy shown 
 to him because he is only a boy. Neither sex nor age is 
 supposed to render any such feeling necessary to a lawyer. A 
 lawyer in defending the worst ruffian that ever committed a 
 crime will know that he is called upon to spare nothing that is 
 tender. He is absolved from all the laws common to humanity. 
 And then poor Florian has lied." A gloomy look of sad, dull 
 pain came across the father's brow as he heard these words. 
 "We must look it in the face, Mr. Jones." 
 " Yes, look it all in the face." 
 
 " He has repeated the lie again and again for six months. 
 He has been in close friendship with these men. It will be 
 made out that he has been present at all their secret meetings. 
 He has been present at some of them. It will be very hard to 
 get a jury to convict on his evidence if it be unsupported." 
 
 " Shall we withdraw him ? " asked Mr. Jones. 
 
 "You cannot do it. His deposition has been sworn and put 
 forward in the proper course. Besides it is his duty and yours, 
 — and mine," he added. " He must tell his story once again, 
 and must endure whatever torment the law-rebels of the court 
 have in store for him. Only it will be well to think what course 
 of treatment may best prepare him for the trial. You should 
 treat him with the greatest kindness." 
 
 " He is treated kindly." 
 
 " But you, I think, and his sisters and his brother should 
 endeavour to make him feel that you do not think harshly of 
 him because of the falsehoods he has told. Go out with him 
 occasionally." Here Mr. Jones raised his eyebrows as feeling 
 surprised at the kind of counsel given. " Put some constraint 
 on yourself so as to make him feel by the time he has to go into 
 court with you that he has a friend with him." 
 
 " I trust that he always feels that," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 They went on discussing the matter till late at night, and 
 Captain Clayton made the father understand what it was that 
 he intended. He meant that the boy should be made to know 
 that his father was to him as are other fathers, in spite of the 
 lie which he had told, and of the terrible trouble which he had 
 caused by telling it. But Mr. Jones felt that the task imposed 
 upon him would be almost impossible. He was heavy at heart, 
 and unable to recall to himself his old spirits. He had been 
 thoroughly ashamed of his son, and was not possessed of that 
 agility of heart which is able to leap into good humour at once. 
 Florian had been restored to his old manner of life ; sitting at 
 table with his father and occasionally spoken to by him. He 
 had been so far forgiven ; but the father was still aware that 
 there was still a dismal gap between himself and his younger 
 boy, as regarded that affectionate intercourse which Captain 
 Clayton recommended. And yet he knew that it was needed, 
 
134 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS 
 
 and resolved that he would do his best, however imperfectly it 
 might be done. 
 
 On the next morning the Captain went his way, and did 
 ample homage to the kindly exertions made on his behalf by 
 the two girls. " Now I know you must have been up all night, 
 for you couldn't have done it all without a servant in the house." 
 
 " How dare you belittle our establishment ! " said Ada. 
 'What do you think of Peter? Is Peter nobody? And, it 
 was poor Florian who boiled the kettle. I really don't know 
 whether we should not get on better altogether without servants 
 than with them." The breakfast was eaten both by the Captain 
 in the parlour and by Hunter in the kitchen in great good 
 humour. " Now, my fine fellow," said the former, " have you 
 got your pistols ready ? I don't think we shall want them this 
 morning, but it's as well not to give these fellows a chance." 
 Hunter was pleased by being thus called into council before the 
 young ladies, and they both started in the highest good humour. 
 Captain Clayton, as he went, told himself that Ada Jones was 
 the prettiest girl of his acquaintance. His last sentimental 
 affinity with the youngest Miss Ormesby waxed feeble and 
 insipid as he thought of Ada. Perhaps Edith, he said to 
 himself, is the sharpest of the two, but in good looks she can't 
 hold a candle to her sister. So he passed on, and with his 
 myrmidon reached Galway, without incurring any impediment 
 from Mr. Lax. 
 
 In the course of the morning, Mr. Jones sent for Florian, 
 and proposed to walk out with him about the demesne. " I 
 don't think there will be any danger," he said. " Captain 
 Clayton went this morning, and the people don't know yet 
 whether he has gone. I think it is better that you should get 
 accustomed to it, and not give way to idle fears." The boy 
 apparently agreed to this, and got his hat. But he did not 
 leave the shelter of the house without sundry misgivings. Mr. 
 Jones had determined to act at once upon the Captain's advice, 
 and had bethought himself that he could best do so by telling 
 the whole truth to the boy. " Now, Florian, I think it would 
 be as w r ell that you and I should understand each other." 
 Florian looked up at him with fearful eyes, but made no reply. 
 " Of course I was angry with you while you were hesitating 
 about those ruffians.". 
 
 " Yes ; you were," said Florian. 
 
 " I can quite understand that you have felt a difficulty." 
 " Yes, I did," said Florian. 
 " But that is all over now." 
 
 " If they don't fire at me it is over, I suppose, till August." 
 
 "They shan't fire at you. Don't be afraid. If they fire at 
 you, they must fire at me too." The father was walking with 
 his arm about the boy's neck. " You, at any rate, shall incur 
 
MORON Y CASTLE IS BOYCOTTED, 135 
 
 no danger which I do not share. You will understand — won't 
 you — that my anger against you is passed and gone ? 9 
 " I don't know," said the boy. 
 
 " It is so, — altogether. I hope to be able to send you to 
 school in England very soon after the trial is over. You shall 
 go to Mr. Monro at first, and to Winchester afterwards, if I can 
 manage it. But we won't think of Winchester just at present. 
 We must do the best we can to get a good place for you on 
 your first going into the school." 
 
 " I am not afraid about that," said Florian, thinking that at 
 the time when the school should have come all the evils of the 
 trials would have been passed away and gone. 
 
 " All the same you might come and read with me every 
 morning for an hour, and then for an hour with each of your 
 sisters. You will want something to do to make up your time. 
 And remember, Florian, that all my anger has passed away. 
 We will be the best of friends, as in former days, so that when 
 the time shall have come for you to go into court, you may be 
 quite sure that you have a friend with you there." 
 
 To all this Florian made very little reply ; but Mr, Jones 
 remembered that he could not expect to do much at a first 
 attempt. Weary as the task would be he would persevere. 
 For the task would be weary even with his own son. He was 
 a man who could do nothing graciously which he could not 
 do con amore. And he felt that all immediate warm liking 
 for the poor boy had perished in his heart. The boy had made 
 himself the friend of such a one as Pat Carroll, and in his 
 friendship for him had lied grossly. Mr. Jones had told himself 
 that it was his duty to forgive him, and had struggled to perform 
 his duty. For the performance of any deed necessary for the 
 boy's security, he could count upon himself. But he could not 
 be happy in his company as he was with Edith. The boy had 
 been foully untrue to him — but still he would do his best. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 TOM DALY IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 When the time came round, Frank Jones started for Ballinasloe, 
 with his father's cattle and with Peter to help him. They did 
 succeed in getting a boy to go with them, who had been 
 seduced by a heavy bribe to come down for the purpose from 
 Ballinasloe to Morony Castle. As he had been used to cattle, 
 Peter's ignorance and Frank's also were of less account. They 
 drove the cattle to Tuam, and there got them on the railway, 
 the railway with its servants being beyond the power of the 
 
136 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 boycotters. At Ballinasloe they could not sell the cattle, as the 
 name of Mr. Jones of Morony had become terribly notorious 
 throughout County Galway. But arrangements had been made 
 to send them to a salesman up in Dublin, and from Ballinasloe 
 they had gone under the custody of Peter and the boy. No 
 attempt was made absolutely to harm the beasts, or even to 
 stop them in the streets. But throughout the town it seemed 
 to be perfectly understood that they were the property of Philip 
 Jones of Morony Castle, and that Philip Jones had been 
 boycotted by the League. The poor beasts were sent on to 
 Dublin without a truss of hay among them, and even Frank 
 himself was refused a meal at the first inn at which he had 
 called. He did afterwards procure accommodation ; but he 
 heard while in the house, that the innkeeper was threatened 
 for what he had done. Had it not been that Peter had brought 
 with him a large basket of provisions for himself and the boy, 
 they, too, would have been forced to go on dinnerless and 
 supperless to Dublin. 
 
 Frank, on his way back home, resolved that he would call on 
 Mr. Daly at Daly's Bridge, near Castle Blakeney. It was 
 Daly's wont to live at Daly's Bridge when the hounds were not 
 hunting, though he would generally go four or five times a week 
 from Daly's Bridge to the kennels. To Castle Blakeney a 
 public car was running, and the public car did not dare or pro- 
 bably did not wish, to boycott anyone. He walked up to the 
 open door at Daly's Bridge and soon found himself in the 
 presence of Black Tom Daly. ts So you are boycotted ? said 
 Tom. 
 
 " Horse, foot, and dragoons," said Frank. 
 
 " What's to come of it, I wonder ? " Tom as he said this 
 was sitting at an open window making up some horse's drug to 
 which was attached some very strong odour. " I am boycotted 
 too, and the poor hounds, which have given hours of amusement 
 to many of these wretches, for which they have not been called 
 upon to pay a shilling. I shall have to sell the pack, I'm 
 afraid, " said Tom, sadly. 
 
 "Not yet, I hope, Mr. Daly." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? Who's to keep them without 
 any subscription? And who's to subscribe without any prospect 
 of hunting ? For the matter of that who's to feed the poor dumb 
 brutes? One pack will be boycotted after another till not a pack 
 of hounds will be wanted in all Ireland." 
 
 " Has the same thing happened to any other pack ? " asked 
 Frank. 
 
 " Certainly it has. They turned out against the Muskerry ; 
 and there's been a row in Kildare. We are only at the beginning 
 of it yet." 
 
 " I don't suppose it will go on for ever," said Frank. 
 
TOM DALY IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 137 
 
 a Why don't you suppose so? What's to be the end of it all? 
 Do you see any way out of it ? — for I do not. Does your father 
 see his way to bringing those meadows back into his hands ? 
 I'm told that some of those fellows shot at Clayton the other day 
 down at Headford. How are we to expect a man like Clayton 
 to come foward and be shot at in that fashion ? As far as I can 
 see there will be no possibility for anyone to live in this country 
 again. Of course it's all over with me. I haven't got any rents 
 to speak of, and the only property I possess is now useless." 
 
 " What property ? " asked Frank. 
 
 " What property ? " rejoined Tom in a voice of anger. 
 " What property ? Ain't the hounds property, or were property 
 a few weeks ago ? Who'll subscribe for next year ? We had a 
 meeting in February, you know, and the fellows put down their 
 names the same as ever. But they can't be expected to pay 
 when there will be no coverts for them to draw. The country 
 can do nothing to put a stop to this blackguardism. When 
 they've passed this Coercion Bill they're going to have some 
 sort of Land Bill, — just a law to give away the land to some- 
 body. What's to come of the poor country with such men 
 as Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright to govern it? They're the 
 two very worst men in the whole empire for governing a country. 
 Martial law with a regiment in each county, and a strong colonel 
 to carry it out, — that is the only way of governing left us. I 
 don't pretend to understand politics, but every child can see 
 that. And you should do away with the constituencies, at any 
 rate for the next five years. What are you to expect with such 
 a set of men as that in Parliament, — men whom no one would 
 speak to if they were to attempt to ride to hounds in County 
 Galway ? It makes me sick when I hear of it." 
 
 Such were Tom Daly's sad outlooks into the world. And 
 sad as they were, they seemed to be justified by circumstances 
 as they operated upon him. There could be no hunting in 
 County Galway next session unless things were to change very 
 much for the better. And there was no prospect of any such 
 change. " It's nonsense talking of a poor devil like me being 
 ruined. You ask me what property I have got." 
 
 " I don't think I ever asked that," said Frank. 
 
 " It don't matter. You're quite welcome. You'll find eight 
 or nine pair of leather breeches in that press in there. And 
 round about the room somewhere there are over a dozen pair of 
 top-boots. They are the only available property I have got. 
 They are paid for, and I can do what I please with them. The 
 four or five hundred acres over there on the road to Tuam are 
 mostly bog, and are strictly entailed so that I cannot touch 
 them. As there is not a tenant will pay the rent since I've been 
 boycotted it doesn't make much matter. I have not had a 
 shilling from them for more than twelve months ; and I don't 
 
138 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 suppose I ever shall see another. The poor hounds are eating 
 their heads off ; as fine a pack of hounds as any man ever 
 owned, as far as their number goes. I can't keep them, and 
 who'll buy them? They tell me I must send them over to 
 Tattersall's. But as things are now I don't suppose they'll pay 
 the expense. I don't care who knows it, but I haven't three 
 hundred pounds in the world. And I'm over fifty years of age. 
 What do you think of that as the condition for a man to be 
 brought to ? " 
 
 Frank Jones had never heard Daly speak at such length 
 before, nor had he given him credit for so much eloquence. 
 Nor, indeed, had anyone in the County of Galway heard him 
 speak so many words till this misfortune had fallen upon him. 
 And he would still be silent and reserved with all except a few 
 hunting men whom he believed to be strongly influenced by the 
 same political feeling as he was himself. Here was he boycotted 
 most cruelly, but not more cruelly than was Mr. Jones of 
 Morony Castle. The story of Florian Jones had got about the 
 county, and had caused Mr. Jones to be pitied greatly by such 
 men as Tom Daly. " His own boy to turn against him ! " Tom 
 had said. " And to become a Papist ! A boy of ten years old 
 to call himself a Papist, as if he would know anything about it. 
 And then to lie, — to lie like that ! I feel that his case is almost 
 worse than mine." Therefore he had burst out with his sudden 
 eloquence to Frank Jones, whom he had liked. " Oh, yes ! I 
 can send you over to Woodlawn Station. I have got a horse 
 and car left about the place. Here's William Persse of Galway. 
 He's the stanchest man we have in the county, but even he can 
 do nothing." 
 
 Then Mr. Persse rode into the yard, — that Mr. Persse who, 
 when the hounds met at Ballytowngal, had so strongly dis- 
 suaded Daly from using his pistol. He was a man who was 
 reputed to have a good income, or at any rate a large estate, — 
 though the two things at the present moment were likely to 
 have a very various meaning. But he was a man less despon- 
 dent in his temperament than Tom Daly, and one that was 
 likely to prevail with Tom by the strength of his character. 
 " Well, Tom," said Persse, as he walked into the house, " how 
 are things using you now? How are you, Jones ? I'm afraid 
 your father is getting it rather hot at Morony Castle." 
 
 " They've boycotted us, that's all." 
 
 "So I understand. Is it not odd that some self-appointed 
 individual should send out an edict, and that suddenly all 
 organised modes of living among people should be put a stop 
 to ! Here's Tom not allowed to get a packet of greaves into 
 his establishment unless he sends to Dublin for it." 
 
 " Nor to have it sent over here," said Tom, " unless I'll send 
 my own horse and cart to fetch it. And every man and boy I 
 
TOM DALY IS BOYCOTTED. 
 
 139 
 
 have about the place is desired to leave me at the command of 
 some d d O'Toole, whose father kept a tinker's shop some- 
 where in County Mayo, and whose mother took in washing." 
 
 There was a depth of scorn intended to be conveyed by all 
 this, because in Daly's estimation County Mayo was but a poor 
 county to live in, as it had not for many a year possessed an 
 advertised pack of foxhounds. And the OTooles were not 
 one of the tribes of Galway, or a clan especially esteemed in 
 that most aristocratic of the western counties. 
 
 " Have all the helpers gone ? " 
 
 u I haven't asked them to stay ; but unless they have stayed 
 of their own accord I have just shaken hands with them. It's 
 all that one gentleman can do to another when he meets 
 him." 
 
 " Mr. Daly is talking of selling the hounds," said Frank 
 Jones.' 
 
 " Not quite yet, Tom/ said Mr. Persse. " You mustn't do 
 anything in a hurry." 
 
 " They'll have to starve if they remain here," said the master 
 of hounds. 
 
 " I have come over here to say a word about them. I don't 
 suppose this kind of thing will last for ever, you know." 
 
 " Can you see any end to it ? " said the other. 
 
 " Not as yet I can't, except that troubles when they come 
 generally do have an end. We always think that evils will last 
 for ever, — and blessings too. When two-year-old ewes went up 
 to three pound ten at Ballinasloe, we thought that we were to 
 get that price for ever, but they were soon down to two seventeen 
 six ; and when we had had two years of the potato famine, we 
 thought that there would never be another potato in County 
 Galway. For the last five years we've had them as fine at 
 Doneraile as ever I saw them. Nobody is ever quite ruined, or 
 quite has his fortune made." 
 
 " I am very near the ruin," said Tom Daly. 
 
 " I would struggle to hold on a little longer yet," said the 
 other. "How many horses have you got here and at 
 Ahaseragh ? " 
 
 "There are something over a dozen," said Tom. "There 
 may be fifteen in all. I was thinking of sending a draught over 
 to TattersalPs next week. There are some of them would not 
 be worth a five-and-twenty pound note when you got them 
 there ! " 
 
 " Well, now I'll tell you what I propose. You shall send 
 over four or five to be summered at Doneraile. There is grass 
 enough there, and though I can't pay my debts, my credit is 
 good at the corn-chandler's." Black Tom, as he heard this, sat 
 still looking blacker than ever. He was a man who hated to 
 have a favour offered to him. But he could bear the insult 
 
140 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 better from Persse of Doneraile than from anyone else in the 
 county. " I've talked the matter over with Lynch " 
 
 " D Lynch," said Daly. He didn't dislike Sir Jasper, 
 
 but Sir Jasper did not stand quite so high in his favour as did 
 Mr. Persse of Doneraile. 
 
 " You needn't d anybody ; but just listen to me. Sir 
 
 Jasper says that he will take three, and Nicholas Bodkin will do 
 the same." 
 
 " They are both baronets," said Daly. " I hate a man with 
 a handle to his name ; he always seems to me to be stuck-up, 
 as though he demanded something more than other people. 
 There is that Lord Ardrahan " 
 
 "A very good fellow too. Don't you be an ass. Lord 
 Ardrahan has offered to take three more." 
 
 " I knew it," said Tom. 
 
 " It's not as though any favour were offered or received. 
 Though the horses are your own property, they are kept for the 
 services of the hunt. We all understand very well how things 
 are circumstanced at present." 
 
 " How do you think I am to feed my hounds if you take 
 away the horses which they would eat ? " said Daly, with an 
 attempt at a grim joke. But after the joke Tom became sad 
 again, almost to tears, and he allowed his friend to make almost 
 what arrangements he pleased for distributing both hounds and 
 horses among the gentry of the hunt. " And when they are 
 gone," said he, " I am to sit here alone with nothing on earth to 
 do. What on earth is to become of me when I have not a 
 hound left to give a dose of physic to ? " 
 
 " We'll not leave you in such a sad strait as that," said 
 Mr. Persse. 
 
 " It will be sad enough. If you had had a pack of hounds 
 to look after for thirty summers, you wouldn't like to get rid of 
 them in a hurry. I'm like an old nurse who is sending her 
 babies out, or some mother, rather, who is putting her children 
 into the workhouse because she cannot feed them herself. It is 
 sad, though you don't see it in that light." 
 
 Frank Jones got home to Castle Morony that night full of 
 sorrow and trouble. The cattle had been got off to Dublin in 
 their starved condition, but he, as he had come back, had been 
 boycotted every yard of the way. He could get in no car, nor 
 yet in all Tuam could he secure the services of a boy to carry 
 his bag for him. He learned in the town that the girls had sent 
 over to purchase a joint of meat, but had been refused at every 
 shop. "Is trade so plentiful," asked Frank, "that you can 
 afford to do without it ? " 
 
 " W T e can't afford to do with it," said the butcher, " if it's to 
 come from Morony Castle." 
 
"FROM THE FULL HEART? ETC. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "from the full heart the mouth speaks." 
 
 Ada was making the beds upstairs, and Edith was churning the 
 butter down below in the dairy, when a little bare-footed boy 
 came in with a letter. 
 
 " Please, miss, it's from the Captain, and he says I'm not to 
 stir out of this till I come back with an answer." 
 
 The letter was delivered to Edith at the dairy door, and she 
 saw that it was addressed to herself. She had never before 
 seen the Captain's handwriting, and she looked at it somewhat 
 curiously. u If he's to write to one of us it should be to Ada," 
 she said to herself, laughing. Then she opened the envelope, 
 which enclosed a large square stout letter. It contained a 
 card and a written note, and on the card was an invitation, as 
 follows : " The Colonel and Officers of the West Bromwich 
 Regiment request the pleasure of the company of Mr. Jones, 
 the Misses Jones, and Mr. Francis Jones to a dance at the 
 Galway Barracks, on the 20th of May, 1881. Dancing to 
 commence at ten o'clock." 
 
 Then there was the note, which Edith read before she took 
 the card upstairs. 
 
 " My dear Miss Jones," the letter began. Edith again 
 looked at the envelope and perceived that the despatch had 
 been certainly addressed to herself— Miss Edith Jones ; but 
 between herself and her sister there could be no jealousy as to 
 the opening of a letter. Letters for one were generally intended 
 for the other also. " I hope you will both come. You ought to 
 do so to show the county that, though you are boycotted, you 
 are not smashed, and to let them understand that you are not 
 afraid to come out of the house although certain persons have 
 made themselves terrible. I send this to you instead of to your 
 sister, because perhaps you have a little higher pluck. But do 
 tell your father from me that I think he ought, as a matter of 
 policy, to insist on your both coming. You could come down 
 by the boat one day and return the next ; and I'll meet you, for 
 fear your brother should not be there. — Yours very faithfully, 
 
 "Yorke Clayton. 
 
 " I have got the fellows of the West Bromwich to entrust 
 the card to me, and have undertaken to see it duly delivered. 
 I hope you'll approve of my Mercury. Hunter says he doesn't 
 care how often he's shot at." 
 
 It was, in the first place, necessary to provide for the Mercury 
 because even a god cannot be sent away after the performance 
 
142 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 of such a journey without some provisions; and Edith, to tell 
 the truth, wanted to look at the ball all round before she 
 ventured to express an opinion to her sister and father. Her 
 father, of course, would not go ; but should he be left alone at 
 Morony Castle to the tender mercies of Peter ? And should 
 Florian be left also without any woman's hands to take charge 
 of him ? And the butter, too, was on the point of coming, 
 which was a matter of importance. But at last, having pulled 
 off her butter-making apron and having duly patted the roll of 
 butter, she went upstairs to her sister. 
 
 " Ada," she said, u here is such a letter ; " and she held up 
 the letter and the card. 
 
 " Who is it from?" 
 
 " You must guess," said Edith. 
 
 " I am bad at guessing, I cannot guess. Is it Mr. Blake of 
 Carnlough ? " 
 
 " A great deal more interesting than that." 
 
 " It can't be Captain Clayton," said Ada. 
 
 " Out of the full heart the mouth speaks. It is Captain 
 Clayton." 
 
 " What does he say, and what is the card ? Give it me. It 
 looks like an invitation." 
 
 "Then it tells no story, because it is an invitation. It is from 
 the officers of the West Bromwich regiment ; and it asks us to 
 a dance on the 20th of May." 
 
 " But that's not from Captain Clayton." 
 
 " Captain Clayton has written, — to me and not to you at all. 
 You will be awfully jealous ; and he says that I have twice as 
 much courage as you." 
 
 "That's true, at any rate," said Ada, in a melancholy tone. 
 
 " Yes ; and as the officers want all the girls at the ball to be 
 at any rate as brave as themselves, that's a matter of great im- 
 portance. He has asked me to go with a pair of pistols in my 
 belt ; but he is afraid that you would not shoot anybody." 
 
 " May I not look at his letter ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! That would not be at all proper. The letter is 
 addressed to me, Miss Edith Jones. And as it has come from 
 such a very dashing young man, and pays me particular compli- 
 ments as to my courage, I don't think I shall let anybody else 
 see it. It doesn't say anything special about beauty, which I 
 think uncivil. If he had been writing to you, it would have all 
 been about feminine loveliness of course." 
 
 " What nonsense you do talk, Edith ! " 
 
 "Well, there it is. As you will read it you must. You'll be 
 awfully disappointed, because there is not a word about you 
 in it." 
 
 Then Ada read the letter. " He says he hopes we shall both 
 come." 
 
"FROM THE FULL HE ART;' ETC. 143 
 
 "Well, yes ! Your existence is certainly implied in those 
 words." 
 
 " He explains why he writes to you instead of me." 
 
 "Another actual reference to yourself, no doubt. But then 
 he goes on to talk of my pluck." 
 
 " He says it's a little higher than mine," said Ada, who was 
 determined to extract from the Captain's words as much good 
 as was possible, and as little evil to herself. 
 
 " So it is ; only a little higher pluck ! Of course he means 
 that I can't come near himself." 
 
 " You wouldn't pretend to ? " asked Ada. 
 
 " What ! to be shot at like him, and to like it. I don't know 
 any girl that can come quite up to that. Only if one becomes 
 quite cock-sure, as he is, that one won't be hit, I don't see the 
 courage." 
 
 " Oh, I do." 
 
 " But now about this ball ? " said Edith. " Here we are, 
 lone damsels, making butter in our father's halls, and turning 
 down the beds in the lady's chamber, unable to buy anything 
 because we are boycotted, and with no money to buy it if we 
 were not. And we can't stir out of the house lest we should be 
 shot, and I don't suppose that such a thing as a pair of gloves is 
 to be got anywhere." 
 
 " I've got gloves for both of us," said Ada. 
 
 " Put by for a rainy day. What a girl you are for providing 
 for difficulties ! And you've got silk stockings too, I shouldn't 
 wonder." 
 
 " Of course I have." 
 
 "And two ball dresses, quite new ? " 
 
 " Not quite new. They are those we wore at Hacketstown 
 before the flood." 
 
 " Good gracious ! how were Noah's daughters dressed ? Or 
 were they dressed at all ? " 
 
 "You always turn everything into nonsense," said Ada, 
 petulantly. 
 
 " To be told I'm to wear a dress that had touched the heart 
 of a patriarch, and had perhaps gone well-nigh to make me a 
 patriarch's bride ! But taking it for granted that the ball dresses 
 with all their appurtenances are here, fit to win the heart of a 
 modern Captain instead of an old patriarch, is there no other 
 reason why we should not go ? " 
 
 " What reason ? " asked Ada, in a melancholy tone. 
 
 " There are reasons. You go to papa, and see whether he 
 has not reasons. He will tell you that every shilling should be 
 saved for Florian's school." 
 
 " It won't take many shillings to go to Galway. We couldn't 
 well write to Captain Clayton and tell him that we can't afford 
 it." 
 
144 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " People keep those reasons in the background," said Edith, 
 "though people understand them. And then papa will say- 
 that in our condition we ought to be ashamed to show our faces. ;; 
 
 " What have we done amiss ? " 
 
 " Not you or I perhaps," said Edith ; " but poor Florian. I 
 am determined, — and so are you, — to take Florian to our very 
 hearts, and to forgive him as though this thing had never been 
 done. He is to us the same darling boy, as though he had 
 never been present at the flood-gates ;-as though he had had no 
 hand in bringing these evils to Morony Castle. You and I 
 have been angry, but we have forgiven him. To us he is as 
 dear as ever he was. But they know in the county what it was 
 that was done by Florian Jones, and they talk about it among 
 themselves, and they speak of you and me as Florian's sisters. 
 And they speak of papa as Florian's father. I think it may 
 well be that papa should not wish us to go to this ball." 
 
 Then there came a look of disappointment over Ada's face, 
 as though her doom had already been spoken. A ball to Ada, 
 and especially a ball at Galway, — a coining ball, — was a promise 
 of infinite enjoyment ; but a ball with Captain Yorke Clayton 
 would be heaven on earth. And by the way in which this 
 invitation had come he had been secured as a partner for the 
 evening. He could not write to them, and especially call upon 
 them to come without doing all he could to make the evening 
 pleasant for them. She included Edith in all these promises of 
 pleasantness. But Edith, if the thing was to be done at all, 
 would do it all for Ada. As for the danger in which the man 
 passed his life, that must be left in the hands of God. Looking 
 at it with great seriousness, as in the midst of her joking she 
 did look at these things, she told herself that Ada was very 
 lovely, and that this man was certainly lovable. And she had 
 taken it into her imagination that Captain Clayton was certainly 
 in the road to fall in love with Ada. Why should not Ada have 
 her chance ? And why should not the Captain have his ? Why 
 should she not have her chance of having a gallant lovable 
 gentleman for a brother-in-law ? Edith was not at all prepared 
 to give the world up for lost, because Pat Carroll had made 
 himself a brute, and because the neighbours were idiots and 
 had boycotted them. It must all depend upon their father, 
 whether they should or should not go to the ball. And she had 
 not thought it prudent to appear too full of hope when talking 
 of it to Ada ; but for herself she quite agreed with the Captain 
 that policy required them to go. 
 
 " I suppose you would like it ?" she said to her sister. 
 
 " I always was fond of dancing," replied Ada. 
 
 " Especially with heroes." 
 
 " Of course you laugh at me, but Captain Clayton won't be 
 there as an officer ; he's only a resident magistrate." 
 
"FROM THE FULL HEART? ETC. 
 
 " He's the best of all the officers," said Edith with enthusiasm. 
 " I won't have our hero run down. I believe him to have twice 
 as much in him as any of the officers. He's the gallantest 
 fellow I know. I think we ought to go, if it's only because he 
 wants it." 
 
 " I don't want not to go," said Ada. 
 
 " I daresay not ; but papa will be the difficulty." 
 
 " He'll think more of you than of me, Edith. Suppose you 
 go and talk to him." 
 
 So it was decided ; and Edith went away to her father, 
 leaving Ada still among the beds. Of Frank not a word had 
 been spoken. Frank would go as a matter of course if Mr. 
 Jones consented. But Ada, though she was left among the 
 beds, did not at once go on with her work ; but sat down on 
 that special bed by which her attention was needed, and thought 
 of the circumstances which surrounded her. Was it a fact that 
 she was in love with the Captain ? To be in love to her was a 
 very serious thing, — but so delightful. She had been already 
 once, — well, not in love, but preoccupied just a little in thinking 
 of one young man. The one young man was an officer, but was 
 now in India, and Ada had not ventured even to mention his 
 name in her father's presence. Edith had of course known the 
 secret, but Edith had frowned upon it. She had said that 
 Lieutenant Talbot was no better than a stick, although he had 
 ^400 a year of his own. " He'd give you nothing to talk about," 
 said Edith, " but his ^400 a year." Therefore when Lieutenant 
 Talbot went to India, Ada Jones did not break her heart. But 
 now Edith called Captain Clayton a hero, and seemed in all 
 respects to approve of him ; and Edith seemed to thiak that he 
 certainly admired Ada. It was a dreadful thing to have to fall 
 in love with a woodcock. Ada felt that if, as things went on, 
 the woodcock should become her woodcock, the bullet which 
 reached his heart would certainly pierce her own bosom also. 
 But such was the way of the world. Edith had seemed to think 
 that the man was entitled to have a lady of his own to love ; and 
 if so, Ada seemed to think that the place would be one very well 
 suited to herself. Therefore she was anxious for the ball ; and 
 at the present moment thought only of the difficulties to be 
 incurred by Edith in discussing the matter with her father. 
 
 " Papa, Captain Clayton wants us to go to a ball at Galway:" 
 it was thus that Edith began her task. 
 
 " Wants you to go to a ball ! What has Captain Clayton to 
 do with you two ?" 
 
 " Nothing on earth ; — at any rate not with me. Here is his 
 letter, which speaks for itself. He seems to think that we should 
 show ourselves to everybody around, to let them know that we 
 are not crushed by what such a one as Pat Carroll can do to us." 
 
 " Who says that we are crushed ? " 
 
 L 
 
i 4 6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "It is the people who are crushed that generally say so of 
 themselves. There would be nothing unusual under ordinary 
 circumstances in your daughter going to a ball at Galway." 
 
 " That's as may be." 
 
 " We can stay the night at Mrs. D'Arcy's, and she will be 
 delighted to have us. If we never show ourselves it would be as 
 though we acknowledged ourselves to be crushed. And to tell 
 the truth, papa, I don't think it is quite fair to Ada to keep her 
 here always. She is very beautiful, and at the same time fond 
 of society. She is doing her duty here bravely ; there is nothing 
 about the house that she will not put her hand to. She is better 
 than any servant for the way she does her work. I think you 
 ought to let her go ; it is but for the one night." 
 
 " And you ? " asked the father. 
 
 " I must go with her, I suppose, to keep her company." 
 " And are not you fond of society ? 79 
 
 " No ; — not as she is. I like the rattle very well just for a 
 few minutes." 
 
 " And are not you beautiful ? " he asked. 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! Don't be such a goose, papa." 
 
 " To me you are quite as lovely as is Ada." 
 
 " Because you are only a stupid, old papa," but she kissed 
 him as she said it. " You have no right to expect to have two 
 beauties in the family. If I were a beauty I should go away and 
 leave you, as will Ada. It's her destiny to be carried off by 
 someone. Why not by some of these gallant fellows at Galway ? 
 It's my destiny to remain at home ; and so you may know what 
 you have got to expect." 
 
 " If it should turn out to be so, there will be one immeasurable 
 comfort for me in the midst of all my troubles." 
 
 "It shall be so," said she, whispering into his ear. "But, 
 papa, you will let us go to this ball in Galway, will you not ? 
 Ada has set her heart upon it." So the matter was settled. 
 
 The answer to Captain Clayton, sent by Edith, was as follows ; 
 but it was not sent till the boy aad been allowed to stuff himself 
 with buttered toast and tea, which, to such a boy, is the acme of 
 all happiness. 
 
 " Morony Castle, 8th of May, 1881. 
 
 "Dear Captain Clayton, 
 
 " We will both come, of course, and are infinitely 
 obliged to you for the trouble you have taken on our behalf. 
 Papa will not come, of course. Frank will, no doubt ; but he 
 is out after a salmon in the Hacketstown river. I hope he will 
 get one, as we are badly off for provisions. If he cannot find 
 a salmon, I hope he will find a trout, or we shall have nothing 
 for three days running. Ada and I think we can manage a leg 
 of mutton between us, as far as the cooking goes, but we haven't 
 
FROM THE FULL HEART? ETC. 
 
 had a chance of trying our hands yet. Frank, however, will 
 write to the officers by post. We shall sleep the night at Mrs. 
 D'Arcy's, and can get there very well by ourselves. All the 
 same, we shall be delighted to see you, if you will come down 
 to the boat. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Edith Jones. 
 
 " I must tell you what Ada said about our dresses, only 
 pray don't tell any of the officers. Of course we had to have a 
 consultation about our frocks, because everything in the shops is 
 boycotted for us. ' Oh,' said Ada, ' there are the gauze dresses 
 we wore at Hacketstown before the flood P Only think of Ada 
 and I at a ball with the Miss Noahs, four or five thousand years 
 ago." 
 
 Frank consented to go of course, but not without some little 
 difficulty. He didn't think it was a time for balls. According 
 to his view of things ginger should be no longer hot in the 
 mouth. 
 
 "But why not?" said Edith. "If a ball at any time is a 
 good thing, why should it be bad now? Are we all to go 
 into mourning, because Mr. Carroll has so decreed? For myself 
 I don't care twopence for the ball. I don't think it is worth the 
 ten shillings which it will cost. But I am all for showing that 
 we don't care so much for Mr. Carroll." 
 
 " Carroll is in prison," said Frank. 
 
 " Nor yet for Terry Lax, or Tim Brady, or Terry Carroll, or 
 Tony Brady. The world is not to be turned away from its 
 proper course by such a scum of men as that. Of course you'll 
 do as a brother should do, and come with us." 
 
 To this Frank assented, and on the next day went out for 
 another salmon, thinking no more about the party at Galway. 
 
 But the party at Galway was a matter of infinite trouble and 
 infinite interest to the two girls. Those dresses which had been 
 put by from before the flood were brought forth, and ironed, and 
 re-ribboned, and re-designed, as though the fate of heroes and 
 heroines depended upon them. And it was clearly intended 
 that the fate of one hero and of one heroine should depend on 
 them, though nothing absolutely to that effect was said at 
 present between the sisters. It was not said, but it was under- 
 stood by both of them that it was so; and each understood what 
 was in the heart of the other. " Dear, dear Edith," said Ada. 
 " Let them boycott us as they will," said Edith, " but my pet 
 shall be as bright as any of them." There was a ribbon that 
 had not been tossed, a false flower that had on it something of 
 the bloom of newness. A faint offer was made by Ada to 
 abandon some of these prettinesses to her sister, but Edith 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 would have none of them. Edith pooh-poohed the idea as 
 though it were monstrous. " Don't be a goose, Ada/' she said ; 
 " of course this is to be your night. What does it signify what 
 I wear?" 
 
 " Oh, but it does ;— just the same as for me. I don't see 
 why you are not to be just as nice as myself." 
 "That's not true, my dear." 
 
 "Why not true? There is quite as much depends on your 
 good fortune as on mine. And then you are so much the 
 cleverer of the two." 
 
 Then when the day for the ball drew near, there came to be 
 some more serious conversation between them. 
 
 "Ada, love, you mean to enjoy yourself, don't you ?" 
 
 " If I can I will. When I go to these things I never know 
 whether they will lead to enjoyment or the reverse. Some 
 little thing happens so often, and every thing seems to- go 
 wrong." 
 
 " They shouldn't go wrong with you, my pet." 
 
 "Why not with me as well as with others ?" 
 
 " Because you are so beautiful to look at. You are made to 
 be queen of a ball-room ; not a London ball-room, where every- 
 thing, I take it, is flash and faded, painted and stale, and worn 
 out ; but down here in the country, where there is some life 
 among us, and where a girl may be supposed to be excited over 
 her dancing. It is in such rooms as this that hearts are won 
 and lost ; a bid made for diamonds is all that is done in 
 London." 
 
 " I never was at a London ball," said Ada. 
 
 "Nor I either ; but one reads of them. I can fancy a man 
 really caring for a girl down in Galway. Can you fancy a man 
 caring for a girl ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Ada. 
 
 " For yourself, now ? " 
 
 " I don't think anybody will ever care much for me." 
 
 55 Oh, Ada, what a fib ! It is all very pretty, your mock 
 modesty, but it is so untrue. A man not love you ! Why, I can 
 fancy a man thinking that the gods could not allow him a 
 greater grace than the privilege of taking you in his arms." 
 
 " Isn't anyone to take you in his arms, then ?" 
 
 " No, no one. I am not a thing to be looked at in that light. 
 I mean eventually to take to women's rights, and to make myself 
 generally odious. Only I have promised to stick to papa, and 
 I have got to do that first. You ; who will you stick to ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Ada. 
 
 "If I were to suggest Captain Yorke Clayton? If I were 
 to suppose that he is the man who is to have the privilege ? " 
 " Don't, Edith." 
 
 "He is my hero, and you are my pet, and I want to bring 
 
THE GALWAY BALL, 
 
 149 
 
 you two together. I want to have my share in the hero ; and 
 still to keep a share in my pet. Is not that rational ? " 
 
 " I don't know that there is anything rational in it all," said 
 Ada. But still she went to bed well pleased that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE GALWAY BALL. 
 
 When the 20th of May came, the three started off together for 
 Galway, happy in spite of their boycotting. The girls at least 
 were happy, though Frank was still somewhat sombre as he 
 thought of the edict which Rachel O'Mahony had pronounced 
 against him. When the boat arrived at the quay at Galway, 
 Captain Clayton, with one of the officers of the West Bromwich, 
 was there to meet it. " He is a wise man," whispered Edith to 
 Ada, " he takes care to provide for number one." 
 " I don't see that at all/' said Ada. 
 
 " That brave little w T arrior, who is four feet and a half high, 
 is intended for my escort. Two is company and three is none. 
 I quite agree as to that." Then they left the boat, and Edith 
 so arranged the party that she was to walk between the small 
 warrior and her brother, whereas Ada followed with Captain 
 Clayton. In such straits of circumstances a man always has to 
 do what he is told. Presence of mind and readiness is needful, 
 but the readiness of a man is never equal to that of a woman. 
 So they went off to Mrs. D'Arcy's house, and Ada enjoyed all 
 the little preliminary sweets of the Captain's conversation. The 
 words that were spoken all had reference to Edith herself ; but 
 they came from the Captain and were assuredly sweet. 
 
 " And it's really true that you are boycotted ! " Mrs. D'Arcy 
 asked. 
 
 " Certainly it's true." 
 
 " And what do they do to you ? Do all the servants leave 
 you ? " 
 
 " Unless there be any like Peter who make up their minds 
 to face the wrath of Land-leaguers. Peter has lived with us a 
 long time, and has to ask himself whether it will be best for him 
 to stay or go." 
 
 " And he stays ? What a noble fellow ! " said Mrs. D'Arcy. 
 
 "What would he do with himself if he didn't stay?" said 
 Edith. " I don't suppose they'd shoot him, and he gets plenty 
 to eat. The girls who were in the house and the young men 
 about the place had friends of their own living near them, so 
 they thought it better to go. Everybody of course does what 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 is best for himself. And Peter, though he has suited himself, 
 is already making a favour of it. Papa told him only yesterday 
 that he might go himself if he pleased. Only think, we had to 
 send all the horses last week into Galway to be shod ;— and then 
 they wouldn't do it, except one man who made a tremendous 
 favour of it, and after doing it charged double." 
 
 " But won't they sell you anything at Tuam ?" 
 
 " Not a ha'porth. We couldn't get so much as soap for 
 house-washing, unless Mrs. Blake had stood by us and let us 
 have her soap. Ada and I have to do every bit of washing 
 about the place. I do think well of Peter because he insists on 
 washing his own shirts and stockings. Unfortunately we haven't 
 got a mangle, and we have to iron the sheets if we want them to 
 look at all nice. Ada's sheets and mine, and Florian's, are only 
 just rough-pressed. Of course we get tea and those things down 
 from Dublin. Only think of the way in which the tradespeople 
 are ruining themselves. Everything has to go to Dublin to be 
 sold ; potatoes and cattle, and now butter. Papa says that they 
 won't pay for the carriage. When you come to think of it, this 
 boycotting is the most ruinous invention on both sides. When 
 poor Florian declared that he would go to Mass after he had 
 first told the story about Pat Carroll, they swore they would 
 boycott the chapel if he entered the door. Not a single person 
 would stay to receive the Mass. So he wouldn't go. It was not 
 long after that when he became afraid to show his face outside 
 the hall-door." 
 
 "And yet you can come here to this ball?" said Mrs. 
 D'Arcy. 
 
 " Exactly so. I will go where I please till they boycott the 
 very roads from under my feet. I expect to hear soon that 
 they have boycotted Ada and me, so that no young man shall 
 come and marry us. Of course, I don't understand such things, 
 but it seems to me that the Government should interfere to 
 defend us." 
 
 When the evening came, and the witching hour was there, 
 Ada and Edith appeared at the barracks as bright as their 
 second-hand finery could make them. They had awarded to 
 them something of especial glory as being boycotted heroines, 
 and were regarded with a certain amount of envy by the Miss 
 Blakes, Miss Bodkins, Miss Lamberts, Miss Ffrenchs, and Miss 
 Parsons of the neighbourhood. They had, none of them, as yet 
 achieved the full honours of boycotting, though some of them 
 were half-way to it. The Miss Ffrenchs told them how their 
 father's sheep had been boycotted, the shepherd having been 
 made to leave his place. The Miss Blakes had been boycotted 
 because their brother had been refused a car. And the Bodkins 
 of Ballytowngal were held to have been boycotted en maste 
 because of the doings at Moytubber gorse. But none of them 
 
THE GALWAY BALL. 151 
 
 had been boycotted as had been the Miss Jones' ; and therefore 
 the Miss Tones' were the heroines of the evening. 
 
 " I declare it is very nice/' Ada said to her sister that night, 
 when they got home to Mrs. D'Arcy's, "because it got for us 
 the pick of all the partners." « • u 
 
 " It got for you one partner, at any rate," said Edith, either 
 the boycotting or something else." Edith had determined that 
 it should be so ; or had determined at any rate that it should 
 seem to be so. In her resolution that the hero of the day 
 should fall in love with her sister, she had almost taught herself 
 to think that the process had already taken place. It was so 
 natural that the bravest man should fall in love with the fairest 
 lady, that Edith took it for granted that it already was so. She 
 too in some sort was in love with her own sister. Ada to her 
 was so fair, so soft, so innocent, so feminine and so lovable, 
 that her very heart was in the project —and the project that 
 Ada should have the hero of the hour to herself. And yet she 
 too had a heart of her own, and had told herself m so many 
 words, that she herself would have loved the man —had it been 
 fitting that she should burden him with such a love. She had 
 rejected the idea as unfitting, impossible, and almost unfemmme. 
 There was nothing in her to attract the man. The idea had 
 sprung up but for a moment, and had been cast out as being 
 monstrous. There was Ada, the very queen of beauty. And 
 the gallant hero was languishing in her smiles. It was thus 
 that her imagination carried her on, after the notion had once 
 been entertained. At the ball Edith did in fact dance with 
 Captain Clayton quite as often as did Ada herself, but she 
 danced with him, she said, as the darling sister of his ^supposed 
 bride. All her talk had been about Ada— because Edith had 
 so chosen the subject. But with Ada the conversation had all 
 been about Edith, because the Captain had selected the subject. 
 
 We all know how a little party is made up on such occasions. 
 Though the party dance also with other people on occasions, 
 they are there especially to dance with each other. An inter- 
 loper or two now and again is very useful, so as to keep up 
 appearances. The little warrior whom Edith had ill-naturedly 
 declared to be four feet and a half high, but who was in truth 
 five feet and a half, made up the former. Frank did not do 
 much dancing, devoting himself to thinking of Rachel O Mahony. 
 The little man, who was a distinguished officer named Captain 
 Butler, of the West Bromwich, had a very good time of it, 
 dancing with Ada when Captain Clayton was not doing so. 
 " The greatest brick I ever saw in my life ! "—it was thus 
 Captain Butler afterwards spoke of Edith, " but Ada is the girl 
 for me, you know." Had Edith heard this, which she could not 
 do, because she was then on the boat going back to Morony 
 Castle, she would have informed Captain Butler that Ada was 
 
152 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 not the girl for him ; but Captain Clayton, who heard the 
 announcement made, did not seem to be much disturbed by it. 
 
 " It was a very nice party, Mrs. D'Arcy," said Edith the 
 next morning. 
 
 " Was there a supper ? " 
 
 " There was plenty to eat and drink, if you mean that, but 
 we did not waste our time sitting down. I hate having to sit 
 down opposite to a great ham when I am in the full tide of my 
 emotions." 
 
 " There were emotions then ? " 
 
 " Of course there were. What's the good of a ball without 
 them ? Fancy Captain Butler and no emotions, or Captain 
 Clayton ! Ask Ada if there were not. But as far as we were 
 concerned, it was I who had the best of it. Captain Butler was 
 my special man for the evening, and he had on a beautiful red 
 jacket with gold buttons. You never saw anything so lovely. 
 But Captain Clayton had just a simple black coat. That is so 
 ugly, you know." 
 
 " Is Captain Clayton Ada's special young man ? " 
 
 " Most particularly special, is he not, Ada? 
 
 " What nonsense you do talk, Edith ! He is not my special 
 young man at all. I'm afraid he won't be any young woman's 
 special young man very long, if he goes on as he does at 
 present. Do you hear what he did over at Ardfry ? There was 
 some cattle to be seized for rent, and all the people on that side 
 of the country were there. Ever so many shots were fired, and 
 poor Hunter got wounded m his shoulder.* 
 
 " He just had his skin raised/ said Edith. 
 
 " And Captain Clayton got terribly mauled in the crowd. 
 But he wouldn't fire a pistol at any of them. He brought some 
 ringleader away prisoner, — he and two policemen. But they 
 got all the cattle, and the tenants had to buy them back and 
 pay their rent. When we try to seize cattle at Ballintubber 
 they are always driven away to County Mayo. I do think that 
 Captain Clayton is a real hero." 
 
 " Of course he is, my dear ; that's given up to him long 
 ago, — and to you." 
 
 In the afternoon they went home by boat, and Frank made 
 himself disagreeable by croaking. " Upon my word," he said, 
 " I think that this is hardly a fit time for giving balls." 
 
 " Ginger should not be hot in the mouth," said Edith. 
 
 " You may put it in what language you like, but that is 
 about what I mean. The people who go to the balls cannot in 
 truth afford it." 
 
 tl That's the officers' look-out." 
 
 "And they are here on a very sad occasion. Everything is 
 going to ruin in the country." 
 
 " I won't be put down by Pat Carroll/' said Edith. " He 
 
THE GALWAY BALL. 
 
 153 
 
 shall not be able to boast to himself that he has changed the 
 natural course of my life." 
 
 " He has changed it altogether." 
 
 " You know what I mean. I am not going to yield to him 
 or to any of them. I mean to hold my own against it as far as 
 I can do so. I'll go to church, and to balls, and I'll visit my 
 friends, and I'll eat my dinner every day of my life just as 
 though Pat Carroll didn't exist. He's in prison just at present, 
 and therefore so far we have got the best of him." 
 
 " But we can't sell a head of cattle without sending it up to 
 Dublin. And we can't find a man to take charge of it on the 
 journey. We can't get a shilling of rent, and we hardly dare to 
 walk about the place in the broad light of day lest we should be 
 shot at. While things are in this condition it is no time for 
 dancing at balls. I am so broken-hearted at the present 
 moment that but for my father and for you I would cut the 
 place and go to America." 
 
 " Taking Rachel with you ?" said Edith. 
 
 " Rachel just now is as prosperous as we are the reverse. 
 Rachel would not go. It is all very well for Rachel, as things 
 are prosperous with her. But here we have the reverse of pros- 
 perity, and according to my feelings there should be no gaiety. 
 Do you ever realise to yourself what it is to think that your 
 father is ruined ? " 
 
 " We ought not to have gone," said Ada. 
 
 " Never say die, 5 '" said Edith, slapping her little hand down 
 on the gunwale of the boat. " Morony Castle and Ballintubber 
 belong to papa, and I will never admit that he is ruined 
 because a few dishonest tenants refuse to pay their rents for a 
 time. A man such as Pat Carroll can do him an injury, but 
 papa is big enough to rise above that in the long run. At any 
 rate I will live as becomes papa's daughter, as long as he 
 approves and I have the power." Discussing these matters 
 they reached the quay near Morony Castle, and Edith as she 
 jumped ashore felt something of triumph in her bosom. She 
 had at any rate succeeded in her object. " I am sure we were 
 right to go," she whispered to Ada. 
 
 Their father received them with but very few words ; nor 
 had Florian much to say as to the glories of the ball. His mind 
 was devoted at present to the coming trial. And indeed, in a 
 more open and energetic manner, so was the mind of Captain 
 Clayton. a This will be the last holiday for me," he had said 
 to Edith at the ball, " before the great day comes off for Patrick 
 Carroll, Esq. It's all very well for a man once in a way, but 
 there should not be too much of it." 
 
 " You have not to complain deeply of yourself on that head." 
 
 " I have had my share of fun in the world," he said ; " but 
 it grows less as I grow older. It is always so with a man as he 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 gets into his work. I think my hair will grow grey very soon, 
 if I do not succeed in having Mr. Carroll locked up for his life." 
 
 " Do you think they will convict him ? 99 
 
 " I think they will ? I do think they will. We have got one 
 of the men who is ready to swear that he assisted him in pulling 
 down the gates." 
 
 " Which of the men ? " she asked. 
 
 " I will tell you because I trust you as my very soul. His 
 own brother, Terry, is the man. Pat, it seems, is a terrible 
 tyrant among his own friends, and Terry is willing to turn 
 against him, on condition that a passage to America be pro- 
 vided for him. Of course he is to have a free pardon for him- 
 self. We do want one man to corroborate your brother's 
 evidence. Your brother no doubt was not quite straight at 
 first." 
 
 " He lied," said Edith. " When you and I talk about it 
 together, we should tell the simple truth. We have pardoned 
 him his lie ; — but he lied." 
 
 " We have now the one man necessary to confirm his 
 testimony. 
 
 " But he is the brother." 
 
 " No doubt. But in such a case as this anything is fair to 
 get at the truth. And we shall employ no falsehoods. This 
 younger Carroll was instigated by his brother to assist him in 
 the deed. And he was seen by your brother to be one of those 
 who assisted. It seems to me to be quite right." 
 
 " It is very terrible," Edith said. 
 
 " Yes ; it is terrible. A brother will have to swear against a 
 brother, and will be bribed to do it. I know what will be said 
 to me very well. They have tried to shoot me down like a rat ; 
 but I mean to get the better of them. And when I shall have 
 succeeded in removing Mr. Pat Carroll from his present sphere 
 of life, I shall have a second object of ambition before me. Mr. 
 Lax is another gentleman whom I wish to remove. Three 
 times he has shot at me, but he has not hit me yet.' 5 
 
 From that time forth there had certainly been no more 
 dances for Captain Clayton. His mind had been altogether 
 devoted to his work, and amidst that work the trial of Pat 
 Carroll had stood prominent. " He and I are equally eager, or 
 at any rate equally anxious ; " he had said to Edith, speaking 
 of her brother, when he had met her subsequent to the ball. 
 " But the time is coming soon, and we shall know all about it 
 in another six weeks." This was said in June, and the trial was 
 to take place in August. 
 
LORD CASTLEWELL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 LORD CASTLEWELL. 
 
 The spring and early summer had worn themselves away in 
 London, and Rachel O'Mahony was still singing at the 
 Embankment Theatre. She and her father were still living in 
 Cecil Street. The glorious day of October, which had been 
 fixed at last for the 24th, on which Rachel was to appear on the 
 Covent Garden boards, was yet still distant, and she was per- 
 forming under Mr. Moss's behests at a weekly stipend of ^15, 
 to which there would be some addition when the last weeks of 
 the season had come about, the end of July and beginning of 
 August. But, alas ! Rachel hardly knew what she would do to 
 support herself during the dead months from August to October. 
 " Fashionable people always go out of town, father," she said. 
 " Then let us be fashionable." 
 
 " Fashionable people go to Scotland, but they won't take one 
 in there without money. We shan't have £50 left when our 
 debts are paid. And ^50 would do nothing for us." 
 
 " They've stopped me altogether," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 " At any rate they have stopped the money-making part of the 
 business. They have threatened to take the man's licence away, 
 and therefore that place is shut up." 
 
 " Isn't that unjust, father ? " 
 
 " Unjust ! Everything done in England as to Ireland is 
 unjust. They carried an Act of Parliament the other day, when 
 in accordance with the ancient privileges of members it was 
 within the power of a dozen stalwart Irishmen to stop it. The 
 dozen stalwart Irishmen were there, but they were silenced by a 
 brutal majority. The dozen Irishmen were turned out of the 
 House, one after the other, in direct opposition to the ancient 
 privileges ; and so a Bill was passed robbing five million Irish- 
 men of their liberties. So gross an injustice was never before 
 perpetrated — not even when the bribed members sold their 
 country and effected the accursed Union." 
 
 " I know that was very bad, father, but the bribes were 
 taken by Irishmen. Be that as it may, what are we to do with 
 ourselves next autumn ? " 
 
 " The only thing for us is to seek for assistance in the 
 United States." 
 
 " They won't lend us ^100." 
 
 " We must overrun this country by the force of true liberal 
 opinion. The people themselves will rise when they have the 
 Americans to lead them. What is wanted now are the voices 
 of true patriots loud enough to reach the people." 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "And £100" said she, speaking into his ear, "to keep us 
 alive from the middle of August to the end of October." 
 
 " For myself, I have been invited to come into Parliament. 
 The County of Cavan will be vacant." 
 
 " Is there a salary attached ? " 
 
 "One or two leading Irish members are speaking of it," said 
 Mr. O'Mahony, carried away by the grandeur of the idea, "but 
 the amount has not been fixed yet. And they seem to think 
 that it is wanted chiefly for the parliamentary session. I have 
 not promised, because I do not quite see my way. And to tell 
 the truth, I am not sure that it is in Parliament that an honest 
 Irishman will shine the best. What's the good when you can 
 be silenced at a moment's notice by the word of some mock 
 Speaker, who upsets all the rules of his office to put a gag upon 
 a dozen men ? When America has come to understand what it 
 is that the lawless tyrant did on that night when the Irishmen 
 w T ere turned out of the House, will she not rise in her wrath, and 
 declare that such things shall no longer be ?" All this occurred 
 in Cecil Street, and Rachel, who well understood her father's 
 wrath, allowed him to expend in words the anger which would 
 last hardly longer than the sound of them. 
 
 " But you won't be in Parliament for County Cavan before 
 next August ? " she asked. 
 
 " I suppose not." 
 
 " Nor will the United States have risen in their wrath so as 
 to have settled the entire question before that time ? " 
 " Perhaps not," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " And if they did I don't see what good it would do to us as 
 to finding for us the money that we want." 
 
 " I am so full of Ireland's wrongs at this moment, and with 
 the manner in which these policemen interfered with me, that I 
 can hardly bring myself to think of your autumn plans." 
 
 " What are yours ? " she asked. 
 
 " I suppose we should always have money enough to go to 
 America. In America a man can at any rate open his mouth." 
 
 " Or a woman either. But according to what M. Le Gros 
 says, in England they pay better at the present moment. Mr. 
 Moss has offered to lend me the money ; but for myself I would 
 sooner go into an English workhouse than accept money from 
 Mr. Moss which I had not earned." 
 
 In truth, Rachel had been very foolish with her money, 
 spending it as though there were no end to the source from which 
 it had come, and her father had not been more prudent. He was 
 utterly reckless in regard to such considerations, and would 
 simply declare that he was altogether indifferent to his dinner, 
 or to the new hat he had proposed to buy for himself when the 
 subject was brought under his notice. He had latterly become 
 more eager than ever as to politics, and was supremely happy 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL. 
 
 157 
 
 as long as he was at liberty to speak before any audience those 
 angry words which had however been, unfortunately for him, 
 declared to be treasonable. He had, till lately, been taught to 
 understand that the House of Commons was the only arena on 
 which such permission would be freely granted, — and could be 
 granted of course only to members of the House. Therefore 
 the idea had entered his head that it would suit him to become 
 a member, — more especially as there had arisen a grand scheme 
 of a salary for certain Irish members of which he would be one. 
 But even here the brutality of England had at last interfered, 
 and men were not to be allowed to say what they pleased any 
 longer even in the House of Commons. Therefore Mr. O'Mahony 
 was much disturbed ; and although he was anxious to quarrel 
 with no one individually, not even the policemen who arrested 
 him, he was full of indignant wrath against the tyranny of 
 England generally. 
 
 Rachel, when she could get no good advice from her father 
 with regard to her future funds, went back again to her singing. 
 It was necessary, at any rate, that she should carry out her 
 present arrangement with Mr. Moss, and she was sure at least 
 of receiving from him the money which she earned. But, alas ! 
 she could not practise the economy which she knew to be 
 necessary. The people at the theatre had talked her into hiring 
 a one-horse open carriage in which she delighted to drive about, 
 and in which, to tell the truth, her father delighted to accompany 
 her. She had thought that she could allow herself this indul- 
 gence out of her ^15 a week. And though she paid for the 
 indulgence monthly, that and their joint living nearly consumed 
 the stipend. And now, as her father's advice did not get beyond 
 the very doubtful salary which might accrue to him as the future 
 member for the County Cavan, her mind naturally turned itself 
 tD other sources. From M. Le Gros, or from M. Le Gros > 
 employers, she was to receive ^300 for singing in the two months 
 before Christmas, with an assurance of a greatly increased 
 though hitherto unfixed stipend afterwards. Personally she as 
 yet knew no one connected with her future theatrical home but 
 M. Le Gros. Of M. Le Gros all her thoughts had been favour- 
 able. Should she ask M. Le Gros to lend her some small sum 
 of money in advance for the uses of the autumn ? Mr. Moss 
 had made to her a fixed proposition on the subject, which she 
 had altogether declined. She had declined it with scorn, as she 
 was wont to do all favours proffered by Mr. Moss. Mr. Moss 
 had still been gracious, and had smiled, and had ventured to 
 express " a renewed hope/' as he called it, that Miss O'Mahony 
 would even yet condescend to look with regard on the sincere 
 affection of her most humble servant. And then he had again 
 expatiated on the immense success in theatrical life which would 
 attend a partnership entered into between the skill and beauty 
 
i 5 8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 and power of voice of Miss O'Mahony on the one side, and the 
 energy, devotion, and capital of Mr. Moss on the other. " Psha ! " 
 had been Rachel's only reply ; and so that interview had been 
 brought to an end. But Rachel, when she came to think of 
 M. Le Gros, and the money she was desirous of borrowing, was 
 afflicted by certain qualms. That she should have borrowed 
 from Mr. Moss, considering the length of their acquaintance 
 might not have been unnatural ; but of M. Le Gros she knew 
 nothing but his civility. Nor had she any reason for supposing 
 that M. Le Gros had money of his own at his disposal ; nor did 
 she know where M. Le Gros lived. She could go to Covent 
 Garden and ask for him there ; but that was all. 
 
 So she dressed herself prettily— neatly, as she called it — 
 and had herself driven to the theatre. There, as chance would 
 have it, she found M. Le Gros standing under the portico with 
 a gentleman whom she represented to herself as an elderly old 
 buck. M. Le Gros saw her and came down into the street at 
 once with his hat in his hand. 
 
 " M. Le Gros," said she, " I want you to do me a great 
 favour, but I have hardly the impudence to ask it. Can you 
 lend me some money this autumn — say ;£ioo?" Thereupon 
 M. Le Gros' face fell, and his cheeks were elongated, and his 
 eyes were very sorrowful. "Ah, then, I see you can't," she 
 said. " I will not put you to the pain of saying so. I ought 
 not to have suggested it. My dealings with you have seemed 
 to be so pleasant, and they have not been quite of the same 
 nature down at 6 The Embankment.'" 
 
 " My dear young lady " 
 
 " Not another word ; and I beg your pardon most heartily 
 for having given you this moment's annoyance." 
 
 " There is one of the lessees there," said M. Le Gros, 
 pointing back to the gentleman on the top of the steps, " who 
 has been to hear you and to look at you this two times — this 
 three times at 6 The Embankment.' He do think you will 
 become the grand singer of the age," 
 
 " Who is the judicious gentleman ? " asked Rachel, whisper- 
 ing to M. Le Gros out of the carriage. 
 
 " He is Lord Castlewell. He is the eldest son of the Marquis 
 of Beaulieu. He have — oh ! — lots of money. He was saying — 
 ah ! I must not tell you what his lordship was saying of you 
 because it will make you vain." 
 
 " Nothing that any lord can say of me will make me vain," 
 said Rachel, chucking up her head. Then his lordship, thinking 
 that he had been kept long enough standing on the top of the 
 theatre steps, lifted his hat and came down to the carriage, the 
 occupant of which he had recognised. 
 
 " May I have the extreme honour of introducing Made- 
 moiselle O'Mahony to Lord Castlewell?" and M. Le Gros 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL. 
 
 *S9 
 
 again pulled off his hat as he made the introduction. Miss 
 O'Mahony found that she had become Mademoiselle as soon as 
 she had drawn up her carriage at the front door of the genuine 
 Italian Opera. 
 
 " This is a pleasure indeed," said Lord Castlewell. " I am 
 delighted — more than delighted, to find that my friend Le Gros 
 has engaged the services of Mademoiselle O'Mahony for our 
 theatre." 
 
 " But our engagement does not commence quite yet, I am 
 sorry to say," replied Rachel. Then she prepared herself to be 
 driven away, not caring much for the combination of lord and 
 lessee who stood in the street speaking to her. A lessee should 
 be a lessee, she thought, and a lord a lord. 
 
 " May I do myself the honour of waiting upon you some day 
 at ( The Embankment' ? " said the lord, again pulling off his hat. 
 
 " Oh ! certainly," said Rachel ; " I should be delighted to see 
 you." Then she was driven away, and did not know whether to 
 be angry or not in having given Lord Castlewell so warm a 
 welcome. As a mere stray lord there was no possible reason 
 why he should call upon her ; nor for her why she should receive 
 him. Though Frank Jones had been dismissed, and though she 
 felt herself to be free to accept any eligible lover who might present 
 himself, she still felt herself bound on his behalf to keep herself 
 free from all elderly theatrical hangers-on, especially from such 
 men when she heard that they were also lords. But as she was 
 driven away, she took another glance at the lord, and thought 
 that he did not look so old as when she had seen him at a greater 
 distance. 
 
 But she had failed altogether in her purpose of borrowing 
 money from M. Le Gros. And for his sake she regretted much 
 that the attempt had been made. She had already learned one 
 or two details with reference to M. Le Gros. Though his 
 manners and appearance were so pleasant, he was only a 
 subaltern about the theatre ; and he was a subaltern whom this 
 lord and lessee called simply Le Gros. And from the melancholy 
 nature of his face when the application for money was made to 
 him, she had learned that he was both good-natured and im- 
 pecunious. Of herself, in regard to the money, she thought very 
 little at the present moment. There were still six weeks to run, 
 and Rachel's nature was such that she could not distress herself 
 six weeks in advance of any misfortune. She was determined 
 that she would not tell her father of her failure. As for him, he 
 would not probably say a word further of their want of money 
 till the time should come. He confined his prudence to keeping 
 a sum in his pocket sufficient to take them back to New York. 
 
 As the days went on which were to bring her engagement at 
 " The Embankment " to an end, Rachel heard a further rumour 
 about herself. Rumours did spring up at " The Embankment " 
 
i6o 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 to which she paid very little attention. She had heard the same 
 sort of things said as to other ladies at the theatre, and took them 
 all as a matter of course. Had she been asked, she would have 
 attributed them all to Madame Socani ; because Madame 
 Socani was the one person whom, next to Mr. Moss, she hated 
 the most. The rumour in this case simply stated that she had 
 already been married to Mr. Jones, and had separated from her 
 husband. " Why do they care about such a matter as that ? " she 
 said to the female from whom she heard the rumour. " It can't 
 matter to me as a singer whether I have five husbands." 
 
 (i But it is so interesting," said the female, " when a lady has 
 a husband and doesn't own him ; or when she owns him and 
 hasn't really got him ; it adds a piquancy to life, especially to 
 theatrical life, which does want these little assistances. ,, 
 
 Then one evening Lord Castlewell did call upon her at " The 
 Embankment." Her father was not with her, and she was 
 constrained by the circumstances of the moment to see his lord- 
 ship alone. 
 
 " I do feel, you know, Miss O'Mahony," he said, thus coming 
 back for the moment into everyday life, " that I am entitled to 
 take an interest in you." 
 
 " Your lordship is very kind." 
 
 " I suppose you never heard of me before ? " 
 
 " Not a word, my lord. I'm an American girl, and I know 
 very little about English lords." 
 
 " I hope that you may come to know more. My special 
 metier in life brings me among the theatres. I am very fond of 
 music, and perhaps a little fond of beauty also." 
 
 " I am glad you have the sense, my lord, to put music the 
 first." 
 
 " I don't know about that. In regard to you I cannot say 
 which predominates." 
 
 " You are at liberty at any rate to talk about the one, as you 
 are bidding for it at your own theatre. As to the other, you 
 will excuse me for saying that it is a matter between me and 
 my friends." 
 
 " Among whom I trust before long I may be allowed to be 
 counted." 
 
 The little dialogue had been carried on with smiles and 
 good humour, and Rachel now did not choose to interfere with 
 them. After all she was only a public singer, and as such was 
 hardly entitled to the full consideration of a gentlewoman. It 
 was thus that she argued with herself. Nevertheless she had 
 uttered her little reprimand and had intended him to take it as 
 such. 
 
 " You are coming to us, you know, after the holidays." 
 "And will bring my voice with me, such as it is." 
 " But not your smiles, you mean to say." 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL. 
 
 161 
 
 " They are sure to come with me, for I am always laughing, 
 — unless I am roused to terrible wrath. I am sure that will not 
 be the case at Covent Garden." 
 
 " I hope not. You will find that you have come among a 
 set who are quite prepared to accept you as a friend." Here 
 she made a little curtsy. " And now I have to offer my sincere 
 apologies for the little proposition I am about to make." It 
 immediately occurred to her that M. Le Gros had betrayed her. 
 He was a very civil-spoken, affable, kind old man ; but he had 
 betrayed her. " M. Le Gros happened to mention that you 
 were anxious to draw in advance for some portion of the salary 
 coming to you for the next two months." M. Le Gros had at 
 any rate betrayed her in the most courteous terms. 
 
 " Well, yes ; M. Le Gros explained that the proposition was 
 not selon les regies, and it does not matter the least in the 
 world." 
 
 " M. Le Gros has explained that ? I did not know that 
 M. Le Gros had explained anything." 
 
 "Well, then, he looked it," said Rachel. 
 
 " His looks must be wonderfully expressive. He did not 
 look it to me at all. He simply told me, as one of the managers 
 of the theatre, I was to let you have whatever money you 
 wanted. And he did whisper to me, — may I tell you what he 
 whispered ?" 
 
 " I suppose you may. He seems to me to be a very good- 
 natured kind of man." 
 
 " Poor old Le Gros ! A good-natured man, I should say. 
 He doesn't carry the house, that's all " 
 
 " You do that." Then she remembered that the man was a 
 lord. " I ought to have said ( my lord/ " she thought ; " but I 
 forgot, I hope you'll excuse me — my lord." 
 
 "We are not very particular about that in theatrical matters; 
 or, rather, I am particular with some and not with others. 
 You'll learn all about it in process of time. M. Le Gros 
 whispered that he thought there was not the pleasantest under- 
 standing in the world between you and the people here." 
 
 " Well, no ; there is not, — my lord." 
 
 " Bother the lord, — just now." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Rachel, who could not avoid the 
 little bit of fun which was here implied. " Not but what the — 
 the people here — would find me any amount of money I chose 
 to ask for. There are people, you see, one does not wish to 
 borrow money from. I take my salary here, but nothing more. 
 The fact is, I have not only taken it, but spent it, and to tell 
 the truth, I have not a shilling to amuse myself with during the 
 dull season. Mr. Moss knows all about it, and has simply 
 asked how much I wanted. * Nothing,' I replied, * nothing at 
 all ; nothing at all/ And that's how I am situated." 
 
 "No debts?" 
 
 M 
 
1 62 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " Not a dollar. Beyond that I shouldn't have a dollar left 
 to get out of London with." Then she remembered herself, — 
 that it was expedient that she should tell this man something 
 about herself. " I have got a father, you know, and he has to 
 be paid for as well as me. He is the sweetest, kindest, most 
 generous father that a girl ever had, and he could make lots 
 of money for himself, only the police won't let him." 
 
 " What do the police do to him ? " said Lord Castlewell. 
 
 " He is not a burglar, you know, or anything of that kind." 
 
 " He is an Irish politician, isn't he ? " 
 
 " He is very much of a politician ; but he is not an Irishman." 
 " Irish name," suggested the lord. 
 
 " Irish name, yes ; so are half the names in my country. 
 My father comes from the United States. And he is strongly 
 impressed with the necessity of putting down the horrid in- 
 justice with which the poor Irish are treated by the monstrous 
 tyranny of you English aristocrats. You are very nice to look at." 
 
 "Thank you, Miss O'Mahony." 
 
 <( But you are very bad to go. You are not the kind of horses 
 I care to drive at all. Thieves, traitors, murderers, liars." 
 
 " Goodness gracious me ! " exclaimed the lord. 
 
 " I don't say anything for myself, because I am only a 
 singing girl, and understand nothing about politics. But these 
 are the very lightest words which he has at his tongue's end 
 when he talks about you. He is the most good-tempered fellow 
 in the world, and you would like him very much. Here is Mr. 
 Moss." Mr. Moss had opened the door and had entered the 
 room. 
 
 The greeting between the two men was closely observed by 
 Rachel, who, though she was very imprudent in much that she 
 did and much that she said, never allowed anything to pass by 
 her unobserved. Mr. Moss, though he affected an intimacy with 
 the lord, was beyond measure servile. Lord Castlewell accepted 
 the intimacy without repudiating it, but accepted also the 
 servility. "Well, Moss, how are you getting on in this little 
 house?" 
 
 "Ah, my lord, you are going to rob us of our one attraction," 
 and having bowed to the lord he turned round and bowed to 
 the lady. 
 
 " You have no right to keep such a treasure in a little place 
 like this." 
 
 "We can afford to pay for it, you know, my lord. M. Le 
 Gros came here a little behind my back, and carried her off." 
 " Much to her advantage, I should say." 
 " We can pay," said Mr. Moss. 
 
 "To such a singer as Mademoiselle O'Mahony paying is 
 not everything. An audience large enough, and sufficiently in- 
 telligent to appreciate her, is something more than mere money." 
 
HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED. 163 
 
 " We have the most intelligent audience in all London," Mr. 
 Moss said in defence of his own theatre. 
 
 " No doubt," said the lord. He had, during this little inter- 
 course of compliments, managed to write a word or two on a 
 slip of paper, which he now handed to Rachel — " Will ^200 
 do ? " This he put into her hand, and then left her, saying that 
 he would do himself the honour of calling upon her again at 
 her own lodgings, " where I shall hope," he said, " to make the 
 acquaintance of the most good-tempered fellow in the world." 5 
 Then he took his leave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED. 
 
 Mr. Moss at this interview again pressed his loan of money 
 upon poor Rachel. 
 
 "You cannot get on, my dear young lady, in this world 
 without money. If you have spent your income hitherto, what 
 do you mean to do till the end of November ? At Covent 
 Garden the salaries are all paid monthly." 
 
 There was something so ineffably low and greasy in his tone 
 of addressing her, that it was impossible to be surprised at the 
 disgust which she expressed for him. 
 
 " Mr. Moss, I am not your dear young lady," she said. 
 
 " Would that you were ! We should be as happy as the day 
 is long. There would be no money troubles then." She could 
 not fail to make comparisons between him and the English 
 nobleman who had just left her, which left the Englishman in- 
 finitely superior ; although, with the few thoughts she had given 
 to him, she had already begun to doubt whether Lord Castle- 
 weirs morality stood very high. " What will you do for money 
 for the next three months ? You cannot do without money," 
 said Mr. Moss. 
 
 " I have already found a friend," said Rachel most impru- 
 dently. 
 
 " What ! his lordship there ? " 
 
 " I am not bound to answer any such questions." 
 
 " But I know ; I can see the game is all up if it has come to 
 that. I am a fellow-workman, and there have been, and per- 
 haps will be, many relations between us. A hundred pounds 
 advanced here or there must be brought into the accounts 
 sooner or later. That is honest ; that will bear daylight ; no 
 young lady need be ashamed of that ; even if you were Mrs. 
 Jones you need not be ashamed of such a transaction." 
 
 M 2 
 
164 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " I am not Mrs. Jones," said Rachel in great anger. 
 
 " But if you were, Mr. Jones would have no ground of com- 
 plaint, unless indeed on the score of extravagance. But a present 
 from this lord ! " 
 
 " It is no present. It does not come from the lord ; it 
 comes from the funds of the theatre." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! 91 laughed Mr. Moss. " Is that the little game 
 with which he attempts to cajole you? How has he got his 
 hand into the treasury of the theatre, so that he may be able to 
 help you so conveniently ? You have not got the money yet, I 
 suppose 
 
 " I have not got his money — which may be dangerous, or 
 yours — which would certainly be more so. Though from neither 
 of you could the bare money hurt me, if it were taken with an 
 innocent heart. From you it would be a distress, an annoyance, 
 a blister. From him it would be simply a loan either from him- 
 self or from the theatre with which he is connected. I may be 
 mistaken, but I have imagined that it would come from the 
 theatre ; I will ascertain, and if it be not so, I will decline the 
 loan." 
 
 " Do you not know his character, nor his mode of living, 
 nor his dealing with actresses ? You will not at any rate get 
 
 credit for such innocence when you tell the story. Why ; 
 
 he has come here to call upon you, and of course it is all over 
 the theatre already that you are his mistress. I 'came in here 
 to endeavour to save you ; but I fear it is too late." 
 
 " Impudent scoundrel!" said Rachel, jumping up and glaring 
 at him. 
 
 " That is all very well, but I have endeavoured to save you. 
 I would believe none of them when they told me that you 
 would not be my wife because you were married to Mr. Jones. 
 Nor would I believe them when they have told me since that 
 you were not fit to be the wife of anyone." Rachel's hand went 
 in among the folds of her dress, and returned with a dagger in 
 it. Words had been said to her now which she swore to herself 
 were unbearable. " Yes ; you are in a passion now ; 99 and as 
 he said so, he contrived to get the round table with which the 
 room was garnished between himself and her. 
 
 " It is true," she said, "your words have been so base that I 
 am no doubt angry." 
 
 "But if you knew it, I am endeavouring to save you. Im- 
 prudent as you have been I still wish to make you my wife." 
 Here Rachel in her indignation spat upon the floor. "Yes; 
 I am anxious to make you an honest woman." 
 
 " You can make no woman honest. It is altogether beyond 
 your power." 
 
 " It will be so when you have taken this lord's money." 
 
HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED. 165 
 
 " I have not at any rate taken yours. It is that which 
 would disgrace me. Between this lord and me there has been 
 no word that could do so." 
 
 " Will he make you his wife ? 99 
 
 "Wife ! No. He is married for aught I know. He has 
 spoken to me no word except about my profession. Nor shall 
 you. Cannot a woman sing without being wife to any man ? " 
 
 " Ha, ha, yes indeed ! " 
 
 She understood the scorn intended to be thrown on her line 
 of life by his words, and was wretched to think that he was 
 getting the better of her in conversation. " I can sing, and I need 
 no husband." 
 
 " It is common with the friends of the lord that they do 
 not generally rank very high in their profession. I have en- 
 deavoured to save you from this kind of thing, and see the 
 return that I get ! You will, however, soon have left us, and 
 you will then find that to fill first place at i The Embankment 7 
 is better than a' second or a third at Covent Garden." 
 
 During these hot words on both sides she had been standing 
 at a pier-glass, arranging something in her dress intended to 
 suit Moss's fancy upon the stage, — Moss who was about to 
 enact her princely lover — and then she walked off without 
 another word. She went through her part with all her usual 
 vigour and charm, and so did he. Elmira also was more pathetic 
 than ever, as the night was supposed to be something special, 
 because a royal duke and his young bride were in the stage box. 
 The plaudits given would have been tremendous only that the 
 building was so small, and the grand quartette became such a 
 masterpiece that there was half a column concerning it in the 
 musical corner of the next morning's Daily Telephone. " If 
 that girl would only go as I'd have her," said Mr. Moss to the 
 most confidential of his theatrical friends, "I'd make her Mrs. 
 Moss to-morrow, and her fame should be blazoned all over the 
 world before twelve months had gone as Madame Moussa." 
 
 But Rachel, though she was enabled so to overcome her 
 rage as to remember only her theatrical passion when she was 
 on the stage, spent the whole of the subsequent night in thinking 
 over the difficulty into which she had brought herself by her 
 imprudence. She understood to the full the meaning of all 
 those innuendoes which Mr. Moss had provided for her ; and 
 she knew that though there was in them not a spark of truth as 
 regarded herself, still they were so truth-like as to meet with 
 acceptance, at any rate from all theatrical personages. She had 
 gone to M. Le Gros for the money clearly as one of the theatrical 
 company with which she was about to connect herself. M. Le 
 Gros had, to her intelligence, distinctly though very courteously 
 declined her request. It might be well that the company would 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 accede to no such request ; but M. Le Gros, in his questionable 
 civility, had told the whole story to Lord Castlewell, who had 
 immediately offered her a loan of ^200 out of his own pocket. 
 It had not occurred to her in the moment in which she had first 
 read the words in the presence of Mahomet M. M. that such 
 must necessarily be the case. Was it probable that Lord 
 Castlewell should on his own behalf recover from the treasury 
 of the theatre the sum of ,£200 ? And then the nature of this 
 lord's character opened itself to her eyes in all the forms which 
 Mr. Moss had intended that it should wear. A man did not 
 lend a young lady .£200 without meaning to secure for himself 
 some reward. And as she thought of it all she remembered the 
 kind of language in which she had spoken of her father. She 
 had described him as an American in words which might so 
 probably give this noble old roue a false impression as to his 
 character. And yet she liked the noble old roue — liked him so 
 infinitely better than she did Mr. Moss. M. Le Gros had 
 betrayed her, or had, perhaps, said words leading to her betrayal ; 
 but still she greatly preferred M. Le Gros to Mr. Moss. 
 
 She was safe as yet with this lord. Not a sparkle of his gold 
 had she received. No doubt the story about the money would 
 be spread about from her own telling of it. People would believe 
 it because she herself had said so. But it was still within her 
 power to take care that it should not be true. She did what 
 was usual on such occasions. She abused the ill-feeling of the 
 world which by the malignity of its suspicions would not scruple 
 to drag her into the depths of misfortune, forgetting probably 
 that her estimation of others was the same as others of her. 
 She did not bethink herself that had another young lady at 
 another theatre accepted a loan from an unmarried lord of such 
 a character, she would have thought ill of that young lady. The 
 world ought to be perfectly innocent in regard to her because 
 she believed herself to be innocent ; and Mr. Moss, in expressing 
 the opinions of others, and exposing to her the position in which 
 she had placed herself, had simply proved himself to be the 
 blackest of human beings. 
 
 But it was necessary that she should at once do something 
 to whitewash her own character in her own esteem. This lord 
 had declared that he himself would call, and she was at first 
 minded to wait till he did so, and then to hand back to him the 
 cheque which she believed that he would bring, and to assure 
 him that under altered circumstances it would not be wanted. 
 But she felt that it would best become her to write to him 
 openly, and to explain the circumstances which had led to his 
 offering the loan. " There is nothing like being straightforward," 
 she said to herself, " and if he does not choose to believe me, 
 that is his fault." So she took up her pen, and wrote quickly, 
 to the following effect : 
 
HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED. 
 
 167 
 
 " My dear Lord Castlewell, 
 
 " I want to tell you that I do not wish to have the £200 
 which you were good enough to say that you would lend me. 
 Indeed I cannot take it under any circumstances. I must explain 
 to you all about it, if your lordship pleases. I had intended to 
 ask M. Le Gros to get the theatre people to advance me some 
 small sum on my future engagement, and I had not thought how 
 impossible it was that they should do so. as of course I might 
 die before I had sung a single note. I never dreamed of coming 
 to you, whose lordship's name I had not even heard in my 
 ignorance. Then M. Le Gros spoke to you, and you came and 
 made your proposition in the most good-natured way in the 
 world. I was such a fool as not to see that the money must of 
 course come from yourself. 
 
 " Mr. Moss has enlightened me, and has made me under- 
 stand that no respectable young woman would accept a loan of 
 money from you without blemish to her character. Mr. Moss, 
 whom I do not in the least like, has been right in this. I should 
 be very sorry if you should be taught to think evil of me before 
 I go to your theatre ; or indeed if I do not go at all. I am not 
 up to all these things, and I suppose I ought to have consulted 
 my father the moment I got your little note. Pray do not take 
 any further notice of it. 
 
 " I am, very faithfully, 
 
 " Y our lordship's humble servant, 
 
 "Rachel O'Mahony." 
 
 Then there was added a postscript : " Your note has just 
 come and I return the cheque." As chance would have it 
 the cheque had come just as Rachel had finished her letter, and 
 with the cheque there had been a short scrawl as follows : " I 
 send the money as settled, and will call to-morrow." 
 
 Whatever may have been Lord CastlewelPs general sins 
 among actresses and actors, his feelings hitherto in regaid to 
 Miss O'Mahony had not done him discredit. He had already 
 heard her name frequently when he had seen her in her little 
 carriage before the steps of Covent Garden Theatre, and had 
 heard her sing at " The Embankment." Her voice and tone 
 and feeling had enchanted him as he had wont to be 
 enchanted by new singers of high quality, and he had been 
 greatly struck by the brightness of her beauty. When M. Le 
 Gros had told him of her little wants, he had perceived at once 
 her innocence, and had determined to relieve her wants. Then, 
 when she had told him of her father, and had explained to him 
 the kind of terms on which they lived together, he was sure that 
 she was pure as snow. But she was very lovely, and he could 
 not undertake to answer for what feelings might spring up in 
 her bosom. Now he had received this letter, and every word of 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 it spoke to him in her favour. He took, therefore, a little trouble' 
 and calling upon her the next morning at her lodgings, found 
 her seated with Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " Father," she said, when the lord was ushered into the room, 
 " this is Lord Castlewell. Lord Castlewell, this is my father." 
 
 Then she sat down, leaving the two to begin the conversation 
 as they might best please. She had told her father nothing 
 about the money, simply explaining that on the steps of the 
 theatre she had met the lord, who was one of its proprietors. 
 
 " Lord Castlewell," said Mr. O'Mahony, " I am very proud," 
 then he bowed. " 1 know very little about stage affairs, but I 
 am confident that my daughter will do her duty to the best of 
 her ability.'' 
 
 " Not more so than I am," said Lord Castlewell, upon which 
 Mr. O'Mahony bowed again. "You have heard about this little 
 contretemps about the money." 
 
 <e Not a word," said Mr. O'Mahony, shaking his head. 
 
 " Nor of the terrible character which has been given you by 
 your daughter." 
 
 " That I can well understand," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 "She says that you wish to abolish all the English aristocracy." 
 
 "Most of them," said Mr. O'Mahony. " Peradventure ten 
 shall be found honest, and I will not destroy them for ten's sake; 
 but I doubt whether there be one." 
 
 " I should be grieved to think that you were the judge." 
 
 "And so should I," said Mr. O'Mahony. " It is so easy to 
 utter curses when no power accompanies the utterances. The 
 Lord must have found it uncomfortable in regard to Sodom. I 
 can spit out all my fury against English vices and British greed 
 without suffering one pang at my heart. What is this that you 
 were saying about Rachel and her money ? " 
 
 " She is in a little trouble about cash at the present moment." 
 
 " Not a doubt about it." 
 
 "And I have offered to lend her a trifle — ^200 or so, just till 
 she can work it off up at the theatre there." 
 
 "Then there is one of the ten at any rate," said Mr. 
 O'Mahony. 
 
 " Meaning me ? " asked the lord. 
 
 "Just so. Lending us ^200, when neither of us have a 
 shilling in our pocket, is a very good deed. Don't you think so, 
 Rachel ? " 
 
 " No," said Rachel. " Lord Castlewell is not a fit person to 
 lend me ^200 out of his pocket, and I will not have it." 
 
 " I did not know," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " Yon never know anvthing, you are such a dear, innocent 
 old father." 
 
 " There's an end of it then," said he, addressing himself to 
 the lord. He did not look in the least annoyed because his 
 
HOW FUNDS WERE PROVIDED. 
 
 169 
 
 daughter had refused to take the loan, nor had he shown the 
 slightest feeling of any impropriety when there was a question 
 as to her accepting it. 
 
 " Of course I cannot force it upon you," said Lord Castlewell. 
 
 " No ; a lord cannot do that, even in this country, where 
 lords go for so much. But we are not a whit the less obliged to 
 your lordship. There are proprieties and improprieties which 
 I don't understand. Rachel knows all about them, Such a 
 knowledge comes to a girl naturally, and she chooses either 
 the one or the other, according to her nature. Rachel is a 
 dragon of propriety." 
 
 " Father, you are a goose," said Rachel. 
 
 " I am telling his lordship the truth. There is some reason 
 why you should not take the money, and you won't take it. I 
 think it very hard that I should not have been allowed to earn it." 
 
 " Why were you not allowed ? " asked the lord. 
 
 " Lest the people should be persuaded to rise up against 
 you lords, — which they very soon would do, — and will do. You 
 are right in your generation. The people were paying twenty- 
 five cents a night to come and hear me, and so I was informed 
 that I must not speak to them any more. I had been silenced 
 in Galway before ; but then I had spoken about your Queen." 
 
 " We can't endure that, you know." 
 
 " So I learn. She's a holy of holies. But I promised to 
 say nothing further about her, and I haven't. I was talking 
 about your Speaker of the House of Commons." 
 
 "That's nearly as bad," said Lord Castlewell, shaking his 
 head. 
 
 " A second-rate holy of holies. When I said that he ought 
 to obey certain rules which had been laid down for his guidance, 
 I was told to walk out. ' W T hat may I talk about ? ' I asked. 
 Then the policeman told me 6 the weather.' Even an English- 
 man is not stupid enough to pay twenty-five cents for that. I 
 am only telling you this to explain why we are so impecunious." 
 
 " The policeman won't prevent my lending you £200." 
 
 " Won't he now ? There is no knowing what a policeman 
 can't do in this country. They are very good-natured, all the 
 same." 
 
 Then Lord Castlewell turned to Rachel, and asked her 
 whether her suspicions would go so far as to interfere between 
 him and her father. " It is because I am a pretty girl that you 
 are going to do it," she said, frowning, " or because you pretend 
 to think so." Here the father broke out into a laugh, and tha 
 lord followed him. " You had better keep your money to 
 yourself, my lord. You never can have used it with less chance 
 of getting any return." This interview, however, was ended by 
 the acceptance of a cheque from Lord Castlewell for ,£200, 
 payable to the order of Gerald O'Mahony. 
 
lyo 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 WHAT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 
 
 " She has taken his money all the same." This was said some 
 weeks after the transaction as described in the last chapter, and 
 was spoken by Madame Socani to Mr. Moss. 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 " I know very well. You are so infatuated by that young 
 woman that you will believe nothing against her." 
 
 " I am infatuated with her voice ; I know what she is going 
 to do in the world. Old Barytone told me that he had never 
 heard such a voice from a woman's mouth since the days of 
 Malibran ; and if there is a man who knows one voice from 
 another, it is Barytone. He can taste the richness of the 
 instrument down to its lowest tinkling sound." 
 
 " And you would marry such a one as she for her voice." 
 
 "And she can act. Ah ! if you could have acted as she does 
 it might have been different." 
 
 " She has got a husband just the same as me." 
 
 " I don't believe it ; but never mind, I would risk all that. 
 And I will do it yet. If you will only keep your toe in your 
 pump, we will have such a company as nothing that Le Gros 
 can do will be able to cut us down." 
 
 " And she is taking money from that lord." 
 
 "They all take money from lords," he replied. "What does 
 it matter ? And she is as stout a piece of goods as ever you 
 came across. She has given me more impudence in the last 
 eight months than ever I took from any of them. And by 
 Jupiter I never so much as got a kiss from her." 
 
 " A kiss ! " said Madame Socani with great contempt. 
 
 " And she has hit me a box on the cheek which I have had 
 to put up with. She has always got a dagger about her some- 
 where, to give a fellow a prod in her passion." Here Mr. Moss 
 laughed or affected to laugh at the idea of the dagger. " I tell 
 you that she would have it into a fellow in no time." 
 
 "Then why don't you leave her alone? A little wizened 
 monkey like that !" It was thus that Madame Socani expressed 
 her opinion of her rival. "A creature without an ounce of flesh 
 on her bones. Her voice won't last long. It never does with 
 those little mean apes. There was Grisi and Tietjens, — they 
 had something of a body for a voice to come out of. And here 
 is this girl that you think so much of, taking money hand over 
 hand from the very first lord she comes across." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it," said the faithful Moss. 
 
 "You'll find that it is true. She will go away to some 
 
WHAT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 171 
 
 watering-place in the autumn, and he'll be after her. Did you 
 ever know him spare one of them ? Or one of them, poor little 
 creatures, that wouldn't rise to his bait?" 
 " She has got her father with her." 
 
 "Her father! What is the good of fathers? He'll take 
 some of the money, that's all. I'll tell you what it is, Moss, if 
 you don't drop her you and I will be two." 
 
 " With all my heart, Madame Socani," said Moss. u I have 
 not the slightest intention of dropping her. And as for you and 
 me, we can get on very well apart." 
 
 But Madame Socani, though she would be roused by jealousy 
 to make this threat once a month, knew very well that she could 
 not afford to sever herself from Mr. Moss ; and she knew also 
 that Mr. Moss was bound to show her some observance, or, 
 at any rate, to find employment for her as long as she could 
 sing. 
 
 But Mr. Moss was anxious to find out whether any money 
 arrangements did or did not exist between Miss O'Mahony and 
 the lord, and was resolved to ask the question in a straight- 
 forward manner. He had already found out that his old pupil 
 had no power of keeping a secret to herself when thus asked. 
 She would sternly refuse to give any reply ; but she would make 
 her refusal in such a manner as to tell the whole truth. In fact, 
 Rachel, among her accomplishments, had not the power of 
 telling a lie in such language as to make herself believed. It 
 was not that she would scruple in the least to declare to Mr. 
 Moss the very opposite to the truth in a matter in which he 
 had, she thought, no business to be inquisitive ; but when she 
 did so she had no power to look the lie. You might say of her 
 frequently that she was a downright liar. But of all human 
 beings whom you could meet she was the least sly. " My dear 
 child," the father used to say to her, " words to you are worth 
 nothing, unless it be to sing them. You can make no im- 
 pression with them in any other way." Therefore it was that 
 Mr. Moss felt that he could learn the truth from simply question- 
 ing his pupil. 
 
 "Miss O'Mahony, may I say a few words to you?" So 
 said Mr. Moss, having knocked at the door of Rachel's sitting- 
 room. He had some months ago fallen into the habit of 
 announcing himself, when he had come to give her lessons, and 
 would inform the servant that he would take up his own name. 
 Rachel had done what she could do to put an end to the 
 practice, but it still prevailed. 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Moss. Was not the girl there to show you 
 up?" 
 
 " No doubt she was. But such ceremony between us is 
 hardly necessary." 
 
 " T should prefer to be warned of the coming of my master. 
 
172 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 I will see to that in future. Such little ceremonies do have 
 their uses." 
 
 " Shall I go down and make her say that I am here, and 
 then come up again ? " 
 
 "It shall not be necessary, but you take a chair and 
 begin ! " Then Mr. Moss considered how he had better do so. 
 He knew well that the girl would not answer kindly to such a 
 question as he was desirous of asking. And it might be that 
 she would be very uncivil. He was by no means a coward, 
 but he had a vivid recollection of the gleam of her dagger. He 
 smiled, and she looked at him more suspiciously because of his 
 smile. He was fitting on a sofa opposite to her as she sat on a 
 music-stool which she had turned round, so as to face him, and 
 he fancied that he could see her right hand hide itself among 
 the folds of her dress. "Is it about the theatre ?" 
 
 " Well, it is and yet it isn't." 
 
 " I wish it were something about the theatre. It always 
 seems to come more natural between you and me." 
 
 " I want you to tell me what you did at last about Lord 
 CastlewelPs money." 
 
 " Why am I to tell you what I did ? M 
 
 " For friendship." 
 
 " I do not feel any." 
 
 " That's an uncivil word to say, mademoiselle." 
 
 " But it's true. You have no business to ask me about the 
 lord's money, and I won't be questioned." 
 
 " It will be so deleterious to you if you accept it." 
 
 " I can take care of myself," she said, jumping off the chair. 
 " I shall have left this place now in another month, and shall 
 utterly disregard the words which anyone at your theatre may 
 say of me. I shall not tell you whether the lord has lent me 
 money or not." 
 
 " I know he has." 
 
 " Very well. Then leave the room. Knowing as you do 
 that I am living here with my own father, your interference is 
 grossly impertinent." 
 
 "Your father is not going with you, I am afraid." She 
 rushed at the bell and pulled it till the bell rope came down 
 from the wire, but nobody answered the bell. " Can it be 
 possible that you should not be anxious to begin your new 
 career under respectable auspices ? " 
 
 " I will not stand this. Leave the room, sir. This apart- 
 ment is my own." 
 
 " Miss O'Mahony, you see my hand ; with this I am ready 
 to offer at once to place you in a position in which the world 
 would look up to you." 
 
 "You have done so before, Mr. Moss, and your doing so 
 again is an insult. It would not be done to any young lady 
 
WHAT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 173 
 
 unless she were on the stage, and were thought on that account 
 to be open to any man about the theatre to say what he pleased 
 to her." 
 
 " Any gentleman is at liberty to make any lady an offer." 
 
 " I have answered it. Now leave the room." 
 
 " I cannot do so until I have heard that you have not taken 
 money from this reprobate." 
 
 At the moment the door opened, and the reprobate entered 
 the room. 
 
 " Your servant told me that Mr. Moss was here, and there- 
 fore I walked up at once," said the reprobate. 
 
 " I am so much obliged to you," said Rachel. " Oh, Lord 
 Castlewell! I am so much obliged to you. He tells me in the 
 first place that you are a reprobate." 
 
 " Never mind me," said the lord. 
 
 " I don't mind what he says of you. He declares that my 
 character will be gone for ever because you have lent my father 
 some money." 
 
 " So it will," said Moss, who was not afraid to stand up to 
 his guns. 
 
 " And how if she had accepted your offer ? " 
 
 " No one would have thought of it. Come, my lord, you 
 know the difference. I am anxious only to save her." 
 
 " It is to her father I have lent the money, who explained 
 to me the somewhat cruel treatment he had received at the 
 hands of the police. I think you are making an ass of yourself, 
 Mr. Moss." 
 
 " Very well, my lord ; very well," said Mr. Moss. " All the 
 world no doubt will know that you have lent the money to the 
 Irish Land-leaguer because of your political sympathy with him, 
 and will not think for a minute that you have been attracted by 
 our pretty young friend here. It will not suspect that it is she 
 who has paid for the loan ! " 
 
 " Mr. Moss, you are a brute ! " said the lord. 
 
 " Can't he be turned out of the room ? " asked Rachel. 
 
 " Well, yes ; it is possible," said the lord, who slowly 
 prepared to walk up and take some steps towards expelling 
 Mr. Moss. 
 
 " It shall not be necessary," said Mahomet M. M. " You 
 could not get me out, but there would be a terrible row in the 
 house, which could not fail to be disagreeable to Miss O'Mahony. 
 I leave her in your hands, and I do not think I could possibly 
 leave her in worse. I have wished to make her an honest 
 woman ; what you want of her you can explain to herself." In 
 saying this Mr. Moss walked downstairs and left the house, 
 feeling, as he went, that he had got the better both of the lord 
 and of the lady. 
 
 With Mr. Moss there was a double motive, neither of which 
 
174 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 was very bright, but both of which he followed with considerable 
 energy. He had at first been attracted by her good looks, 
 which he had desired to make his own — at the cheapest price at 
 which they might be had in the market. If marriage were 
 necessary, so be it, but it might be that the young lady would not 
 be so exigeant. It was probably the expression of some such 
 feelings in the early days of their acquaintance which had made 
 him so odious to her. Then Frank Jones had come forward ; 
 and like any good honest girl, in a position so public, she had 
 at once let the fact of Mr. Jones be made known, so as to 
 protect her. But it had not protected her, and Mr. Moss had 
 been doubly odious. Then, by degrees, he had become aware 
 of the value of her voice, and he perceived the charms that 
 there were in what he pictured to himself as a professional 
 partnership as well as a marriage. Various ideas floated 
 through his mind, down even to the creation of fresh names, 
 grand married names, for his wife. And if she could be got to 
 see it in the light he saw it, what a stroke of business they 
 might do ! He was aware that she expressed personal dislike 
 to him ; but he did not think much of that. He did not in the 
 least understand the nature of such dislike as she exhibited. 
 He thought himself to be a very good-looking man. He was 
 one of a profession to which she also belonged. He had no 
 idea that he was not a gentleman, but that she was a lady. He 
 did not know that there were such things. Madame Socani 
 told him that this young woman was already married to Mr. 
 Jones, but had left that gentleman because he had no money. 
 He did not believe this ; but in any case he would be willing to 
 risk it. The peril would be hers and not his. It was his object 
 to establish the nartnership, and he did not even yet see any 
 
 This lord who had been trapped by her beauty, by that and 
 by her theatrical standing, was an impediment, but could be 
 removed. He had known Lord Castlewell to be in love with a 
 dozen singers, partly because he thought himself to be a judge 
 of music, and partly simply because he had liked their looks. 
 The lord had now taken a fancy to Miss O'Mahony, and had 
 begun by lending her money. That the father should take 
 the money instead of the daughter, was quite natural to his 
 thinking. But he might still succeed in looking after Miss 
 O'Mahony, and rescuing the singer from the lord. By keeping 
 a close watch on her he must make it impossible for the lord to 
 hold her. Therefore, when he went away, leaving the lord and 
 singer together, he thought that for the present he had got the 
 better of both. 
 
 " Why did he tell you that I was a reprobate ? w said the lord, 
 when he found himself alone with the lady. 
 
 " Well, perhaps it was because you are one, my lord," said 
 
WHAT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 17$ 
 
 Rachel, laughing. She would constantly remember herself, and 
 tell herself that as long as she called him by his title, she was pro- 
 tecting himself from that familiarity which would be dangerous. 
 " I hope you don't think so." 
 
 " Gentlemen generally are reprobates, I believe. It is not 
 disgraceful for a gentleman to be a reprobate, but it is pleasant. 
 The young women I daresay find it pleasant, but then it is 
 disgraceful. I do not mean to disgrace myself, Lord Castlewell.'' 
 
 u I am sure you will not." 
 
 " I want you to be sure of it, quite sure. I am a singing 
 girl ; but I don't mean to be any man's mistress." He stared 
 at her as she said this. " And I don't mean to be any man's 
 wife, unless I downright love him. Now you may keep out of 
 my way, if you please. I daresay you are a reprobate, my lord ; 
 but with that I have got nothing to do. Touching this money, 
 I suppose father has not got it yet ? " 
 
 " I have sent it." 
 
 " You are to get nothing for it, but simply to have it returned, 
 without interest, as soon as I have earned it. You have only to 
 say the word and I will take care that father shall send it you 
 back again." 
 
 Lord Castlewell felt that the girl was very unlike others whom 
 he had known, and who had either rejected his offers with scorn 
 or had accepted them with delight. This young lady did neither. 
 She apparently accepted the proffered friendship, and simply 
 desired him to carry his reprobate qualities elsewhere. There 
 was a frankness about her which pleased him much, though it 
 hardly tended to make him in love with her. One thing he did 
 resolve on the spur of the moment, that he would never say a 
 word to her which her father might not hear. It was quite a 
 new sensation to him, this of simple friendship with a singer, 
 with a singer whom he had met in the doubtful custody of Mr. 
 Moss ; but he did believe her to be a good girl, — a good girl who 
 could speak out her mind freely ; and as such he both respected 
 and liked her. " Of course I shan't take back the money till it 
 becomes due. You'll have to work hard for it before I get it." 
 
 " I shall be quite contented to do that, my lord." Then the 
 interview was over, and his lordship left the room. 
 
 But Lord Castlewell felt as he went home that this girl was 
 worth more than other girls. She laughed at him for being a 
 lord, but she could accept a favour from him, and then tell him 
 to his face that he should do her no harm because she had 
 accepted it. He had met some terrible rebuffs in his career, 
 the memory of which had been unpleasant to him ; and he had 
 been greeted with many smiles, all of which had been insipid. 
 What should he do with this girl so as to make the best of her ? 
 The only thing that occurred to him was to marry her ! And 
 yet such a marriage would be altogether out of his line of life. 
 
176 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 
 
 The ^200 was not spent in a manner of which Lord Castlewell 
 would have altogether approved. About the end of August 
 Mr. O'Mahony was summoned back to Ireland, and was induced, 
 at a meeting held at the Rotunda, to give certain pledges which 
 justified the advanced Irish party in putting him forward as a 
 new member for the County of Cavan. The advanced Irish 
 party had no doubt been attracted by the eloquence he had 
 exhibited both in Galway and in London, and by the patriotic 
 sentiments which he had displayed. He was known to be a 
 Republican, and to look for the formation of a Republic to 
 American aid. He had expressed most sincere scorn for every- 
 thing English, and professed ideas as to Irish property generally 
 in regard to which he was altogether ignorant of their meaning. 
 As he was a sincerely honest man, he did think that something 
 good for his old country would be achieved by Home Rule ; 
 though how the Home-Rulers would set to work when Home 
 Rule should be the law of the land, he had not the remotest 
 conception. There were many reasons, therefore, why he should 
 be a fit member for an Irish county. But it must be admitted 
 that he would not have been so unanimously selected had all 
 the peculiarities of his mind been known. It might be probable 
 that he would run riot under the lash of his leader, as others 
 have done both before and since, when he should come to see 
 all the wiles of that strategy which he would be called upon to 
 support. And in such case the quarrel with him would be more 
 internecine than with other foes, such as English members, 
 Scotch members, Conservative Irish members, and Liberal Irish 
 members not sworn to follow certain leaders. A recreant one 
 out of twenty friends would be regarded with more bitter hatred 
 than perhaps six hundred and thirty ordinary enemies. It might 
 be, therefore, that a time of tribulation was in store for Mr. 
 O'Mahony, but he did not consider these matters very deeply 
 when the cheers rang loud in the hall of the Rotunda ; nor did 
 he then reflect that he was about to spend in an injudicious 
 manner the money which must be earned by Rachel's future 
 work. 
 
 When Rachel had completed her engagement with Mr. Moss, 
 it had been intended that they should go down to Ambleside 
 and there spend Lord Castiewell's money in the humble innocent 
 enjoyment of nature. There had at that moment been nothing 
 decided as to the County of Cavan. A pork-butcher possessed 
 of some small means and unlimited impudence had put himself 
 
WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 177 
 
 forward. But The Twenty had managed to put him through 
 his facings, and had found him to be very ignorant in his use of 
 the Queen's English. Now of late there had come up a notion 
 that the small party required to make up for the thinness of 
 their members by the strength of their eloquence. Practice 
 makes perfect, and it is not to be wondered at therefore if a large 
 proportion of The Twenty had become fluent. But more were 
 wanted, and of our friend O'Mahony's fluency there could be no 
 doubt. Therefore he was sent for, and on the very day of his 
 arrival he proved to the patriotic spirits of Dublin that he was 
 the man for Cavan. Three days afterwards he went down, and 
 Cavan obediently accepted its man. With her father went 
 Rachel, and was carried through the towns of Virginia, Baily- 
 borough, and Ballyjamesduff, in great triumph on a one-horse 
 car. 
 
 This occurred about the end of August, and Lord Castle- 
 well's ^200 was very soon spent. She had not thought much 
 about it, but had been quite willing to be the daughter of a 
 Member of Parliament if a constituency could be found willing 
 to select her father. She did not think much of the duties of 
 Parliament, if they came within the reach of her father's ability. 
 She did not in truth think that he could under any circumstances 
 do half a day's work. She had known what it was to practise, 
 and, having determined to succeed, she had worked as only a 
 singer can work who determines that she w#ll succeed. Hour 
 after hour she had gone on before the looking-glass, and even. 
 Mr. Moss had expressed his approval. But during the years 
 that she had been so at work, she had never seen her 
 father do anything. She knew that he talked what she called 
 patriotic buncombe. It might be that he would become a very 
 fitting member of Parliament, but Rachel had her doubt. She 
 could see, however, that the ^200 quickly vanished during their 
 triumphant journeyings on the one-horse car. Everybody in 
 County Cavan seemed to know that there was ^200 and no 
 more to be spent by the new member. There he was, however, 
 Member of Parliament for the County of Cavan, and his breast 
 was filled with new aspirations. Enmity, the bitterest enmity 
 to everything English, was the one lesson taught him. But he 
 himself had other feelings. What if he could talk over that 
 Speaker, and that Prime Minister, that Government generally, 
 and all the House of Commons, and all the House of Lords ! 
 Why should not England go her way and Ireland hers, — 
 England have her monarchy and Ireland her republic, but still 
 with some kind of union between them, as to the nature of 
 which Mr. O'Mahony had no fixed idea in his brain whatsoever. 
 But he knew that he could talk, and he knew also that he must 
 now talk on an arena for admission to which the public would 
 not pay twenty-five cents or more. His breast was much 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 disturbed by the consideration that for all the work which he 
 proposed to do no wages were to be forthcoming. 
 
 But while Mr. O'Mahony was being elected Member of 
 Parliament for County Cavan, things were going on very sadly 
 in County Gal way. Wednesday, the 31st of August, had been 
 the day fixed for the trial of Pat Carroll ; and the month of 
 August was quickly wearing itself away. But during the month 
 of August Captain Clayton found occasion more than once to 
 come into the neighbourhood of Headford. And though Mr. 
 Jones was of an opinion that his presence there was adequately 
 accounted for by the details of the coming trial, the two girls 
 evidently thought that some other cause might be added to that 
 which Pat Carroll had produced. 
 
 - It must be explained that at this period Frank Jones was 
 absent from Morony Castle, looking out for emergency men who 
 could be brought down to the neighbourhood of Headford, in 
 sufficient number to save the crop on Mr. Jones's farm. And 
 with him was Tom Daly, who had some scheme in his own head 
 with reference to his horses and his hounds. Mr. Persse and 
 Sir Jasper Lynch had been threatened with a wide system of 
 boycotting, unless they would give up Tom Daly's animals. A 
 decree had gone forth in the county, that nothing belonging to 
 the hunt should be allowed to live within its precincts. All the 
 bitterness and the cruelty and the horror arising from this order 
 are beyond the limit of this story. But it may be well to explain 
 that at the present moment Frank Jones was away from Castle 
 Morony, working hard on his father's behalf. 
 
 And so were the girls working hard ; — making the butter, 
 and cooking the meat, and attending to the bed-rooms. And 
 Peter was busy with them as their lieutenant. It might be 
 thought that the present was no time for love-making, and that 
 Captain Clayton could not have been in the mood. But it may 
 be observed that at any period of special toil in a family, when 
 infinitely more has to be done than at any other time, love- 
 making will go on with more than ordinary energy. Edith was 
 generally to be found with her hair tucked tight off her 
 face and enveloped in a coarse dairymaid's apron, and 
 Ada, when she ran downstairs, would do so with a house- 
 maid's dusting-brush at her girdle, and they were neither of 
 them, when so attired, in the least afraid of encountering 
 Captain Clayton as he would come out from their father's room. 
 All the world knew that they were being boycotted, and very 
 happy the girls were during the process. " Poor papa " did 
 not like it so well. Poor papa thought of his banker's account, 
 or rather of that bank at which there was, so to say, no longer 
 any account. But the girls were light of heart, and in the pride 
 of their youth. But, alas ! they had both of them blundered 
 frightfully. It was Edith, Edith the prudent, Edith the wise, 
 
WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 179 
 
 Edith, who was supposed to know everything, who had first 
 gone astray in her blundering, and had taken Ada with her ; but 
 the story with its details must be told. 
 
 " My pet," she said to her elder sister, as they were standing 
 together at the kitchen dresser, " I know he means to speak to* 
 you to-day." 
 
 "What nonsense, Edith! " 
 
 " It has to be done, some day, you know. And he is just 
 the man to come upon one in the time of. one's dire distress. 
 Of course we haven't got a halfpenny now belonging to us. I 
 was thinking only the other day how comfortable it is that we 
 never go out of the house because we haven't the means to buy 
 boots. Now Captain Clayton is just the man to be doubly 
 attracted by such penury." 
 
 " I don't know why a man is to make an offer to a girl 
 just because he finds her working like a housemaid." 
 
 " I do. I can see it all. He is just the man to take you in 
 his arms because he found you peeling potatoes." 
 
 " I beg he will do nothing of the kind," said Ada. " He has 
 never said a word to me, or I to him, to justify such a 
 proceeding. I should at once hit him over the head with my 
 brush." 
 
 " Here he comes, and now we will see how far I understand 
 such matters." 
 
 " Don't go, Edith," said Ada. " Pray don't go. If you go I 
 shall go with you. These things ought always to come naturally, 
 — that is, if they come at all.' 
 
 It did not " come n at that moment, for Edith was so far 
 mistaken that Captain Clayton, after saying a few words to the 
 girls, passed on out of the back-door, intent on special business. 
 " What a wretched individual he is," said Edith. " Fancy pin- 
 ning one's character on the doings of such a man as that. 
 However, he will be back again to dinner, and you will not be 
 so hard upon him then with your dusting-brush." 
 
 Before dinner the Captain did return, and found himself 
 alone with Edith in the kitchen. It was her turn on this 
 occasion to send up whatever meal in the shape of dinner 
 Castle Morony could afford. "There you have it, sir," she 
 said, pointing to a boiled neck of mutton, which had been cut 
 from the remains of a sheep sent in to supply the family wants. 
 
 " I see," said he. "It will make a very good dinner, — or a 
 very bad one, according to circumstances, as they may fall out 
 before the dinner leaves the kitchen." 
 
 " Then they will have to fall out very quickly," said Edith. 
 But the colour had flown to her face, and in that moment she 
 had learned to suspect the truth. And her mind flew back 
 rapidly over all her doings and sayings for the last three 
 months. If it was so, she could never forgive herself. If it 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 was so, Ada would never forgive her. If it was so, they two 
 and Captain Yorke Clayton must be separated for ever. 
 (l Well ; what is it ? " she said, roughly. The joint of meat had 
 fallen from her hands, and she looked up at Captain Clayton 
 with all the anger she could bring into her face. 
 
 " Edith," he said, "you surely know that I love you." 
 
 u I know nothing of the kind. There can be no reason why 
 I should know it, — why I should guess it. It cannot be so 
 without grievous wrong on your part." 
 
 " What wrong ?" 
 
 " Base wrong done to my sister," she answered. Then she 
 remembered that she had betrayed her sister, and she remem- 
 bered too how much of the supposed love-making had been 
 done by her own words, and not by any spoken by Captain 
 Clayton. And there came upon her at that moment a remem- 
 brance also of that other moment in which she had acknow- 
 ledged to herself that she had loved this man, and had told 
 herself that the love was vain, and had sworn to herself that 
 she would never stand in Ada's way, and had promised to her- 
 self that all things should be happy to her as this man's sister- 
 in-law. Acting then on this idea merely because Ada had been 
 beautiful she had gone to work, — and this had come of it ! In 
 that minute that was allowed to her as the boiled mutton was 
 cooling on the dresser beneath her hand, all this passed through 
 her mind. 
 
 " Wrong done by me to Ada ! " said the Captain. 
 
 " I have said it ; but if you are a gentleman you will forget 
 it. I know that you are a gentleman, — a gallant man, such as 
 few I think exist anywhere. Captain Clayton, there are but 
 two of us. Take the best ; take the fairest ; take the sweetest. 
 Let all this be as though it had never been spoken. I will be 
 such a sister to you as no man ever won for himself. And Ada 
 will be as loving a wife as ever graced a man's home. Let it 
 be so, and I will bless every day of your life." 
 
 " No," he said slowly, " I cannot let it be like that. I have 
 learned to love you and you only, and I thought that you had 
 known it." 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 a I had thought so. It cannot be as you propose. I shall 
 never speak of your sister to a living man. I shall never 
 whisper a word of her regard even here in her own family. 
 But I cannot change my heart as you propose. Your sister is 
 beautiful, and sweet, and good ; but she is not the girl who has 
 crept into my heart, and made a lasting home for herself there, 
 — if the girl who has done so would but accept it. Ada is not 
 the girl whose brightness, whose bravery, whose wit and ready 
 spirit have won me. These things go, I think, without any 
 effort. I have known that there has been no attempt on your 
 
WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 181 
 
 part ; but the thing has been done and I had hoped that you 
 were aware of it. It cannot now be undone. I cannot be 
 passed on to another. Here, here, here is what I want," and 
 he put his two hands upon her shoulders. " There is no other 
 girl in all Ireland that can supply her place if she be lost to me." 
 
 He had spoken very solemnly, and she had stood there in 
 solemn mood listening to him. By degrees the conviction had 
 come upon her that he was in earnest, and was not to be 
 changed in his purpose by anything that she could say to him. She 
 had blundered, had blundered awfully. She had thought that 
 with a man beauty would be everything ; but with this man 
 beauty had been nothing ; nor had good temper and a sense of 
 duty availed anything. She rushed into the dining-room carry- 
 ing the boiled mutton with her, and he followed. What should 
 she do now? Ada would yield — would give him up — would 
 retire into the background, and would declare that Edith should 
 be made happy, but would never lift up her head again. And 
 she — she herself — could also give him up, and would lift up her 
 head again. She knew that she had a power of bearing sorrow, 
 and going on with the work of the world, in spite of all troubles, 
 which Ada did not possess. It might, therefore, have all been 
 settled, but that the man was stubborn, and would not be 
 changed. " Of course, he is a man," said Edith to herself, as she 
 put the mutton down. " Of course he must have it all to please 
 himself. Of course he will be selfish." 
 
 " I thought you were never coming with our morsel of 
 dinner," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Here is the morsel of dinner ; but I could have dished it in 
 half the time if Captain Clayton had not been there." 
 
 " Of course I am the offender," said he, as he sat down. 
 "And now I have forgotten to bring the potatoes." So he 
 started off, and met Florian at the door coming in with them. 
 Mr. Jones carved the mutton, and Captain Clayton was helped 
 first. In a boycotted house you will always find that the 
 gentlemen are helped before the ladies. It is a part of the 
 principle of boycotting that women shall subject themselves. 
 
 Captain Clayton, after his first little stir about the potatoes, 
 ate his dinner in perfect silence. That which had taken place 
 upset him more completely than the rifles of two or three Land- 
 leaguers. Mr. Jones was also silent. He was a man at the 
 present moment nearly overwhelmed by his cares. And Ada, 
 too, was silent. As Edith looked at her furtively she began to 
 fear that her pet suspected something. There was a look of 
 suffering in her face which Edith could read, though it was not 
 plainly enough written there to be legible to others. Her father 
 and Florian had no key by which to read it, and Captain 
 Clayton never allowed his eyes to turn towards Ada's face v 
 But it was imperative on both that they should not all fall into 
 
182 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 some feeling of special sorrow through their silence. " It is just 
 one week more/' she said, " before you men must be at 
 Galway." 
 
 " Only one week," said Florian. 
 
 u It will be much better to have it over," said the father. "I 
 do not think you need come back at all, but start at once from 
 Galway. Your sisters can bring what things you want, and say 
 good-bye at Athenry." 
 
 " My poor Florian ! " said Edith. 
 
 " I shan't mind it so much when I get to England," said the 
 boy. " I suppose I shall come home for the Christmas 
 holidays." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said the father. " It will depend 
 upon the state of the country." 
 
 (i You will come and meet him, Ada ? 55 asked Edith. 
 
 " I suppose so," said Ada. And her sister knew from the 
 tone of her voice that some evil was already suspected. 
 
 There was nothing more said that night till Edith and Ada 
 were together. Mr. Jones lingered with his daughters, and the 
 Captain took Florian out about the orchard, thinking it well to 
 make him used to whatever danger might come to him from 
 being out of the house. " They will never come where they will 
 be sure to be known," said the Captain ; " and known by various 
 witnesses. And they won't come for the chance of a pop-shot. 
 I am getting to know their ways as well as though I had lived 
 there all my life. They count on the acquittal of Pat Carroll as 
 a certainty. Whatever I may be, you are tolerably safe as long 
 as that is the case." 
 
 " They may shoot me in mistake for you," said the boy. 
 
 " Well, yes ; that is so. Let us go back to the house. But I 
 don't think there would be any danger to-night any way." Then • 
 they returned, and found Mr. Jones alone in the dining-room. 
 He was very melancholy in these days, as a man must be whom 
 ruin stares in the face. 
 
 Edith had followed Ada upstairs to the bed-rooms, and had 
 crept after her into that which had been prepared for Captain 
 Clayton. She could see now by the lingering light of an August 
 evening that a tear had fallen from each eye, and had slowly 
 run down her sister's cheeks. " Oh, Ada, dear Ada, what is 
 troubling you ? " 
 
 " Nothing,— much." 
 
 "My girl, my beauty, my darling ! Much or little, what is 
 it ? Cannot you tell me ? " 
 
 " He cares nothing for me," said Ada, laying her hand upon 
 the pillow, thus indicating the " he " whom she intended. Edith 
 answered not a word, but pressed her arm tight round her 
 sister's waist. " It is so," said Ada, turning round upon her 
 sister as though to rebuke her. " You know that it is so." 
 
WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE FUNDS. 183 
 
 " My beauty, my own one/' said Edith, kissing her. 
 
 "You know it is so. He has told you. It is not me 
 that he loves ; it is you. You are his chosen one. I am nothing 
 to him, — nothing, nothing." Then she flung herself down upon 
 the bed which her own hands had prepared for him. 
 
 It was all true. As the assertions had come from her one 
 by one, Edith had found herself unable to deny a tittle of what 
 was said. " Ada, if you knew my heart to you." 
 
 " What good is it ? Why did you teach me to believe a 
 falsehood?" 
 
 " Oh! you will kill me if you accuse me. I have been so 
 true to you." Then Ada turned round upon the bed, and hid 
 her face for a few minutes upon the pillow. " Ada, have I not 
 been true to you ? " 
 
 " But that you should have been so much mistaken ; — you, 
 who know everything." 
 
 " I have not known him," said Edith. 
 
 " But you will," said Ada. " You will be his wife." 
 
 " Never!" ejaculated the other. 
 
 Then slowly, Ada got up from the bed and shook her hair 
 from off her face and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. 
 " It must be so," she said. " Of course it must, as he wishes it. 
 He must have all that he desires." 
 
 " No, not so. He shall never have this." 
 
 " Yes, Edith, he must and he shall. Do you not know that 
 you loved him before you ever bade me to do so ? But why, 
 oh, why did you ever make that great mistake ? And why was 
 I so foolish as to have believed you ? Come," she said, " I 
 must make his bed for him once again. He will be here soon 
 now and we must be away." Then she did obliterate the 
 traces of her form which her figure had made upon the bed, and 
 smoothed the pillow, and wiped away the mark of her tear 
 which had fallen on it. " Come, Edith, come," said she, " let 
 us go and understand each other. He knows, for you have 
 told him, but no one else need know. He shall be your 
 husband, and I will be his sister, and all shall be bright between 
 you." 
 
 " Never," said Edith. " Never ! He will never be married 
 if he waits for me." 
 
 " My dear one, you shall be his wife," said Ada. Such 
 were the last words which passed between them on that night. 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE ROAD TO BALLYGLUNIN. 
 
 The days ran on for the trial of Pat Carroll, but Edith did not 
 again see Captain Clayton. There came tidings to Morony 
 Castle of the new honours which Mr. O'Mahony had achieved. 
 
 " I don't know that the country will be much the wiser for 
 his services,'' said Captain Clayton. " He will go altogether 
 with those wretched Land-leaguers." 
 
 " He will be the best of the lot," said Mr. Jones. 
 
 " It is saying very little for him," said Captain Clayton. 
 
 " He is an honest man, and I take him to be the only honest 
 man among them." 
 
 " He won't remain a Land-leaguer long if he is honest. But 
 what about his daughter ? " 
 
 " Frank has seen her down in Cavan, and declares that 
 she is about to make any amount of money at the London 
 theatres." 
 
 " I take it they will find it quite a new thing to have a 
 Member of Parliament among their number with an income," 
 said Clayton. " But I'll bet any man a new hat that there is a 
 split between him and them before the next Parliament is half 
 over." 
 
 This took place during one of the visits which Captain 
 Clayton had made to Morony Castle in reference to the coming 
 trial. Florian had been already sent on to Mr. Blake's of 
 Carnlough, and was to be picked up there on that very afternoon 
 by Mr. Jones, and driven to Ballyglunin, so as to be taken from 
 thence to the assize town by train. This was thought to be 
 most expedient, as the boy would not be on the road for above 
 half an hour. 
 
 After Captain Clayton had gone, Mr. Jones asked after 
 Edith, and was told that she was away in Headford. She had 
 walked into town to call on Mrs. Armstrong, with a view of 
 getting a few articles which Mrs. Armstrong had promised to 
 buy for her. Such was the story as given to Mr. Jones, and 
 fully believed by him ; but the reader may be permitted to 
 think that the young lady was not anxious to meet the young 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Ada," said Mr. Jones suddenly, " is there anything between 
 Edith and Captain Clayton?" 
 " What makes you ask, papa ? " 
 
 " Because Peter has hinted it. I do not care to have such 
 things told me of my own family by the servant." 
 
 " Yes, there is, papa," said Ada boldly. " Captain Clayton 
 is in love with Edith." 
 
THE ROAD TO BALLYGLUNIN. 185 
 
 " This is no time for marrying or giving in marriage." 
 
 Ada made no reply, but thought that it must at the same 
 time be a very good time for becoming engaged. It would 
 have been so for her had such been her luck. But of herself 
 she said nothing. She had made her statement openly and 
 bravely to her sister, so that there should be no departing from 
 it. Mr. Jones said nothing further at the moment, but before 
 the girls had separated for the night Ada had told Edith what 
 had occurred. 
 
 At that time they were in the house alone together, — alone 
 as regarded the family, though they still had the protection of 
 Peter. Mr. Jones had started on his journey to Galway. 
 
 " Papa," said Ada, " knows all about Yorke." 
 
 " Knows what ?" demanded Edith. 
 
 " That you and he are engaged together." 
 
 " He knows more than I do, then. He knows more than I 
 ever shall know. Ada, you should not have said so. It will 
 have to be all unsaid." 
 
 " Not at all, dear." 
 
 " It will all have to be unsaid. Have you been speaking to 
 Captain Clayton on the subject ? " 
 
 " Not a word. Indeed it was not I who told papa. It was 
 Peter. Peter said that there was something between you and 
 him, and papa asked me. I told papa that he was in love with 
 you. That was true at any rate. You won't deny that ?" 
 
 " I will deny anything that connects my name with that of 
 Captain Yorke Clayton." 
 
 But Ada had determined how that matter should arrange 
 itself. Since the blow had first fallen on her, she had had time 
 to think of it, — and she had thought of it. Edith had done her 
 best for her (presuming that this brave Captain was the best) 
 and she in return would do her best for Edith. No one knew 
 the whole story but they two. They were to be to her the 
 dearest friends of her future life, and she would not let the 
 knowledge of such a story stand in her way or theirs. 
 
 The train was to start from the Ballyglunin station for 
 Athenry at 4.20 p.m. It would then have left Tuam for 
 Athenry, where it would fall into the day mail-train from Dublin 
 to Galway. It was something out of the way for Mr. Jones to 
 call at Carnlough ; but Carnlough was not three miles from 
 Ballyglunin, and Mr. Jones made his arrangements accordingly. 
 He called at Carnlough, and there took up the boy on his 
 outside car. Peter had come with him, so as to take back the 
 car to Morony Castle. But Peter had made himself of late 
 somewhat disagreeable, and Mr. Jones had in truth been sulky. 
 
 " Look here, Peter," he had said, speaking from one side of 
 the car to the other, " if you are afraid to come to Ballyglunin 
 with me and Master Flory, say so, and get down." 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " I'm not afeared, Mr. Jones." 
 
 " Then don't say so, I don't believe vou are afeared, as you 
 call it." 
 
 "Then why do you be talking at me like that, sir ? " 
 
 " I don't think you are a coward ; but you are anxious to 
 make the most of your services on my behalf. You are telling 
 everyone that something special is due to you for staying in a 
 boycotted house. It's a kind of service for which I am grateful, 
 but I can't be grateful and pay too." 
 
 " Why do you talk to a poor boy in that way ? " 
 
 " So that the poor boy may understand me. You are 
 willing, I believe, to stick to your old master,— from sheer good 
 heart. But you like to talk about it. Now I don't like to hear 
 about it." After that Peter drove on in silence till they came to 
 Carnlough. 
 
 T The car had been seen coming up the avenue, and Mr. 
 Blake, with his wife and Florian, were standing on the door- 
 steps. " Now do take care of the poor dear boy," said Mrs. 
 Blake. " There are such dreadful stories of horrible men about 
 the country." 
 
 " Don't mention such nonsense, Winifred," said her husband, 
 " trying to frighten the boy. There isn't a human being between 
 this and Ballyglunin for whom I won't be responsible. Till you 
 come to a mile of the station it's all my own property." 
 
 " But they can shoot " Then Mrs. Blake left the rest of 
 
 her sentence unspoken, having been checked by her husband's 
 eye. The boy, however, had heard it and trembled. 
 
 " Come along, Florian," said the father. " Get up along with 
 Peter." The attempt which he had made to live with his son on 
 affectionate paternal relations had hardly been successful. The 
 boy had been told so much of murderers that he had been made 
 to fear. Peter, — and other Peters about the country, — had filled 
 his mind with sad foreboding. And there had always been some- 
 thing timid, something almost unmanly in his nature. He had 
 seemed to prefer to shrink and cower and be mysterious with 
 the Carrolls to coming forward boldly with such a man as Yorke 
 Clayton. The girls had seen this, and had declared that he was 
 no more than a boy ; but his father had seen it and had made 
 no such allowance. And now he saw that he trembled. But 
 Florian got up on the car, and Peter drove them off to Bally- 
 glunin. 
 
 Carnlough was not above three Irish miles from Ballyglunin ; 
 and Mr. Jones started on the little journey without a misgiving. 
 He sat alone on the near side of the car, and Florian sat on the 
 other, together with Peter who was driving. The horse was a 
 heavy, slow-going animal, rough and hairy in its coat, but trust- 
 worthy and an old servant. There had been a time when 
 Mr. Jones kept a carriage, but that had been before the bad 
 
THE ROAD TO BALLYGLUNIN. 
 
 187 
 
 times had begun. The carriage horses had been sold after the 
 flood, — as Ada had called the memorable incident ; and now 
 there were but three cart horses at Morony Castle, of which this 
 one animal alone was habitually driven in the car. The floods, 
 indeed, had now retreated from the lands of Ballintubber and 
 the flood gates were mended ; but there would be no crop of hay 
 on all those eighty acres this year, and Mr. Jones was in no 
 condition to replace his private stud. As he went along on this 
 present journey he was thinking bitterly of the injury which had 
 been done him. He had lost over two hundred tons of hay, and 
 each ton of hay would have been worth three pounds ten 
 shillings. He had been unable to get a sluice gate mended till 
 men had been brought together from Monaghan and parts of 
 Cavan to mend them for him, and he had even to send these 
 men into Limerick to buy the material, as not a piece of timber 
 could be procured in Galway for the use of a household so well 
 boycotted as was Morony Castle. There had been also various 
 calls on Mr. Jones from those relatives whose money had been 
 left as mortgages on his property. And no rent had as yet come 
 in, although various tenants had been necessarily evicted. 
 Every man's hand was against him ; so that there was no money 
 in his coffers. He who had chiefly sinned against him, — who 
 was the first to sin,— was the sinner whom he was about to 
 prosecute at Galway. It must be supposed, therefore, that he 
 was not in a good humour as he was driven along the road to 
 Ballyglunin. 
 
 They had not yet passed the boundary fence between 
 Carnlough and the property of one of the numerous race of 
 Bodkins, when Mr. Jones saw a mask, which he supposed 
 to be a mask worn by a man, through a hole in the wall 
 just in front of him, but high above his head. And at the 
 same moment he could see the muzzles of a double-barrelled 
 rifle presented through the hole in the wall. What he saw he 
 saw but for a few seconds ; but he could see it plainly. He saw 
 it so plainly as to be able afterwards to swear to a black mask, 
 and to a double-barrelled gun. Then a trigger was pulled, and 
 one bullet — the second — went through the collar of his own coat, 
 while the first had had a more fatal and truer aim. The father 
 jumped up and turning round saw that his boy had fallen to the 
 ground. " Oh, my God ! " said Peter, and he stopped the horse 
 suddenly. The place was one where the commencement had 
 been made of a cutting in the road during the potato failure of 
 1846 ; so that the wall and the rifle which had been passed 
 through it were about four or five feet above the car. Mr. Jones 
 rushed up the elevation, and clambered, he did not know how, 
 into the field. There he saw the back of a man speeding along 
 from the wall, and in the man's hand there was a gun. Mr. 
 Jones looked around but there was no one nigh him but Peter, 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 the old servant, and his dying boy. He could see, however, 
 that the man who ran was short of stature. 
 
 But though his rage had sufficed to carry him up from the 
 road into the field, the idea that his son had been shot caused 
 him to pause as he ran, and to return to the road. When he 
 got there he found two girls about seventeen and eighteen years 
 of age, one sitting on the road with Florian's head on her lap, 
 and the other kneeling and holding the boy's hands. " Oh, yer 
 honour ! sorrow a taste in life do we know about it," said the 
 kneeling girl. 
 
 " Not a sight did we see, or a sound did we hear," said the 
 other, "only the going off of the blunderbuss. Oh, wirra shure ! 
 oh, musha, musha ! and it's dead he is, the darling boy." Mr. 
 Jones came round and picked up poor Florian and laid him on 
 the car. The bullet had gone true to its mark and had buried 
 itself in his brain. There was the end of poor Florian Jones 
 and all his troubles. The father did not say a word, not even 
 
 reply to Peter's wailings or to the girls' easy sorrow ; but, 
 taking the rein in his own hands, drove the car with the body 
 on it back to Carnlough. 
 
 We can hardly analyse the father's mind as he went. Not a 
 tear came to his relief. Nor during this half hour can he hardly 
 have been said to sorrow. An intensity of wrath filled his breast. 
 He had spent his time for many a long year in doing all in his 
 power for those around him, and now they had brought him to 
 this. They had robbed him of his boy's, heart. They had taught 
 his boy to be one of them, and to be untrue to his own people. 
 And now, because he had yielded to better teachings, they had 
 murdered him. They had taught his boy to be a coward ; for 
 even in his bereavement he remembered poor Florian's failing. 
 The accursed Papist people were all cowards down to their 
 backbones. So he said of them in his rage. There was not 
 one of them who could look any peril in the face as did Yorke 
 Clayton or his son Frank. But they were terribly powerful in 
 their wretched want of manliness. They could murder, and 
 were protected in their bloodthirstiness one by another. He 
 did not doubt but that those two girls who were wailing on 
 the road knew well enough who was the murderer, but no one 
 would tell in this accursed, unhallowed, godless country. The 
 honour and honesty of one man did not, in these days, prompt 
 another to abstain from vice. The only heroism left in the 
 country was the heroism of mystery, of secret bloodshed, and of 
 hidden attacks. 
 
 He had driven back methodically to Carnlough gates, but he 
 hesitated to carry his burden up to the hall-door. Would it not 
 be better for him at once to go home, and there to endure the 
 suffering that was in store for him ? But he remembered that 
 it would behove him to take what steps might be possible for 
 
THE GALWAY COURT HOUSE. 
 
 tracing the murderer. That by no steps could anything be 
 done, he was sure ; but still the attempt was necessary. He 
 had, however, paused a minute or two at the open gate when 
 he was rebuked by Peter. " Shure yer honour is going up 
 to the house to get the constables to scour the counthry." 
 
 " Scour the country ! " said the father. " All the country will 
 turn out to defend the murderer of my boy." But he drove up 
 to the front, and Peter knocked at the door. 
 
 " Good heaven, Jones ! " said Mr. Blake, as he looked at the 
 car and its occupant. The poor boy's head was supported 
 on the pillow behind the driver's seat on which no one sat. 
 Peter held him by both his feet, and Mr. Jones had his hand 
 within his grasp. 
 
 " So it is," said the father. " You know where they have 
 cut the road just where your property meres with Bodkin's. 
 There was a man above there who had loop-holed the wall. 
 I saw his face wearing a mask as plain as I can see yours. 
 And he had a double-barrelled gun. He fired the two shots, 
 and my boy was killed by the first." 
 
 " They have struck you too on the collar of your coat." 
 
 " I got into the field with the murderer, and I could have 
 caught the man had I been younger. But what would have 
 been the use ? No jury would have found him guilty. What 
 am I to do ? Oh, God ! what am I to do ? " Mrs. Blake and 
 her daughter were now out upon the steps, and were filling the 
 hall with their wailings. " Tell me, Blake, what had I better 
 do ? " Then Mr. Blake decided that the body should remain 
 there that night, and Mr. Jones also, and that the police 
 should be sent for to do whatever might seem fitting to the 
 policemen's mind. Peter was sent off to Morony Castle with 
 such a letter as Miss Blake was able to write to the two Jones 
 girls. The police came from Tuam, but the result of their 
 enquiries on that night need not be told here. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE GALWAY COURT HOUSE. 
 
 There was a feeling very general in the county that the 
 murder had been committed by the man named Lax, who was 
 known to have been in the neighbourhood lately, and was 
 declared by his friends at Headford to be now in Galway, 
 waiting for the trial of Pat Carroll. But there seemed to be a 
 feeling about the country that Florian Jones had deserved his 
 fate. He had, it was said, been untrue to his religion. He 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 had given a solemn promise to Father Brosnan, — of what 
 nature was not generally known, — and had broken it. "The 
 bittherness of the Orange feud was in his blood," said Father 
 Brosnan. But neither did he explain the meaning of what he 
 said, as none of the Jones family had ever been Orangemen. 
 But the idea was common about Tuam and Headford that Pat 
 Carroll was a martyr, and that Florian had been persuaded 
 to turn Protestant in order that he might give false evidence 
 against him. The reader, however, must understand that 
 Florian still professed the Catholic religion at the moment of 
 his death, and that all Headford was aware that Pat Carroll 
 had broken the sluice gate at Ballintubber. 
 
 After an interval of two days the trial was about to go on at 
 Galway in spite of the murder. It was quite true that by 
 nothing could the breath of life be restored to Florian Jones. 
 His evidence, such as it was, could now be taken only from his 
 deposition. And such evidence was regarded as being very 
 unfair both on one side and on the other. As given against 
 Pat Carroll it was regarded as unfair, as being incapable of 
 subjection to cross-examination. The boy's evidence had been 
 extracted from him by his parents and by Captain Yorke 
 Clayton, in opposition to the statements which had been made 
 scores of times by himself on the other side, and which, if true, 
 would all tend to exonerate the prisoner. It had been the 
 intention of Mr. O'Donnell, the senior counsel employed to 
 defend Carroll, to insist, with the . greatest severity, on the lies 
 told by the poor boy. It was this treatment which Florian had 
 especially feared. There could be no such treatment now ; but 
 Mr. O'Donnell would know well how to insist on the injustice of 
 the deposition, in which no allusion would be made to the false- 
 hood previously told. But on the other side it was said that the 
 witness had been removed so that his evidence should not be 
 given. They must now depend solely on the statement of Terry 
 Carroll, Pat's brother, and who also had lied terribly before he 
 told the truth. And he, too, was condemned more bitterly, even 
 by Mr. Jones and his friends, in that he was giving evidence 
 against his brother, than had he continued to lie on his behalf. 
 The circumstances being such as they were, it was felt to be 
 almost impossible to secure the conviction of Pat Carroll for the 
 offence he had committed. And yet there were certainly a dozen 
 persons who had seen that offence committed in the light of 
 day, and many other dozens who knew by whom the offence had 
 been committed. 
 
 And, indeed, the feeling had become common through the 
 country that all the lawyers and judges in Ireland, — the lawyers 
 and judges, that is, who were opposed to the Land-league, — ■ 
 could not secure a conviction of any kind against prisoners 
 whom the Land-league was bound to support. It had come to 
 
THE GAL WA Y COURT HOUSE. 
 
 191 
 
 be whispered about, that there were men in the County of 
 Galway, — and men also in other counties, — too strong for the 
 Government, men who could beat the Government on any point, 
 men whom no jury could be brought to convict by any evidence ; 
 men who boasted of the possession of certain secret powers, — 
 which generally meant murder. It came to be believed that 
 these men were possessed of certain mysterious capabilities 
 which the police could not handle, nor the magistrates touch. 
 And the danger to be feared from these men arose chiefly from 
 the belief in them which had become common. It was not that 
 they could do anything special if left to their own devices, but 
 that the crowds by whom they were surrounded trembled at 
 their existence. The man living next to you, ignorant, and a 
 Roman Catholic, inspired with some mysterious awe, would wish 
 in his heart that the country was rid of such firebrands. He 
 knew well that the country, and he as part of the country, had 
 more to get from law and order than from murder and misrule. 
 But murder and misrule had so raised their heads for the present 
 as to make themselves appear to him more powerful than law 
 and order. Mr. Lax, and others like him, were keenly alive to 
 the necessity of maintaining this belief in their mysterious 
 power. 
 
 The trial came on, having been delayed two days by the 
 murder of poor Florian Jones. His body had, in the meantime, 
 been taken home, and the only visitor received at Morony 
 Castle had been Yorke Clayton. On his coming he had been 
 at first closeted with Mr. Jones, and had then gone out and seen 
 the two girls together. He had taken Ada's hand first and then 
 Edith's, but he had held Edith's the longer. The girls had 
 known that it was so, but neither of them had said a word to 
 rebuke him. " Who was it ? " asked Ada. 
 
 Clayton shook his head and ground his teeth. "Do you 
 know, or have you an idea ? You know so much about the 
 country," said Edith. 
 
 " To you two, but to you only, I do know. He and I cannot 
 exist together. The man's name is Lax." 
 
 It may be imagined that the trial was not commenced at 
 Galway without the expression of much sympathy for Mr. Jones 
 and the family at Morony Castle. It is hard to explain the 
 different feelings which existed, feelings exactly opposed to 
 each other, but which still were both in their way general 
 and true. He was " poor Mr, Jones," who had lost his son, 
 and, worse still, his eighty acres of grass, and he was also 
 ''that fellow Jones," that enemy to the Land-league, whom 
 it behoved all patriotic Irishmen to get the better of and to 
 conquer. Florian had been murdered on the 30th of August, 
 which was a Tuesday, and the trial had been postponed until 
 Friday, the 2nd of September. It was understood that the boy was 
 
192 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 to be buried at Headford, on Saturday, the 3rd ; but, never- 
 theless, the father was in the assize town on the Friday. He 
 was in the town, and at eleven o'clock he took his place in 
 the Crown Court. He was a man who was still continually 
 summoned as a grand juror, and as such had no difficulty in 
 securing for himself a place. To the right of the judge sat the 
 twelve jurors who had been summoned to try the case, and to 
 the left was the grand jurors' box, in which Mr. Jones took his 
 seat early in the day. And Frank was also in the court, and 
 had been stopped by no one when he accompanied his father 
 into the grand jurors' box. 
 
 But the court was crowded in a wonderful manner, so that 
 they who understood the ways of criminal courts in Ireland 
 knew that something special was boded. As soon as Mr. 
 Justice Parry took his seat, it was seen that the court was 
 much more than ordinarily filled, and was filled by men who 
 did not make themselves amenable to the police. Many were 
 the instructions given by the judge who had been selected with 
 a special view to this trial. Judge Parry was a Roman Catholic, 
 who had sat in the House of Commons as a strong Liberal, had 
 been Attorney-General to a Liberal Government, and had been 
 suspected of holding Home-Rule sentiments. But men, when 
 they become judges, are apt to change their ideas. And Judge 
 Parry was now known to be a firm man, whom nothing would 
 turn from the execution of his duty. There had been many 
 Judge Parrys in Ireland, who have all gone the same gait, and 
 have followed the same course when they have accepted the 
 ermine. A man is at liberty to indulge what vagaries he 
 pleases, as long as he is simply a Member of Parliament. But 
 a judge is not at liberty. He now gave special instructions to 
 the officers of the court to keep quiet and to preserve order. 
 But the court was full, densely crowded ; and the noise which 
 arose from the crowd was only the noise as of people whispering 
 loudly among themselves. 
 
 The jury was quickly sworn and the trial was set on foot. 
 Pat Carroll was made to stand up in the dock, and Mr. Jones 
 looked at the face of the man who had been the first on his 
 property to show his hostility to the idea of paying rent. He 
 and Lax had been great friends, and it was known that Lax had 
 sworn that in a short time not a shilling of rent should be paid 
 in the County Mayo. From that assurance all these troubles 
 had come. 
 
 Then the Attorney-General opened the case, and to tell the 
 truth, he made a speech which, though very eloquent, was 
 longer than necessary. He spoke of the dreadful state of the 
 country, a matter which he might have left to the judge, and 
 almost burst into tears when he alluded to the condition of 
 Mr. Jones, the gentleman who sat opposite to him. And he 
 
THE GAL WAY COURT HOUSE. 
 
 193 
 
 spoke at full length of the evidence of the poor boy whose 
 deposition he held in his hand, which he told the jury he would 
 read to them later on in the day. No doubt the lad had 
 deceived his father since the offence had been committed. He 
 had long declared that he knew nothing of the perpetrators. 
 The boy had seemed to entertain in his mind certain ideas 
 friendly to the Land-league, and had made promises on behalf 
 of Land-leaguers to which he had long adhered. But his father 
 had at last succeeded, and the truth had been forthcoming. His 
 lordship would instruct them how far the boy's deposition 
 could be accepted as evidence, and how far it must fail. And 
 so at last the Attorney-General brought his eloquent speech 
 to an end. 
 
 And now there arose a murmuring sound in the court, and 
 a stirring of feet and a moving of shoulders, louder than that 
 which had been heard before. The judge, there on his bench, 
 looking out from under his bushy eyebrows, could see that the 
 people before him were all of one class. And he could see also 
 that the half-dozen policemen who were kept close among the 
 crowd, were so pressed as to be hardly masters of their own 
 actions. He called out a word even from the bench in which 
 there was something as to clearing the ccurt ; but no attempt 
 to clear the court was made or was apparently possible. The 
 first witness was summoned, and an attempt was made to bring 
 him up through the dock into the witness-box. This witness was 
 Terry Carroll, the brother of Pat, and was known to be there 
 that he might swear away his brother's liberty. His head no 
 sooner appeared, as about to leave the dock, than the whole 
 court was filled with a yell of hatred. There were two police- 
 men standing between the two brothers, but Pat only turned 
 round and looked at the traitor with scorn. But the voices 
 through the court sounded louder and more venomous as Terry 
 Carroll stepped out of the dock among the policemen who were 
 to make an avenue for him up to the witness-box. 
 
 It was the last step he ever made. At that moment the 
 flash of a pistol was seen in the court ; of a pistol close at the 
 man's ear, and Terry Carroll was a dead man. The pistol had 
 touched his head as it had been fired, so that there had been no 
 chance of escape. In this way was the other witness removed, 
 who had been brought thither by the Crown to give evidence as 
 to the demolition of Mr. Jones's flood gates. And it was said 
 afterwards, — for weeks afterwards, — that such should be the 
 fate of all witnesses who appeared in the west of Ireland to 
 obey the behests of the Crown. 
 
 Then was seen the reason why the special crowd had been 
 gathered there, and of what nature were the men who had 
 swarmed into court. Clayton, who had been sitting at the end 
 of the row of barristers, jumped up over the back of the bench 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 and rushed in among the people, who now tried simply to hold 
 their own places, and appeared neither to be anxious to go in 
 or out. " Tear an 5 ages, Musther Clayton, what are you after 
 jumping on to a fellow in that way ? " This was said by a brawny 
 Milesian, on to whose shoulders our friend had leaped, meaning 
 to get down among the crowd. But the Milesian had struck 
 him hard, and would have knocked him down had there been 
 room enough for him on which to fall. But Clayton had minded 
 the blow not at all, and had minded the judge as little, making 
 his way through the crowd over the dead body of Terry 
 Carroll. He had been aware that Lax was in the court, and 
 had seated himself opposite to the place where the man had 
 stood. But Lax had moved himself during the Attorney- 
 General's speech, either with the view of avoiding the Captain's 
 eyes, — or if he were to be the murderer, of finding the best place 
 from which the deed could be done. If this had been his 
 object, certainly the place had been well selected. It was after- 
 wards stated, that though fifty people at the judge's end of the 
 court had seen the pistol, no eyes had seen the face of him who 
 held it. Many faces had been seen, but nobody could connect 
 a single face with the pistol. And it was proved also that the 
 ball had entered the head just under the ear, with a slant 
 upwards towards the brain, as though the weapon had been used 
 by someone crouching towards the ground. 
 
 Clayton made his way out of court, followed by the faithful 
 Hunter, and was soon surrounded by half a score of policemen. 
 Hunter was left to watch the door of the court, because he was 
 well acquainted with Lax, and because should Lax come across 
 Hunter, "God help Mr. Lax!" as Clayton expressed himself. 
 And others were sent by twos and threes through the city 
 to catch this man if it were possible, or to obtain tidings re- 
 specting him. " A man cannot bury himself under the ground,'* 
 said Clayton ; u we have always this pull upon them, that they 
 cannot make themselves invisible." But in this case it almost 
 did appear that Mr. Lax had the power. 
 
 Though Pat Carroll was not at once set at liberty his trial 
 was brought to an end. It was felt to be impossible to send the 
 case to the jury when the only two witnesses belonging to the 
 Crown had been murdered. The prisoner was remanded, or 
 sent back to gaol, so that the Crown might look for more 
 evidence if more might chance to be found, and everybody else 
 connected in the matter was sent home. A dark gloom settled it- 
 self on Galway, and men were heard to whisper among them- 
 selves that the Queen's laws were no longer in force. And there 
 was a rowdy readiness to oppose all force, the force of the police 
 for instance, and the force of the military. There were men there 
 who seemed to think that now had come the good time when 
 they might knock anyone on the head at their leisure. It did 
 
MR. O'MAHONY AS M.P. 
 
 195 
 
 not come quite to this, as the police were still combined, and 
 their enemies were not so. But such men as Captain Clayton 
 began to look as though they doubted what would become of it. 
 " If he thinks he is big enough to catch a hold of Terry Lax and 
 keep him, he'll precious soon find his mistake." This was said 
 by Con Heffernan of Captain Clayton. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 MR. O'MAHONY AS MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. 
 
 Frank Jones had travelled backwards and forwards between 
 Morony Castle and the North more than once since these 
 things were doing, and had met the new member for Cavan 
 together with Rachel on the very evening on which poor 
 Florian had been murdered. It was not till the next morning 
 that the news had become generally known. " I am sorry to 
 hear, Frank," said Rachel, " that you are all doing so badly at 
 Morony Castle." 
 " Badly enough." 
 
 " Are you fetching all these people down from here to do 
 the work the men there ought to do? How are the men there 
 to get their wages ? " 
 
 "That is the essence of boycotting," said Frank. " The 
 men there won't get their wages, and can only live by robbing 
 the governor and men like him of their rents. And in that way 
 they can't live long. Everything will be disturbed and ruined." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Rachel, " that the whole country is 
 coming to an end." 
 
 " Your father is Member of Parliament now, and of course 
 he will set it all to rights." 
 
 " He will at any rate do his best to do so," said Rachel, 
 u and will rob no man in the doing it. What do you mean to 
 do with yourself? 19 
 
 " Stick to the ship till it sinks, and then go down with it." 
 
 " And your sisters ? 99 
 
 " They are of the same way of thinking, I take it. They are 
 not good at inventing any way of getting out of their troubles ; 
 but they know how to endure." 
 
 " Now, Frank," said she, " shall I give you a bit of advice ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! I like advice." 
 
 " You wanted to kiss me just now." 
 
 "That was natural at any rate." 
 
 " No, it wasn't ; because you and I are two. When a 
 
 o 2 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 young man and a young woman are two they shouldn't kiss 
 any more. That is logic." 
 " I don't know about logic." 
 
 "At any rate it is something of the same sort. It is the 
 kind of thing everybody believes in if they want to go right. 
 You and I want to go right, don't we ? " 
 
 <f I believe so." 
 
 " Of course we do/' and she took hold of his arm and shook 
 him. " It would break your heart if you didn't think I was 
 going right, and why shouldn't I be as anxious about you ? 
 Now for my piece of advice. I am going to make a lot of 
 money." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it." 
 
 " Come and share it with me. I would have shared yours 
 if you had made a lot. You must call me Madame de Iona, 
 or some such name as that. The name does not matter, but 
 the money will be all there. Won't it be grand to be able to 
 help your father and your sisters ! Only you men are so 
 beastly proud. Isn't it honest money, — money that has come 
 by singing ? " 
 
 " Certainly it is." 
 
 " And if the wife earns it instead of the husband ; — isn't 
 that honest ? And then you know," she said, looking up into 
 his face, "you can kiss me right away. Isn't that an in- 
 ducement ? " 
 
 The offer was an inducement, but the conversation only 
 ended in a squabble. She rebuked him for his dishonesty, in 
 taking the kiss without acceding to the penalty, and he declared 
 that according to his view of the case, he could not become the 
 faineant husband of a rich opera singer. " And yet you would 
 ask me to become the faineante wife of a wealthy landowner. 
 And because, under the stress of the times, you are not wealthy 
 you choose to reject the girl altogether who has given you her 
 heart. Go away. You are no good. When a man stands up 
 on his hind legs and pretends to be proud he never is any 
 good." 
 
 Then Mr. O'Mahony came in and had a political discussion 
 with Frank Jones. " Yes," said the Member of Parliament, " I 
 mean to put my shoulder to the wheel, and do the very best that 
 can be done. I cannot believe but what a man in earnest will 
 find out the truth. Politics are not such a hopeless muddle 
 but what some gleam of light may be made to shine through." 
 
 " There are such things as leaders," said Frank. 
 
 Then Mr. O'Mahony stood up and laid his hand upon his 
 heart. " You remember what Van Artevelde said — ' They 
 shall murder me ere make me go the way that is not my way, 
 for an inch.' I say the same." 
 
 " What will Mr. Parnell do with such a follower ? " 
 
MR. 0* MA HO NY AS M.P. 
 
 197 
 
 "Mr. Parnell is also an honest man," cried Mr. O'Mahony. 
 "Two honest men looking for light together will never fall out. 
 I at any rate have some little gift of utterance. Perhaps I can 
 persuade a man, or two men. At any rate I will try." 
 
 "But how are we to get back to London, father?" said 
 Rachel. " I don't think it becomes an honest Member of 
 Parliament to take money out of a common fund. You will 
 have to remain here in pawn till I go and sing you out." But 
 Rachel had enough left of Lord Castlewell's money to 
 carry them back to London, on condition that they did not stop 
 on the road, and to this condition she was forced to bring her 
 father. 
 
 Early on the following morning before they started the 
 news reached Cavan of poor Florian's death. " Oh God ! My 
 brother ! " exclaimed Frank ; but it was all that he did say. 
 He was a man who, like his father, had become embittered by 
 the circumstances of the times. Mr. Jones had bought his 
 property, now thirty years since, with what was then called a 
 parliamentary title. He had paid hard money for it, and had 
 induced his friends to lend their money to assist the purchase, 
 for which he was responsible. Much of the land he had been 
 enabled to keep in his own hands, but on none of the tenants' 
 had he raised the rent. Now there had come forth a law, not 
 from the hand of the Land-leaguers, but from the Government, 
 who, it was believed, would protect those who did their duty by 
 the country. Under this law commissioners were to be 
 appointed, — or sub-commissioners, — men supposed to be not 
 of great mark in the country, who were to reduce the rent 
 according to their ideas of justice. If a man paid ten pounds, 
 — or had engaged to pay ten, — let him take his pen and write 
 down seven or eight as the sub-commissioner should decide. 
 As the outside landlords, the friends of Mr. Jones, must have 
 five pounds out of the original ten, that which was coining to 
 Mr. Jones himself would be about halved. And the condition 
 of Mr. Jones, under the system of boycotting which he was 
 undergoing, was hard to endure. Now Frank was the eldest 
 son, and the property of Castle Morony and Ballintubber was 
 entailed upon him. He was brought up in his early youth to 
 feel that he was to fill that situation, which, of all others, is the 
 most attractive. He was to have been the eldest son of a man 
 of unembarrassed property. Now he was offered to be taken 
 to London as the travelling husband — or upper servant, as it 
 might be — of an opera singer. Then, while he was in this 
 condition, there came to him the news that his brother had 
 been murdered ; and he must go home to give what assistance 
 was in his power to his poor, ill-used sisters. It is not to be 
 wondered at that he was embittered. He had been spending 
 some hours of the last day in reading the clauses of the Bill 
 
198 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 under which the sub-commissioners were to show him what 
 mercy they might think right. As he left Cavan the following 
 morning, his curses were more deep against the Government 
 than against the Land-league. 
 
 Mr. Mahony and his daughter got back to Cecil Street in 
 September in a very impecunious state. He soon began to 
 understand that the position of Member of Parliament was 
 more difficult and dangerous than that of a lecturer. The police 
 had interfered with him ; but the police had in truth done him 
 no harm, nor had they wanted anything from him. But as 
 Member of Parliament for Cavan the attacks made on his 
 purse were very numerous. And throughout September, when 
 the glory of Parliament was just newly settled upon his 
 shoulders, sundry calls were made upon him for obedience 
 which were distasteful to him. He was wanted over in Ireland. 
 Mr. O'Mahony was an outspoken, frank man, who did not at 
 all like to be troubled with secrets. " I haven't got any money 
 to come over to Ireland just at present. They took what I had 
 away from me in County Cavan during the election. I don't 
 suppose I shall have any to speak of till after Christmas, and 
 then it won't be much. If you have anything for a man to do 
 in London it will be more within my reach." It was thus 
 he wrote to some brother Member of Parliament who had 
 summoned him to a grand meeting at the Rotunda. He was 
 wanted to address the people on the honesty of the principle 
 of paying no rent. " For the matter of that,' 5 he wrote to 
 another brother member, " I don't see the honesty. Why are 
 we to take the property from Jack and give it to Bill ? Bill 
 would sell it and spend the money, and no good would then 
 have been done to the country. I should have to argue the 
 matter out with you or someone else before I could speak 
 about it at the Rotunda." Then, there arose a doubt whether 
 Mr. O'Mahony was the proper member for Cavan. He settled 
 himself down in Cecil Street and began to write a book about 
 rent. When he began his book he hated rent from his very 
 soul. The difficulty he saw was this : what should you do with 
 the property when you took it away from the landlords ? He 
 quite saw his way to taking it away ; if only a new order would 
 come from heaven for the creation of a special set of farmers 
 who should be wedded to their land by some celestial matri- 
 mony, and should clearly be in possession of it without the 
 perpetration of any injustice. He did not quite see his way 
 to this by his own lights, and therefore he went to the British 
 Museum. When a man wants to write a book full of unas- 
 sailable facts, he always goes to the British Museum. In this 
 way Mr. O'Mahony purposed to spend his autumn instead of 
 speaking at the Rotunda, because it suited him to live in 
 London rather than in Dublin. 
 
MR. O'MAHONY AS M.P. 
 
 199 
 
 Cecil Street in September is not the most cheerful place in 
 the world. While Rachel had been singing at " The Embank- 
 ment/ 5 with the occasional excitement of a quarrel with Mr. 
 Moss, it had been all very well ; but now while her father was > 
 studying statistics at the British Museum, she had nothing to 
 do but to practise her singing. " I mean to do something, you 
 know, towards earning that ,£200 which you have lent me." 
 This she said to Lord Castlewell, who had come up to London 
 to have his teeth looked after. This was the excuse he gave for 
 being in London at this unfashionable season. " I have to sing 
 from breakfast to dinner without stopping one minute, so you 
 may go back to the dentist at once. I haven't time even to see 
 what he has done." 
 
 " I have to propose that you and your father shall come and 
 dine with me down at Richmond to-day. There is old Mrs. 
 Peacock, who used to sing bouffe parts at the Queen's Theatre. 
 She is a most respectable old party, and she shall come if you 
 will let her." 
 
 " For papa to flirt with ? " said Rachel. 
 
 " Not at all. With a party of four there is never any 
 flirting. It is all solid sense. I want to have some serious 
 conversation about that ^200. Mrs. Peacock will be able to 
 give me her opinion." 
 
 " She won't be able to lend me the money ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid she isn't a good doctor for that disease. But 
 you must dine somewhere, and do say you will come." 
 
 But Rachel was determined not to come, — at any rate not 
 to say that she would come without consulting her father. So 
 she explained that the Member of Parliament was hard at work 
 at the British Museum, writing a book against the payment of 
 rents, and that she could not go without consulting him. But 
 Lord Castlewell made that very easy. " I'll go and see," said 
 he, " how a man looks when he is writing a book on such a 
 subject ; and I'll be back and tell you all about it. I'll drive 
 you down in my phaeton, — of course if your father consents. If 
 he wants to bring his book with him, the groom shall carry it in 
 a box." 
 
 "And what about Mrs. Peacock ?" 
 
 " There won't be any trouble about her, because she lives at 
 Richmond. You needn't be a bit afraid for your father's sake, 
 because she is over sixty." Then he started off, and came back 
 in half an hour, saying that Mr. O'Mahony had expressed 
 himself quite satisfied to do as he was told. 
 
 " The deceit of the world, the flesh, and the devil, get the 
 better of one on every side," said Rachel, when she was left to 
 herself. " Who would have thought of the noble lord spinning 
 off to the British Museum on such an errand as that ! But he 
 will give papa a good dinner, and I shan't be any the worse. A 
 
200 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 man must be very bad before he can do a woman an injury if 
 she is determined not to be injured." 
 
 Lord Castlewell drove the two down to Richmond, and very 
 pleasant the drive was. The conversation consisted of quizzing 
 Mr. O'Mahony about his book, as to which he was already 
 beginning to be a little out of heart. But he bore the quizzing 
 well, and was thoroughly good-humoured as he saw the lord 
 and his daughter sitting on the front seat before him. " I am a 
 Land-leaguing Home-Ruler, you know, my lord, of the most 
 advanced description. The Speaker has never turned rne out 
 of the House of Commons, only because I have never sat there. 
 Your character will be lost for ever." Lord Castlewell declared 
 that his character would be made for ever, as he had the great 
 prima donna of the next season at his left hand. 
 
 The dinner went off very pleasantly. Old Mrs. Peacock 
 declared that she had never known a prima donna before to be 
 the daughter of a Member of Parliament. She felt that great 
 honour was done to the profession. 
 
 "Why," said Lord Castlewell, "he is writing a book to prove 
 that nobody should pay any rent ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Peacock, " that would be terrible. A 
 landlord wouldn't be a landlord if he didn't get any rent ; — or 
 hardly." Then Mr. O'Mahony went to work to explain that a 
 landlord was, of his very name and nature, an abomination 
 before the Lord. 
 
 " And yet you want houses to live in," said Lord Castlewell. 
 
 When they were in the middle of their dinners they were all 
 surprised by the approach of Mr. Mahomet M. Moss. He was 
 dressed up to a degree of beauty which Rachel thought that she 
 had never seen equalled. H is shirt-front was full of little worked 
 holes. His studs were gold and turquoise, and those at his 
 wrists were double studs, also gold and turquoise. The tie of 
 his cravat was a thing marvellous to behold. His waistcoat 
 was new for the occasion, and apparently all over marvellously 
 fine needlework. It might, all the same, have been done by a 
 sewing-machine. The breadth of the satin lappets of his dress- 
 coat were most expansive. And his hair must have taken two 
 artists the whole afternoon to accomplish. It was evident to 
 see that he felt himself to be quite the lord's equal by the 
 strength of his personal adornment. " Well, yes," he said, " I 
 have brought Madame Tacchi down here to show her what we 
 can do in the way of a suburban dinner. Madame Tacchi is 
 about to take the place which Miss O'Mahony has vacated at 
 4 The Embankment/ Ah, my lord, you behaved very shabbily 
 to us there." 
 
 " If Madame Tacchi," said the lord, "can sing at all like 
 Miss O'Mahony, we shall have her away very soon. Is Madame 
 Tacchi in sight, so that I can see her ? " 
 
MR. a MAHONY AS M.P. 
 
 201 
 
 Then Mr. Moss indicated the table at which the lady sat, 
 and with the lady was Madame Socani. 
 
 "They are a bad lot," said Lord Castlewell, as soon as Moss 
 had withdrawn. " I know them, and they are a bad lot, 
 particularly that woman who is with them. It is a marvel to 
 me how you got among them." 
 
 Lord Castlewell had now become very intimate with the 
 O'Mahonys ; and by what he said showed also his intimacy 
 with Mrs. Peacock. 
 
 " They are Americans," said O'Mahony. 
 
 " And so are you," said the lord. " There can be good 
 Americans and bad Americans. You don't mean to say that 
 you think worse of an American than of an Englishman." 
 
 " I think higher of an Englishman than of an American, 
 and lower also. If I meet an American where a gentleman 
 ought to be, I entertain a doubt ; if I meet him where a 
 labourer ought to be, I feel very confident. I suppose that the 
 manager of a theatre ought to be a gentleman." 
 
 " I don't quite understand it all," said Mrs. Peacock. 
 
 " Nor anybody else," said Rachel. " Father does fly so very 
 high in the air when he talks about people." 
 
 After that the lord drove Miss O'Mahony and her father 
 back to Cecil Street, and they all agreed that they had had a 
 very pleasant evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S LOVE-MAKING. 
 
 The household at Castle Morony was very sad for some time 
 after the trial. They had hardly begun to feel the death of 
 Florian while the excitement existed as they felt it afterwards. 
 Mr. Jones, his father, seemed to regard the lost boy as though 
 he had been his favourite child. It was not many months since 
 he had refused to allow him to eat in his presence, and had 
 been persuaded by such a stranger as was Captain Clayton, to 
 treat him with some show of affection. When he had driven 
 him into Ballygiunin, he had been stern and harsh to him to 
 the very last. And now he was obliterated with sorrow because 
 he had been robbed of his Florian. The two girls had sorrows 
 of their own ; though neither of them would permit her sorrow 
 to create any quarrel between her and her sister. And Frank, 
 who since his return from the North had toiled like a labourer 
 on the property— only doing double a labourer's work— had 
 sorrow, too, of his own. It was understood that he had alto- 
 
202 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 gether separated himself from Rachel O'Mahony. The cause 
 of his separation was singular in its nature. 
 
 It was now November, and Rachel had already achieved a 
 singularly rapid success at Covent Garden. She still lived in 
 Cecil Street, but there was no lack of money. Indeed, her 
 name had risen into such repute that some Irish people began 
 to think that her father was the proper man for Cavan, simply 
 because she was a great singer. It cannot be said, however, 
 that this was the case among the men who were regarded as 
 the leaders of the party, as they still doubted O'Mahony's 
 obedience. But money at any rate poured into Rachel's lap, 
 and with the money that which was quite as objectionable to 
 poor Frank. He had begun by asserting that he did not wish 
 to live idle on the earnings of a singer ; and, therefore, as the 
 singer had said, " he and she were obliged to be two." As she 
 explained to her father, she was badly treated. She was very 
 anxious to be true to her lover ; but she did not like living with- 
 out some lover to whom she might be true. " You see, as I am 
 placed I am exposed to the Mosses. I do want to have a 
 husband to protect me." Then a lover had come forward. 
 Lord Castlewell had absolutely professed to make her the future 
 Marchioness of Beaulieu. Of this there must be more here- 
 after ; but Frank heard of it, and tore his hair in despair. 
 
 And there was another misery at Castle Morony. It reached 
 Mr. Jones's ears that Peter was anxious to give warning. It 
 certainly was the case that Peter was of great use to them and 
 that Mr. Jones had rebuked him more than once as having 
 made a great favour of his services. The fact was that Peter, 
 if discharged, would hardly know where to look for another 
 place where he could be equally at home and equally comfort- 
 able. And he was treated by the family generally with all that 
 confidence which his faithfulness seemed to deserve. But he 
 was nervous and ill-at-ease under his master's rebukes ; and at 
 last there came an event which seemed to harrow up his own 
 soul, and instigated him to run away from County Galway 
 altogether. 
 
 " Miss Edith, Miss Edith," he said, " come in here thin and 
 see what I have got to show you." Then, with an air of great 
 mystery, he drew his young mistress into the pantry. " Look at 
 that now ! Was ever the like of that seen since the mortial 
 world began ? " Then he took out from a dirty envelope a dirty 
 sheet of paper, and exposed it to her eyes. On the top of it 
 was a rude coffin. " Don't it make yer hair stand on end, and 
 yer very flesh creep, Miss Edith, to look at the likes o' that?" 
 And below the coffin there was a ruder skull and two cross- 
 bones. " Them's intended for what I'm to be. I understand 
 their language well enough. Look here," and he turned the 
 envelope round and showed that it was addressed to Peter 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S LOVE-MAKING. 
 
 203 
 
 McGrew, butler, Morony Castle. " They know me well enough 
 all the country round." The letter was as follows : 
 
 " Mr. Peter McGrew, 
 
 "If you're not out of that before the end of the month, 
 but stay there doing things for them infernal blackguards, your 
 goose is cooked. So now you know all about it. 
 
 " From yours, 
 
 " Moonlight." 
 
 Edith attempted to laugh at this letter, but Peter made her 
 understand that it was no laughing matter. 
 
 " I've a married darter in Dublin who won't see her father 
 shot down that way if she knows it." 
 
 " You had better take it to papa, then, and give him warn- 
 ing," said Edith. 
 
 But this Peter declined to do on the spur of the moment, 
 seeming to be equally afraid of his master and of Captain 
 Moonlight. 
 
 " If I'd the Captain here, he'd tell me what I ought to do.'' 
 The Captain was always Captain Clayton. 
 
 " He is coming here to-morrow, and I will show him the 
 letter," said Edith. But she did not on that account scruple to 
 tell her father at once. 
 
 " He can go if he likes it," said Mr. Jones, and that was all 
 that Mr. Jones said on the subject. 
 
 This was the third visit that the Captain had paid to Morony 
 Castle since the terrible events of the late trial. And it must be 
 understood that he had not spoken a word to either of the two 
 girls since the moment in which he had ventured to squeeze 
 Edith's hand with a tighter grasp than he had given to her 
 sister. They, between them, had discussed him and his 
 character often ; but had come to no understanding respecting 
 him. 
 
 Ada had declared that Edith should be his, and had in some 
 degree recovered from the paroxysm of sorrow which had first 
 oppressed her. But Edith had refused altogether to look at 
 the matter in that light. " It was quite out of the question," 
 she said, "and so Captain Clayton would feel it. If you don't 
 hold your tongue, Ada," she said, " I shall think you're a brute." 
 
 But Ada had not held her tongue, and had declared that if 
 no one else were to know it — no one but Edith and the Captain 
 himself— she would not be made miserable by it. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. " I thought him the best, and he 
 is the best. I thought that he thought that I was the best ; and 
 I wasn't. It shall be as I say." 
 
 After this manner were the discussions held between them ; 
 but of these Captain Clayton heard never a word. 
 
204 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 When he came he would seem to be full of the flood-gates, 
 and of Lax the murderer. He had two men with him now, 
 Hunter and another. But no further attempt was made to 
 shoot him in the neighbourhood of Headford. " Lax finds it 
 too hot," he said, " since that day in the court house, and has 
 gone away for the present. I nearly know where he is ; but 
 there is no good catching him till I get some sort of evidence 
 against him, and if I locked him up as a ' suspect,' he would 
 become a martyr and a hero in the eyes of the whole party. 
 The worst of it is that though twenty men swore that they had 
 seen it, no Galway jury would convict him." But nevertheless 
 he was indefatigable in following up the murderer of poor 
 Florian. " As for the murder in the court house," he said, " I 
 do believe that though it was done in the presence of an 
 immense crowd no one actually saw it. I have the pistol, but 
 what is that ? The pistol was dropped on the floor of the 
 court house." 
 
 On this occasion Edith brought him poor Peter's letter. 
 As it happened they two were then alone together. But she 
 had taught herself not to expect any allusion to his love. " He 
 is a stupid fellow," said the Captain. 
 
 " But he has been faithful. And you can't expect him to 
 look at these things as you do." 
 
 " Of course he finds it to be a great compliment. To have 
 a special letter addressed to him by some special Captain 
 Moonlight is to bring him into the history of his country." 
 
 " I suppose he will go." 
 
 " Then let him go. I would not on any account ask him to 
 stay. If he comes to me I shall tell him simply that he is a fool. 
 Pat Carroll's people want to bother your father, and he would be 
 bothered if he were to lose his man-servant. There is no doubt 
 of that. If Peter desires to bother him let him go. Then he has 
 another idea that he wants to achieve a character for fidelity. 
 He must choose between the two. But I wouldn't on any 
 account ask him for a favour." 
 
 Then Edith having heard the Captain's advice was preparing 
 to leave the room when Captain Clayton stopped her. u Edith," 
 he said. 
 
 " Well, Captain Clayton." 
 
 u Some months ago,— before these sad things had occurred, 
 — I told you what I thought of you, and I asked you for a 
 favour." 
 
 " There was a mistake made between us all, — a mistake 
 which does not admit of being put to rights. It was unfortunate, 
 but those misfortunes will occur. There is no more to be said 
 about it." 
 
 " Is the happiness of two people to be thus sacrificed, when 
 nothing is done for the benefit of one ?" 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S LOVE-MAKING. 20$ 
 
 " What two ? " she asked brusquely. 
 "You and I." 
 
 " My happiness will not be sacrificed, Captain Clayton," she 
 said. What right had he to tell that her happiness was in 
 question ? The woman spoke, — the essence of feminine self, 
 putting itself forward to defend feminine rights generally against 
 male assumption. Could any man be justified in asserting that 
 a woman loved him till she had told him so ? It was evident no 
 doubt, — so she told herself. It was true at least. As the word 
 goes she worshipped the very ground he stood upon. He was 
 her hero. She had been made to think and to feel that he was 
 so by this mistake which had occurred between the three. She 
 had known it before, but it was burned in upon her now. Yet 
 he should not be allowed to assume it. And the one thing neces- 
 sary for her peace of mind in life would be that she should do her 
 duty by Ada. She had been a fool. She had instigated Ada to 
 believe this thing in which there was no truth. The loss of all 
 ecstasy of happiness must be the penalty which she would pay. 
 And yet she thought of him. Must he pay a similar penalty for 
 her blunder ? Surely this would be hard ! Surely this would 
 be cruel ! But then she did not believe that man ever paid such 
 penalty as that of which she was thinking. He would have the 
 work of his life. It would be the work of her life to remember 
 what she might have been had she not been a fool. 
 
 " If so," he said after a pause, " then there is an end of it all," 
 and he looked at her as though he absolutely believed her words, 
 — as though he had not known that her assertion had been mere 
 feminine pretext ! She could not endure that he at any rate 
 should not know the sacrifice which she would have to make. 
 But he was very hard to her. He would not even allow her the 
 usual right of defending her sex by falsehood. " If so, there is 
 an end of it all," he repeated, holding out his hand as though to 
 bid her farewell. 
 
 She believed him, and gave him her hand. " Good-bye, 
 Captain Clayton," she said. 
 
 " Never again," he said to her very gruffly, but still with such 
 a look across his eyes as irradiated his whole face. " This hand 
 shall never again be your own to do as you please with it." 
 
 " Who says so ? " and she struggled as though to pull her 
 hand away, but he held her as though in truth her hand had gone 
 from her for ever. 
 
 " I say so, who am its legitimate owner. Now I bid you tell 
 me the truth, or rather I defy you to go on with the lie. Do 
 you not love me ? " 
 
 " It is a question which I shall not answer." 
 
 "Then," said he, "from a woman to a man it is answered. 
 You cannot make me over to another. I will not be trans- 
 ferred." 
 
205 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " I can do nothing with you, Captain Clayton, nor can you 
 with me. I know you are very strong of course." Then he 
 loosened her hand, and as he did so Ada came into the room. 
 
 " I have asked her to be my wife," said the Captain, putting 
 his hand upon Edith's arm. 
 
 " Let it be so," said Ada. " I have nothing to say against it." 
 
 "But I have," said Edith. ft I have much to say against it. 
 We can all live without being married, I suppose. Captain 
 Clayton has plenty to do without the trouble of a wife. And so 
 have you and I. Could we leave our father ? And have we 
 forgotten so soon poor Florian ? This is no time for marriages. 
 Only think, papa would not have the means to get us decent 
 clothes. As far as I am concerned, Captain Clayton, let there 
 be an end of all this." Then she stalked out of the room. 
 
 " Ada, you are not angry with me,' 5 said Captain Clayton, 
 coming up to her. 
 
 " Oh, no ! How could I be angry ? " 
 
 " I have not time to do as other men do. I do not know that 
 I ever said a word to her; and yet, God knows, that I have loved 
 her dearly enough. She is hot-tempered now, and there are 
 feelings in her heart which fight against me. You will say a 
 word in my favour." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed I will." 
 
 " There shall be nothing wrong between you and me. If 
 she becomes my wife, you shall be my dearest sister. And 
 I think she will at last. I know, — I do know that she loves me. 
 Poor Florian is dead and gone. All his short troubles are over. 
 We have still got our lives to lead. And why should we not 
 lead them as may best suit us ? She talks about your father's 
 present want of money. I would be proud to marry your sister 
 standing as she is now down in the kitchen. But if I did marry 
 her I should have ample means to keep her as would become 
 your father's daughter." Then he took his leave and went back 
 to Galway. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 LORD CASTLEWELL'S LOVE-MAKING. 
 
 It was explained in the last chapter that Frank Jones was not 
 in a happy condition because of the success of the lady whom 
 he loved. Rachel, as Christmas drew nigh, was more and more 
 talked about in London, and became more and more the darling 
 of all musical people. She had been twelve months now on the 
 London boards, and had fully justified the opinion expressed of 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL'S LOVE-MAKING. 207 
 
 her by Messrs. Moss and Le Gros : There were those who 
 declared that she sang as no woman of her age had ever sung 
 before. And there had got abroad about her certain stories, 
 which were true enough in the main, but which were all the 
 more curious because of their truth ; and yet they were not true 
 altogether. It was known that she was a daughter of a Land- 
 leaguing Member of Parliament, and that she had been engaged 
 to marry the son of a boycotted landlord. Mr. Jones' sorrows, 
 and the death of his poor son, and the murder of the sinner who 
 was to have been the witness at the trial of his brother, were all 
 known and commented on in the London press ; and so also 
 was the peculiar vigour of Mr. O'Mahony's politics. Nothing, 
 it was said, could be severed more entirely than were Mr. Jones 
 and Mr. O'Mahony. The enmity was so deep that all ideas of 
 marriage were out of the question. It was, no doubt, true that 
 the gentleman was penniless and the lady rolling in wealth ; 
 but this was a matter so grievous that so poor a thing as money 
 could not be allowed to prevail. And then Mr. Moss was 
 talked about as a dragon of iniquity, — which, indeed, was true 
 enough, — and was represented as having caused contracts to be 
 executed which would bind poor Rachel to himself, both as to 
 voice and beauty. But Lord Castlewell had seen her, and had 
 heard her ; and Mr. Moss, with all his abominations, was sent 
 down to the bottom of the nethermost pit. The fortune of 
 " The Embankment " was made by the number of visitors who 
 were sent there to see and to hear this wicked fiend ; but it all 
 redounded to the honour and glory of Rachel. 
 
 But Rachel was to be seen a feted guest at all semi-musical 
 houses. Whispers about town were heard that that musical 
 swell, Lord Castlewell, had been caught at last. And in the 
 midst of all this, Mr. O'Mahony came in for his share of popu- 
 larity. There was something so peculiar in the connection 
 which bound a violent Land-leaguing Member of Parliament 
 with the prima donna of the day. They were father and 
 daughter, but they looked more like husband and wife, and it 
 always seemed that Rachel had her own way. Mr. O'Mahony 
 had quite achieved a character for himself before the time had 
 come in which he was enabled to open his mouth in the House 
 of Commons. And some people went so far as to declare that 
 he was about to be the new leader of the party. 
 
 It certainly was true that about this time Lord Castlewell 
 did make an offer to Rachel O'Mahony. 
 
 "That I should have come to this ! J ' she said to the lord 
 when the lord had expressed his wishes. 
 
 " You deserve it all," said the gallant lord. 
 
 " I think I do. But that you should have seen it, — that you 
 should have come to understand that if I would be your wife I 
 would sing every note out of my body, — to do you good if it 
 
208 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 were possible. How have you been enlightened so far as to see 
 that this is the way in which you may best make yourself 
 
 happy ? " 
 
 Lord Castlewell did not quite like this ; but he knew that 
 his wished-for bride was an unintelligible little person, to whom 
 much must be yielded as to her own way. He had not given 
 way to this idea before he had seen how well she had taken her 
 place among the people with whom he lived. He was forty 
 years old, and it was time that he should marry. His father 
 was a very proud personage, to whom he never spoke much. 
 He, however, would be of opinion that any bride whom his son 
 might choose would be, by the very fact, raised to the top of the 
 peerage. His mother was a religious woman, to whom any 
 matrimony for her son would be an achievement. Now, of the 
 proposed bride he had learned all manner of good things. She 
 had come out of Mr. Moss's furnace absolutely unscorched ; so 
 much unscorched as to scorn the idea of having been touched 
 by the flames. She was thankful to Lord Castlewell for what 
 he had done, and expressed her thanks in a manner that was 
 not grateful to him. She was not in the least put about or con- 
 fused, or indeed surprised, because the heir of a marquis had 
 made an offer to her — a singing girl ; but she let him understand 
 that she quite thought that she had done a good thing. "It 
 would be so much better for him than going on as he has 
 gone," she said to her father. And Lord Castlewell knew very 
 well what were her sentiments. 
 
 It cannot be said that he repented of his offer. Indeed 
 he pressed her for an answer more than once or twice. But her 
 conduct to him was certainly very aggravating. This matter of 
 her marriage with an earl was an affair of great moment. 
 Indeed all London was alive with the subject. But she had not 
 time to give him an answer because it was necessary that she 
 should study a part for the theatre. This was hard upon an 
 earl, and was made no better by the fact that the earl was forty. 
 " No, my lord earl," she said laughing, " the time for that has 
 not come yet. You must give me a few days to think of it." 
 This she said when he expressed a not unnatural desire to give 
 her a kiss. 
 
 But though she apparently made light of the matter to him, 
 and astonished even her father by her treatment of him, yet she 
 thought of it with a very anxious mind. She was quite alive to 
 the glories of the position offered to her, and was not at all 
 alive to its inconveniences. People would assert that she had 
 caught the lover who had intended her for other purposes. 
 " That was of course out of the question," she said to herself. 
 And she felt sure that she could make as good a countess as 
 the best of them. With her father as Member of Parliament, 
 and her husband an earl, she would have done very well with 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL'S LOVE-MAKING. 209 
 
 herself. She would have escaped from that brute Moss, and 
 would have been subjected to less that was disagreeable in the 
 encounter than might have been expected. She must lose the 
 public singing which was attractive to her, and must become 
 the wife of an old man. It was thus in truth that she looked at 
 the noble lord. "There would be an end," she said, "and 
 for ever, of 'Love's young dream.'" The dream had been 
 very pleasant to her. She had thoroughly liked her Frank. 
 He was handsome, fresh, full of passion, and a little violent 
 when his temper lay in that direction. But he had been 
 generous, and she was sure of him that he had loved her 
 thoroughly. After all, was not " Love's young dream " the 
 best? 
 
 An answer was at any rate due to Lord Castlewell. But she 
 made up her mind that before she could give the answer, she 
 would write to Frank himself. " My lord," she said very gravely 
 to her suitor, " it has become my lot in life to be engaged to 
 marry the son of that Mr. Jones of whom you have heard in the 
 west of Ireland." 
 
 " I am aware of it," said Lord Castlewell gravely. 
 
 " It has been necessary that I should tell you myself. Now, 
 I cannot say whether, in all honour, that engagement has been 
 dissolved." 
 
 u I thought there was no doubt about it," said the lord. 
 
 " It is as I tell you. I must write to Mr. Jones. Hearts 
 cannot be wrenched asunder without some effort in the wrench- 
 ing. For the great honour you have done me I am greatly 
 thankful." 
 
 " Let all that pass," said the lord. 
 
 " Not so. It has to be spoken of. As I stand at present I 
 have been repudiated by Mr. Jones." 
 
 " Do you mean to ask him to take you back again ? " 
 
 " I do not know how the letter will be worded, because it has 
 not been yet written. My object is to tell him of the honour 
 which Lord Castlewell proposes to me. And I have not thought 
 it quite honest to your lordship to do this without acquainting 
 you." 
 
 Then that interview was over, and Lord Castlewell went 
 away no doubt disgusted. He had not intended to be treated 
 in this way by a singing girl, when he proposed to make her his 
 countess. But with the disgust there was a strengthened feeling 
 of admiration for her conduct. She looked much more like the 
 countess than the singing girl when she spoke to him. And 
 there certainly never came a time in which he could tell her to 
 go back and sing and marry Mr. Moss. Therefore the few days 
 necessary for an answer went by, and then she gave him her 
 reply. "My lord," she said, "if you wish it still, it shall 
 be so." 
 
 P 
 
2IO 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 The time for " Love's young dream 99 had not gone by for 
 Lord Castlewell. " I do wish it still," he said in a tone of 
 renewed joy. 
 
 "Then you shall have all that you wish." Thereupon she 
 put her little hands on his arm, and leant her face against his 
 breast. Then there was a long embrace, but after the embrace 
 she had a little speech to make. " You ought to know, Lord 
 Castlewell, how much I think of you and your high position. 
 A ^ian, they say, trusts much of his honour into the hands of 
 his wife. Whatever you trust to me shall be guarded as my 
 very soul. You shall be to me the one man whom I am bound 
 to worship. I will worship you with all my r s heart, with all my 
 body, with all my soul, and with all my strength. Your wishes 
 shall be my wishes. I only hope that an odd stray wish of 
 mine may occasionally be yours." Then she smiled so sweetly 
 that as she looked up into his face he was more enamoured of 
 her than ever. 
 
 But now we must go back for a moment, and read the 
 correspondence which took place between Rachel O'Mahony 
 and Frank Jones. Rachel's letter ran as follows : 
 
 " My dear Frank, 
 
 " I am afraid I must trouble you once again with my 
 affairs ; though, indeed, after what last took place between us it 
 ought not to be necessary. Lord Castlewell has proposed to 
 make me his wife ; and, to tell you the truth, looking forward 
 into the world, I do not wish to throw over all its pleasures 
 because your honour, whom I have loved, does not wish to 
 accept the wages of a singing girl. But the place is open to 
 you still, — the wages, and the singing girl, and all. Write me 
 a line, and say how it is to be. 
 
 " Yours as you would have me to be, 
 "Rachel O'Mahony." 
 
 This letter Frank Jones showed to no one. Had he allowed 
 it to be seen by his sister Edith, she would probably have told 
 him that no man ever received a sweeter love-letter from the 
 girl whom he loved. " The place is open to you still, — the 
 wages, the singing girl, and all." The girl had made nothing 
 of this new and noble lover, except to assure his rival that he, 
 the rival, should be postponed to him, the lover, if he, the lover, 
 would write but one word to say that it should be so. But 
 Frank was Bad at reading such words. He got it into his head 
 that the girl had merely written to ask the permission of her 
 former suitor to marry this new lordly lover, and, though he 
 did love the girl, with a passion which the girl could never feel 
 for the lord, he wrote back and refused the offer. 
 
LORD CAST LEW ELLS LOVE-MAKING. 211 
 
 "My dear Rachel, 
 
 " It is, I suppose, best as it is. We are sinking lower 
 and lower daily. My father is beginning to feel that we shall 
 never see another rent day at Castle Morony. It is not fitting 
 that I should think of joining my fallen fortunes to yours, which 
 are soaring so high. And poor Florian is gone. We are at 
 the present moment still struck to the ground because of 
 Florian. As for you, and the lord who admires you, you have 
 my permission to become his wife. I have long heard that he 
 is your declared admirer. You have before you a glorious 
 future, and I shall always hear with satisfaction of your career. 
 
 " Yours, with many memories of the past, 
 " Francis Jones." 
 
 It was not a letter which would have put such a girl as 
 Rachel O'Mahony into good heart unless she had in truth 
 wished to get his agreement to her lordly marriage. " This 
 twice I have thrown myself at his head and he has rejected 
 me." Then she abided Lord CastlewelPs coming, and the 
 scene between them took place as above described. The 
 marriage was at once declared as a settled thing. " Now, my 
 dear, you must name the day," said Lord Castlewell, as full of 
 joy as though he were going to marry a duke's daughter. 
 
 " I have got to finish my engagement," said Rachel ; " I am 
 bound down to the end of May. When June comes you shan't 
 find a girl who will be in a greater hurry. Do you think that I 
 do not wish to become a countess ? 99 
 
 He told her that he would contrive to get her engagement 
 broken. " Co vent Garden is not going to quarrel with me 
 about my wife, Pm sure," he said. 
 
 " Ah ! but my own one," said Rachel, " we will do it all 
 selon Us regies. I am in a hurry, but we won't let the world 
 know it. I, the future Countess of Castlewell ; I, the future 
 Marchioness of Beaulieu, will keep my terms and my allotted 
 times like any candle-snuffer. What do you think Moss will say?" 
 
 "What can it signify what Mr. Moss may say?" 
 
 "Ah! but my own man, it does signify. Mr. Moss shall 
 know that through it all I have done my duty. Madame Socani 
 will tell lies, but she shall feel in her heart that she has once in 
 her life come across a woman who, when she has signed a bit 
 of paper, intends to remain true to the paper signed. And, my 
 lord, there is still £100 due to you from my father." 
 
 " Gammon ! " said the lord. 
 
 " I could pay it by a cheque on the bank, to be sure, but let 
 us go on to the end of May. I want to see how all the young 
 women will behave when they hear of it." And so some early 
 day in June was fixed for the wedding. 
 
 P 2 
 
212 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Among others who heard of it were, of course, Mr. Moss and 
 Madame Socani. They heard of it, but of course did not believe 
 it. It was too bright to be believed. When Madame Socani 
 was assured that Rachel had taken the money, — she and her 
 father between them, — she declared, with great apparent satis- 
 faction, that Rachel must be given up as lost. " As to that 
 wicked old man, her father " 
 
 " He's not so very old," said Moss. 
 
 "She's no chicken, and he's old enough to be her father* 
 That is, if he is her father. I have known that girl on the stage 
 any day these ten years." 
 
 " No, you've not ; not yet five. I don't quite know how it 
 is." And Mr. Moss endeavoured to think of it all in such a 
 manner as to make it yet possible that he might marry her. 
 What might not they two do together in the musical world ? 
 
 " You don't mean to say you'd take her yet ?" said Madame 
 Socani, with scorn. 
 
 " When I take her you'll be glad enough to join us ; that is, 
 if we will have you." Then Madame Socani ground her teeth 
 together, and turned up her nose with redoubled scorn. 
 
 But it was soon borne in upon Mr. Moss that the marriage 
 was to be a marriage, and he was in truth very angry. He had 
 been able to endure M. Le Gros' success in carrying away Miss 
 O'Mahony from i( The Embankment." Miss O'Mahony might 
 come back again under that or any other name. He — and she 
 — had a musical future before them which might still be made 
 to run in accordance with his wishes. Then he had learned 
 with sincere sorrow that she was throwing herself into the lord's 
 hands, borrowing money of him. But there might be a way out 
 of this which would still allow him to carry out his project. But 
 now he heard that a real marriage was intended, and he was 
 very angry. Not even Madame Socani was more capable of spite 
 than Mr. Moss, though he was better able to hide his rage. 
 Even now, when Christmas-time had come, he would hardly 
 believe the truth, and when the marriage was not instantly 
 carried out, new hopes came to him — that Lord Castlewell 
 would not at last make himself such a fool. He inquired here 
 and there in the musical world and the theatrical world, and 
 could not arrive at what he believed to be positive truth. Then 
 Christmas passed by, and Miss O'Mahony recommenced her 
 singing at Covent Garden. Three times a week the house was 
 filled, and at last a fourth night was added, for which the salary 
 paid to Rachel was very much increased. 
 
 " I don't see that the salary matters very much," said Lord 
 Castlewell, when the matter was discussed. 
 
 " Oh, but, my lord, it does matter ! " She always called 
 him my lord now, with a little emphasis laid on the " my." 
 " They have made father a Member of Parliament, but he does 
 
* 
 
 LORD CA S TLE WELLS LOVE-MAKING. 213 
 
 not earn anything. What I can earn up to the last fatal day he 
 shall have, if you will let me give it to him." 
 
 They were very bright days for Rachel, because she had all 
 the triumph of success, — success gained by her own efforts. 
 
 u I can never do as much as this when I am your countess," 
 she said to her future lord. " I shall dwell in marble halls, as 
 people say, but I shall never cram a house so full as to be able 
 to see, when I look up from the stage, that there is not a place 
 for another man's head ; and when my throat gave way the 
 other day I could read all the disappointment in the public 
 papers. I shall become your wife, my lord." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " And if you will love me I shall be very happy for long, 
 long years." 
 
 " I will love you." 
 
 " But there will be no passion of ecstasy such as this. 
 Father says that Home-Rule won't be passed because the 
 people will be thinking of my singing. Of course it is all 
 vanity, but there is an enjoyment in it." 
 
 But all this was wormwood to Mr. Moss. He had put out 
 his hand so as to clutch this girl now two years since, under- 
 standing all her singing qualities, and then in truth loving her. 
 She had taken a positive hatred to him, and had rejected him at 
 every turn of her life. But he had not at all regarded that. He 
 had managed to connect her with his theatre, and had perceived 
 that her voice had become more and more sweet in its tones, 
 and more and more rich in its melody. He had still hoped 
 that he would make her his wife. Madame Socani's abominable 
 proposal had come from an assurance on her part that he could 
 have all that he wished for without paying so dear for it. There 
 had doubtless been some whispering between them over the 
 matter, but the order for the proposal had not come from him. 
 Madame Socani had judged of Rachel as she might have judged 
 of herself. But all that had come to absolute failure. He felt 
 now that he should be paying by no means too dear by 
 marrying the girl. It would be a great triumph to marry her ; 
 but he was told that this absurd earl wished to triumph in the 
 same manner. 
 
 He set afloat all manner of reports, which, in truth, wounded 
 Lord Castlewell sorely. Lord Castlewell had given her money, 
 and had then failed in his object. So said Mr. Moss. Lord 
 Castlewell had promised marriage, never intending it. Lord 
 Castlewell had postponed the marriage because as the moment 
 drew nearer he would not sacrifice himself. If the lady had a 
 friend, it would be the friend's duty to cudgel the lord, so 
 villainous had been the noble lord's conduct. But yet, in truth, 
 who could have expected that the noble lord would have 
 married the singing girl ? Was not his character known ? Did 
 
214 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 anybody in his senses expect that the noble lord would marry 
 Miss Rachel O'Mahony ? 
 
 " If I have a friend, is my friend to cudgel you, my lord?" 
 she said, clinging on his arm in her usual manner. " My friend 
 is papa, who thinks that you are a very decent fellow, consider- 
 ing your misfortune in being a lord at all. I know where all 
 these words come from ; — it is Mahomet M. Moss. There is 
 nothing for it but to live them down with absolute silence." 
 
 " Nothing," he replied. " They are a nuisance, but we can 
 do nothing." 
 
 But Lord Castlewell did in truth feel what was said about 
 him. Was he not going to pay too dearly for his whistle ? No 
 doubt Rachel was all that she ought to be. She was honest, 
 industrious, and high-spirited ; and, according to his thinking, 
 she sang more divinely than any woman of her time. And he 
 so thought of her that he knew that she must be his countess or 
 be nothing at all to him. To think of her in any other light would 
 be an abomination to him. But yet, was it worth his while to 
 make her Marchioness of Beaulieu ? He could only get rid ot 
 his present engagement by some absolute change in his mode 
 of life. For instance, he must shut himself up in a castle and 
 devote himself entirely to a religious life. He must explain to 
 her that circumstances would not admit his marrying, and 
 must offer to pay her any sum of money that she or her father 
 might think fit to name. If he wished to escape, this must be 
 his way ; but as he looked at her when she came off the stage, 
 where he always attended her, he assured himself that he did 
 not wish to escape. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY. 
 
 Time went on and Parliament met. Mr. O'Mahony went 
 before the Speaker's table and was sworn in. He was intro- 
 duced by two brother Land-leaguers, and really did take his 
 place with some enthusiasm. He wanted to speak on the first 
 day, but was judiciously kept silent by his colleagues. He 
 expressed an idea that, until Ireland's wrongs had been 
 redressed, there ought not to be a moment devoted to any 
 other subject, and became very violent in his expressions of 
 this opinion. But he was not long kept dumb. Great things 
 were expected from his powers of speech, and, though he had 
 to be brought to silence ignominiously on three or four occa- 
 sions, still, at last some power of speech was permitted to him. 
 
MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY. 
 
 215 
 
 There were those among his own special brethren who greatly 
 admired him and praised him ; but with others of the same 
 class there was a shaking of the head and many doubts. With 
 the House generally, I fear, laughter prevailed rather than true 
 admiration. Mr. O'Mahony, no doubt, could speak well in a 
 debating society or a music hall. Words came from his tongue 
 sweeter than honey. But just at the beginning of the session, 
 the Speaker was bound to put a limit even to Irish eloquence, 
 and in this case was able to do so. As Mr. O'Mahony contrived 
 to get upon his feet very frequently, either in asking a question 
 or in endeavouring to animadvert on the answer given, there 
 was something of a tussle between him and the au.hority in the 
 chair. It did not take much above a week to make the Speaker 
 thoroughly tired of this new member, and threats were used 
 towards him of a nature which his joint Milesian and American 
 nature could not stand. He was told of dreadful things which 
 could be done to him. Though as yet he could not be turned 
 out of the House, for the state of the young session had not as 
 yet admitted of that new mode of torture, still, he could be 
 named. " Let him name me. My name is Mr. O'Mahony." 
 And Mr. O'Mahony was not a man who could be happy when 
 he was quarrelling with all around him. He was soon worked 
 into a violent passion, in which he made himself ridiculous, but 
 when he had subsided, ana the storm was passed, he knew he 
 had misbehaved, and was unhappy. And, as he was thoroughly 
 honest, he could not be got to obey his leaders in everything. 
 He wanted to abolish the Irish landlords, but he was desirous 
 of abolishing them after some special plan of his own, and could 
 hardly be got to work efficiently in harness together with 
 others. 
 
 " Don't you think your father is making an ass of himself, — 
 just a little, you know ? 99 
 
 This was said by Lord Castlewell to Rachel when the session 
 was not yet a fortnight old, and made Rachel very unhappy. 
 She did think that her father was making an ass of himself, but 
 she did not like to be told of it. And much as she liked music 
 herself, dear as was her own profession to her, still she felt that, 
 to be a Member of Parliament, and to have achieved the power 
 of making speeches there, was better than to run after opera 
 singers. She loved the man who was going to marry her very 
 well,— or rather, she intended to do so. 
 
 He was not to her "Love's young dream." But she intended 
 that his lordship should become love's old reality. She felt that 
 this would not become the case, if love's old reality were to tell 
 her often that her father was an ass. Lord Castlewell's father 
 was, she thought, making an ass of himself. She heard on 
 different sides that he was a foolish, pompous old peer, who 
 could hardly say bo to a goose ; but it would not, she thought, 
 
2l6 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 become her to tell her future husband her own opinion on that 
 matter. She saw no reason why he should be less reticent in 
 his opinion as to her father. Of course he was older, and 
 perhaps she did not think of that as much as she ought to have 
 done. She ought also to have remembered that he was an earl, 
 and she but a singing girl, and that something was due to him 
 for the honour he was doing her. But of this she would take no 
 account. She was to be his wife, and a wife ought to be equal to 
 the husband. Such at least was her American view of the 
 matter. In fact, her ideas on the matter ran as follows : My 
 future husband is not entitled to call my father an ass because 
 he is a lord, seeing that my father is a Member of Parliament. 
 Nor is he entitled to call him so because he is an ass, because 
 the same thing is true of his own father. And thus there came 
 to be discord in her mind. 
 
 " I suppose all Parliament people make asses of themselves 
 sometimes, Lords as well as Commons. I don't see how a man 
 is to go on talking for ever about laws and land-leagues, and 
 those sort of things without doing so. It is all bosh to me. 
 And so I should think it must be to you, as you don't do it. But 
 I do not think that father is worse than anybody else ; and 
 I think that his words are sometimes very beautiful." 
 
 " Why, my dear, there is not a man about London who 
 is not laughing at him." 
 
 "I saw in The Times the other day that he is considered 
 a very true and a very honest man. Of course they said that 
 he talked nonsense sometimes ; but if you put the honesty 
 against the nonsense, he will be as good as anybody else." 
 
 " I don't think you understand, my dear. Honesty is not 
 what they want." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " But what they don't want especially is nonsense." 
 
 " Poor papa ! But he doesn't mean to consult them as to 
 what they want. His idea is that if everybody can be got to be 
 honest this question may be settled among them. But it must 
 be talked about, and he, at any rate, is eloquent. I have heard 
 it said that there was not a more eloquent man in New York. 
 I think he has got as many good gifts as anyone else." 
 J In this way there rose some bad feeling. Lord Castlewell 
 did think that there was something wanting in the manner in 
 which he was treated by his bride. He was sure that he loved 
 her, but he was sure also that when a lord marries a singing 
 girl he ought to expect some special observance. And the fact 
 that the singing girl's father was a Member of Parliament was 
 much less to him than to her. He, indeed, would have been 
 glad to have the father abolished altogether. But she had 
 become very proud of her father since he had become a 
 Member of Parliament. Her ideas of the British Constitution 
 
MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY. 217 
 
 were rather vague ; but she thought that a Member of Parlia- 
 ment was at least as good as a lord who was not a peer. He 
 had his wealth ; but she was sure that he was too proud to think 
 of that. 
 
 Just at this period, when the session was beginning, Rachel 
 began to doubt the wisdom of what she was doing. The lord was, 
 in truth, good enough for her. He was nearly double her age, but 
 she had determined to disregard that. He was plain, but that was 
 of no moment. He had run after twenty different women, but 
 she could condone all that, because he had come at last to run 
 after her. For his wealth she cared nothing, — or less than 
 nothing, because by remaining single she could command 
 wealth of her own ; — wealth which she could control herself, 
 and keep at her own banker's, which she suspected would not 
 be the case with Lord Castlewell's money. But she had found 
 the necessity of someone to lean upon when Frank Jones had 
 told her that he would not marry her, and she had feared 
 Mr. Moss so much that she had begun to think that he would, 
 in truth, frighten her into doing some horrible thing. As Frank 
 had deserted her, it would be better that she should marry 
 somebody. Lord Castlewell had come, and she had felt that 
 the Fates were very good to her. She learned from the words of 
 everybody around, — from her new friends at Covent Garden, 
 and from her old enemies at " The Embankment," and from 
 her father himself, that she was the luckiest singing girl at this 
 
 moment known in Europe. " By G , she'll get him ! " such 
 
 had been the exclamation made with horror by Mr. Moss, and 
 the echo of it had found its way to her ears. The more Mr. 
 Moss was annoyed, the greater ought to have been her delight. 
 But, — but was she in truth delighted ? As she came to think of 
 the reality she asked herself what were the pleasures which 
 were promised to her. Did she not feel that a week spent with 
 Frank Jones in some little cottage would be worth a twelve- 
 month of golden splendour in the " marble halls " which Lord 
 Castlewell was supposed to own ? And why had Frank deserted 
 her ? Simply because he would not come with her, and share 
 her money. Frank, she told herself, was, in truth, a gallant 
 fellow. She did love Frank. She acknowledged so much to 
 herself again and again, And yet she was about to marry Lord 
 Castlewell, simply because her doing so would be the severest 
 possible blow to her old enemy, Mr. Moss. 
 
 Then she asked herself what would be best for her. She 
 had made for herself a great reputation, and she did not scruple 
 to tell herself that this had come from her singing. She thought 
 very much of her singing, but very little of her beauty. A sort 
 of prettiness did belong to her ; a tiny prettiness which had 
 sufficed to catch Frank Jones. She had laughed about her 
 prettiness and her littleness a score of times with Ada and 
 
218 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Edith, and also with Frank himself. There had been the three 
 girls who called themselves " Beauty and the Beast "and the 
 " Small young woman." The reader will understand that it had 
 not been Ada who had chosen those names ; but then Ada was 
 not given to be witty. Her prettiness, such as it was, had 
 sufficed, and Frank had loved her dearly. Then had come her 
 great triumph, and she knew not only that she could sing, but 
 that the world had recognised her singing. " I am a great 
 woman, as women go," she had said to herself. But her singing 
 was to come to an end for ever and ever on the ist of May next. 
 She would be the Countess of Castlewell, and in process of time 
 would be the Marchioness of Beaulieu. But she never again 
 would be a great woman. She was selling all that for the 
 " marble halls." 
 
 Was she wise in what she was doing ? She had lain awake 
 one long morning striving to answer the question for herself. 
 " If nobody else should come, of course I should be an ugly old 
 maid," she said to herself ; "but then Frank might perhaps 
 come again, — Frank might come again, — if Mr. Moss did not 
 intervene in the meantime," But at last she acknowledged 
 to herself that she had given the lord a promise. She would 
 keep her promise, but she could not bring herself to exult at the 
 prospect. She must take care, however, that the lord should 
 not triumph over her. The lord had called her father an ass. 
 She certainly would say a rough word or two if he abused her 
 father again. 
 
 This was the time of the "suspects." Mr. O'Mahony had 
 already taken an opportunity of expressing an opinion in the 
 House of Commons that every honest man, every patriotic man, 
 every generous man, every man in fact who was worth his salt, 
 was in Ireland locked up as a " suspect," and in saying so 
 managed to utter very bitter words indeed respecting him who 
 had the locking up of these gentlemen. Poor Mr. O'Mahony 
 had no idea that he might have used with propriety as to this 
 gentleman all the epithets of which he believed the " suspects" 
 to be worthy ; but instead of doing so he called him a "disrepu- 
 table jailer." It is not pleasant to be called a disreputable jailer 
 in the presence of all the best of one's fellow citizens, but the 
 man so called in this instance only smiled. Mr. O'Mahony had 
 certainly made himself ridiculous, and the whole House were 
 loud in their clamours at the words used. But that did not 
 suffice. The Speaker reprimanded Mr. O'Mahony and desired 
 him to recall the language and apologise for it. Then there 
 arose a loud debate, during which the member of the Govern- 
 ment who had been assailed declared that Mr. O'Mahony had 
 not as yet been quite long enough in the House to learn the 
 little details of Parliamentary language ; Mr. O'Mahony would 
 no doubt soften down his eloquence in course of time. But the 
 
MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY. 
 
 Speaker would not be content with this, and was about to order 
 the sinner to be carried away by the Sergeant-at-Arms, when a 
 friend on his right and a friend on his left, and a friend behind 
 him, all whispered into his ear how easy it is to apologise in the 
 House of Commons. " You needn't say he isn't a ' disreputable 
 jailer,' but only call him a ' distasteful warder' ; — anything will 
 do." This came from the gentleman at Mr. O'Mahony's back, 
 and the order for his immediate expulsion was ringing in his 
 ears. He had been told that he was ridiculous, and could feel 
 that it would be absurd to be carried somewhere into the 
 dungeons. And the man whom he certainly detested at the 
 present moment worse than any other scoundrel on the earth, 
 had made a good-natured apology on his behalf. If he were 
 carried away now, he could never come back again without a 
 more serious apology. Then, — farewell to all power of attack- 
 ing the jailer. He did as the man whispered into his ears, and 
 begged to substitute " distasteful warder " for the words which 
 had wounded so cruelly the feelings of the right honourable 
 gentleman. Then he looked round the House, showing that 
 he thought that he had misbehaved himself. After that, 
 during Mr. O'Mahony's career as a Member of Parliament, 
 which lasted only for the session, he lost his self-respect alto- 
 gether. He had been driven to withdraw the true wrath of his 
 eloquence from him " at whose brow," as he told Rachel the 
 next morning, "he had hurled his words with a force that had 
 been found to be intolerable." 
 
 Mr. O'Mahony had undoubtedly made himself an ass again 
 on this second, third, and perhaps tenth occasion. This was 
 not the ass he had made himself on the occasion to which Lord 
 Castlewell had referred. But yet he was a thoroughly honest, 
 patriotic man, desirous only of the good of his country, and 
 wishing for nothing for himself. Is it not possible that as much 
 may be said for others who from day to day so violently excite 
 our spleen, as to make us feel that special Irishmen selected for 
 special constituencies are not worthy to be ranked with men ? 
 You shall take the whole House of Commons, indifferent as to 
 the side on which they sit, —some six hundred and thirty out of 
 the number, — and will find in conversation that the nature of 
 the animal, the absurdity, the selfishness, the absence of all 
 good qualities, are taken for granted as matters admitting of no 
 dispute. But here was Mr. O'Mahony, as hot a Home-Ruler 
 and Land-leaguer as any of them, who was undoubtedly a gentle- 
 man, — though an American gentleman. Can it be possible that 
 we are wrong in our opinions respecting the others of the set ? 
 
 Rachel heard it all the next day, and, living as she did 
 among Italians and French, and theatrical Americans, and 
 English swells, could not endeavour to make the apology which 
 I have just made for the Irish Brigade generally. She knew 
 
220 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 that her father had made an ass of himself. All the asinine 
 proportions of the affair had been so explained to her as to leave 
 no doubt on her mind as to the matter. But the more she was 
 sure of it, the more resolved she became that Lord Castlewell 
 should not call her father an ass. She might do so, — and un- 
 doubtedly would after her own fashion, — but no such privilege 
 should be allowed to him. 
 
 " Oh ! father, father," she said to him the next morning, 
 " don't you think you've made a goose of yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " Then, don't do it any more." 
 
 " Yes, I shall. It isn't so very easy for a man not to make 
 a goose of himself in that place. You've got to sit by and do 
 nothing for a year or two. It is very difficult. A man cannot 
 afford to waste his time in that manner. There is all Ireland to 
 be regenerated, and I have to learn the exact words which the 
 prudery of the House of Commons will admit. Of course I 
 have made a goose of myself ; but the question is whether I did 
 not make a knave of myself in apologising for language which 
 w r as undoubtedly true. Only think that a man so brutal, so 
 entirely without feelings, without generosity, without any touch 
 of sentiment, should be empowered by the Queen of England 
 to lock up, not only every Irishman, but every American also, 
 and to keep them there just as long as he pleases ! And he 
 revels in it. I do believe that he never eats a good breakfast 
 unless half-a-dozen new ' suspects ' are reported by the early 
 police in the morning ; and I am not to call such a man a * dis- 
 reputable jailer.' I may call him a 1 distasteful warder.' It's a 
 disgrace to a man to sit in such a House and in such company. 
 Of course I was a goose, but I was only a goose according to 
 the practices of that special duck-pond." Mr. O'Mahony, as 
 he said this, walked about angrily, with his hands in his breeches' 
 pockets, and told himself that no honest man could draw the 
 breath of life comfortably except in New York. 
 
 " I don't know much about it, father," said Rachel, " but I 
 think you'd better cut and run. Your twenty men will never do 
 any good here. Everybody hates them who has got any money, 
 and their only friends are just men as Mr. Pat Carroll, of 
 Ballintubber." 
 
 Then, later in the day, Lord Castlewell called to drive his 
 bride in the Park. He had so far overcome family objections 
 as to have induced his sister, Lady Augusta Montmorency, to 
 accompany him. Lady Augusta had been already introduced 
 to Rachel, but had not been much prepossessed. Lady Augusta 
 was very proud of her family, was a religious woman, and was 
 anything but contented with her brother's manner of life. But 
 it was no doubt better that he should marry Rachel than not be 
 married at all ; and therefore Lady Augusta had allowed herself 
 
MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY. 221 
 
 to be brought to accompany the singing girl upon this occasion. 
 She was, in truth, an uncommonly good young woman ; not 
 beautiful, not clever, but most truly anxious for the welfare of 
 her brother. It had been represented to her that her brother 
 was over head and ears in love with the young lady, and looking 
 at the matter all round, she had thought it best to move a little 
 from her dignity so as to take her sister-in-law coldly by the 
 hand. It need hardly be said that Rachel did not like being taken 
 coldly by the hand, and, with her general hot mode of expression, 
 would have declared that she hated Augusta Montmorency. 
 Now, the two entered the room together, and Rachel kissed 
 Lady Augusta, while she gave only her hand to Lord Castlewell. 
 But there was something in her manner on such occasions which 
 was intended to show affection, — and did show it very plainly. 
 In old days she could decline to kiss Frank in a manner that 
 would set Frank all on fire. It was as much as to say — of 
 course you've a right to it, but on this occasion I don't mean to 
 give it to you. But Lord Castlewell was not imaginative, and 
 did not think of all this. Rachel had intended him to think 
 of it. 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! " began the lord, " what a mess your 
 father did make of it last night ! " And he frowned as he spoke. 
 
 Rachel, as an intended bride — about to be a bride in two or 
 three months— did not like to be frowned at by the man who 
 was to marry her. " That's as people may think, my lord," she 
 said. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you don't think he did make a 
 mess of it?" 
 
 " Of course he abused that horrid man. Everybody is 
 abusing him." 
 
 "As for that, I'm not going to defend the man." For Lord 
 Castlewell, though by no means a strong politician, was a Tory, 
 and unfortunately found himself agreeing with Rachel in abusing 
 the members of the Government. 
 
 " Then why do you say that father made a mess of it ?" 
 
 "Everybody is talking about it. He has made himself 
 ridiculous before the whole town." 
 
 " What ! Lord Castlewell ! " exclaimed Rachel. 
 
 " I do believe your father is the best fellow going ; but he 
 ought not to touch politics. He made a great mistake in getting 
 into the House. It is a source of misery to everyone connected 
 with him." 
 
 " Or about to be connected with him," said Lady Augusta, 
 who had not been appeased by the flavour of Rachel's kiss. 
 
 " There's time enough to think about it yet," said Rachel. 
 
 "No, there's not," said Lord Castlewell, who intended to 
 express in rather a gallant manner his intention of going on with 
 the marriage. 
 
222 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " But I can assure you there is," said Rachel, " ample time. 
 There shall be no time for going on with it, if my father is to be 
 abused. As it happens, you don't agree with my father in 
 politics. I, as a woman, should have to call myself as belong- 
 ing to your party, if we be ever married. I do not know what 
 that party is, and care very little, as I am not a politician my- 
 self. And I suppose if we were married, you would take upon 
 yourself to abuse my father for his politics, as he might abuse 
 you. But while he is my father, and you are not my husband, 
 I will not bear it. No, thank you, Lady Augusta, I will not 
 drive out to-day. ' Them's my sentiments/ as people say ; 
 and perhaps your brother had better think them over while 
 there's time enough." So saying, she did pertinaciously refuse 
 to be driven by the noble lord on that occasion. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 RACHEL WRITES ABOUT HER LOVERS. 
 
 What a dear fellow is Frank Jones ! That was Rachel's first 
 idea when Lord Castlew T ell left her. It was an idea she had 
 driven from out of her mind with all the strength of which she 
 was capable from the moment in which his lordship had been 
 accepted. u He never shall be dear to me again," she had said, 
 thinking of what would be due to her husband ; and she had 
 disturbed herself, not without some success, in expelling Frank 
 Jones from her heart. It was not right that the future Lady 
 Castlewell should be in love with Frank Jones. But now she 
 could think about Frank Jones as she pleased. What a dear 
 fellow is Frank Jones ! Now, it certainly was the case that 
 Lord Castlewell was not a dear fellow at all. He was many 
 degrees better than Mr. Moss, but for a dear fellow ! — She only 
 knew one. And she did tell herself now that the world could 
 hardly be a happy world to her without one dear fellow, — at any 
 rate, to think of. 
 
 But he had positively refused to marry her ! But yet she 
 did not in the least doubt his love. " I'm a little bit of a thing," 
 she said to herself ; " but then he likes little bits of things. At 
 any rate, he likes one." 
 
 And then she had thought ever so often over the cause which 
 had induced Frank to leave her. " Why shouldn't he take my 
 money, since it is here to be taken? It is all a man's beastly 
 pride ! " But then again she contradicted the assertion to 
 herself. It was a man's pride, but by no means beastly. " If I 
 were a man," she went on saying, " I don't think I should like 
 
RACHEL WRITES ABOUT HER LOVERS. 223 
 
 to pay for my coat and waistcoat with money which a woman 
 had earned ; and I should like it the less, because things at 
 home, in my own house, were out of order." And then again 
 she thought of it all. " I should be an idiot to do that. Every- 
 body would say so. What ! to give up my whole career for a 
 young man's love, — merely that I might have his arm around 
 my waist ? I to do it. who am the greatest singer of my day, 
 and who can, if I please, be Countess of Castlewell to-morrow ! 
 That were losing the world for love, indeed ! Can any man's 
 love be worth it ? And I am going on to become such a singer 
 as the world does not possess another like me. I know it. I 
 feel it daily in the increasing sweetness of the music made. 
 I see it in the wakeful eagerness of men's ears, waiting for 
 some charm of sound, — some wonderful charm,— which they 
 hardly dare to expect, but which always comes at last. I see it 
 in the eyes of the women, who are hardly satisfied that another 
 should be so great. It comes in the worship of the people about 
 the theatre, who have to tell me that I am their god, and keep 
 the strings of the sack from which money shall be poured forth 
 upon them. I know it is coming, and yet I am to marry the 
 stupid earl because I have promised him. And he thinks, too, 
 that his reflected honours will be more to me than all the fame 
 that I can earn for myself. To go down to his castle, and to be 
 dumb for ever, and perhaps to be mother of some hideous little 
 imp who shall be the coming marquis. Everything to be 
 abandoned for that, — even Frank Jones. But Frank Jones is 
 not to be had ! Oh, Frank Jones, Frank Jones ! If you could 
 come and live in such a marble hall as I could provide for you ! 
 It should have all that we want, but nothing more. But it could 
 not have that self-respect which it is a man's first duty in life 
 to achieve." But the thought that she had arrived at was this, 
 — that with all her best courtesy she would tell the Earl of 
 Castlewell to look for a bride elsewhere. 
 
 But she would do nothing in a hurry. The lord had been 
 very civil to her, and she, on her part, would be as civil to the 
 lord as circumstances admitted. And she had an idea in her mind 
 that she could not at a moment's notice dismiss this lord and be 
 as she was before. Her engagement with the lord was known 
 to all the musical world. The Mosses and Socanis spent their 
 mornings, noons, and nights in talking about it, — as she well 
 knew. And she was not quite sure that the lord had given her 
 such a palpable cause for quarrelling as to justify her in 
 throwing him over. And when she had as it were thrown him 
 over in her mind, she began to think of other causes for regret. 
 After all it was something to be Countess of Castlewell. She 
 felt that she could play the part well, in spite of all Lady 
 Augusta's coldness. She would soon live the Lady Augusta 
 down into a terrible mediocrity. And then again, there would 
 
224 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 be dreams of Frank Jones. Frank Jones had been utterly- 
 banished. But if an elderly gentleman is desirous that his 
 future wife shall think of no Frank Jones, he had better not 
 begin by calling the father of that young lady a ridiculous ass. 
 
 She was much disturbed in mind, and resolved that 
 she would seek counsel from her old correspondent, Frank's 
 sister. 
 
 " Dearest Edith," she began, " I know you will let me write 
 to you in my troubles. I am in such a twitter of mind in con- 
 sequence of my various lovers that I do not know where to turn ; 
 nor do I quite know whom I am to call lover number one. 
 Therefore I write to you to ask advice. Dear old Frank used 
 lo be lover number one. Of course I ought to call him now 
 Mr. Francis Jones, because another lover is really lover number 
 one. I am engaged to marry, as you are well aware, no less a 
 person than the Earl of Castlewell; and, if all things were to go 
 prosperously with me, I should in a short time be the Marchioness 
 of Beaulieu. Did you ever think of the glory of being an abso- 
 lutely live marchioness? It is so overwhelming as to be almost 
 too much for me. I think that I should not cower before my 
 position, but that I should, on the other hand, endeavour to soar 
 so high that I should be consumed by my own flames. Then 
 there is lover number three — Mr. Moss — who, I do believe, loves 
 me with the truest affection of them all. I have found him out 
 at last. He wishes to be the legal owner of all the salaries 
 which the singer of La Beata may possibly earn ; and he feels 
 that, in spite of all that has come and gone, it is yet possible. 
 Of all the men who ever forgave, Mr. Moss is the most for- 
 giving. 
 
 " Now, which am I to take of these three ? Of course, if you 
 are the honest girl I take you to be, you will write back word that 
 one, at any rate, is not in the running. Mr. Francis Jones has no 
 longer the honour. But what if I am sure that he loves me ; 
 and what, again, if I am sure that he is the only one I love? Let 
 this be quite — quite between ourselves. I am beginning to think 
 that because of Frank Jones I cannot marry that gorgeous earl. 
 What if Frank Jones has spoiled me altogether? Would you 
 wish to see me on this account delivered over to Mr. Mahomet 
 Moss as a donkey between two bundles of hay ? 
 
 * Tell me what you think of it. He won't take my money. 
 But suppose I earn my money for another season or two ? 
 Would not your Irish brutalities be then over ; and my father's 
 eloquence, and the eccentricities of the other gentlemen ? And 
 would not your brother and your father have in some way 
 settled their affairs? Surely a little money won't then be amiss, 
 though it may have come from the industry of a hard-worked 
 young woman. 
 
 " Of course I am asking for mercy, because I am absolutely 
 
RACHEL WRITES ABOUT HER LOVERS. 225 
 
 devoted to a certain young man. You need not tell him that in 
 so many words ; but I do not see why I am to be ashamed of 
 my devotion, — seeing that I was not ashamed of my engagement, 
 and boasted of it to all the world. And I have done nothing 
 since to be ashamed of. 
 
 " You have never told me a word of your young man ; but 
 the birds of the air are more communicative than some friends. 
 A bird of the air has told me of you, and of Ada also, and 
 had made me understand that from Ada has come all that 
 sweetness which was to be expected from her. But from you 
 has not come that compliance with your fate in life which cir- 
 cumstances have demanded. 
 
 " Your affectionate friend, 
 
 "Rachel O'Mahony." 
 
 It could not but be the case that Edith should be gratified by 
 the receipt of such a letter as this. Frank was now at home, and 
 was terribly down in the mouth. Boycotting had lost all its 
 novelty at Morony Castle. His sisters had begun to feel that it 
 was a pleasant thing to have their butter made for them, and 
 pleasant also not to be introduced to a leg of mutton till it 
 appeared upon the table. Frank, too, had become very tired of 
 the work which fell to his lot, though he had been relieved in 
 the heaviest labours of the farm by " Emergency " men, who 
 had been sent to him from various parts of Ireland. But he 
 was thoroughly depressed in heart, as also was his father. 
 Months had passed by since Pat Carroll had stood in the dock 
 at Gal way ready for his trial. He was now, in March, still kept 
 in Galwayjail under remand from the magistrates. A great 
 clamour was made in the county upon the subject. Florian's 
 murder had stirred all those who were against the League to 
 feel that the Government should be supported. But there had 
 been a mystery attached to that other murder, perpetrated in the 
 court, which had acted strongly on the other side, — on behalf 
 of the League. The murder of Terry Carroll at the moment in 
 which he was about to give evidence, — false evidence, as the 
 Leaguers said, — against his brother was a great triumph to them. 
 It was used as an argument why Pat Carroll should be no longer 
 confined, while Florian's death had been a reason why he never 
 should be released at all. All this kept the memory of Florian's 
 death, and the constant thought of it, still fresh in the minds of 
 them all at Morony Castle, together with the poverty which had 
 fallen upon them, had made the two men weary of their mis- 
 fortunes. Under such misfortunes, when continued, men do 
 become more weary than women. But Edith thought there 
 would be something in the constancy of Rachel's love to cheer 
 her brother, and therefore the letter made her contented, if not 
 happy. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 For herself, she said to herself no love could cheer her. 
 Captain Clayton still hung about Tuam and Headford, but his 
 presence in the neighbourhood was always to be attributed to 
 the evidence of which he was in search as to Florian's death. 
 It seemed now with him that the one great object of his heart 
 was the unravelling of that murder. "It was no mystery," as 
 he said over and over again in Edith's hearing. He knew very 
 well who had fired the rifle. He could see, in his mind's eye, 
 the slight form of the crouching wretch as he too surely took 
 his aim from the temporary barricade. The passion had 
 become so strong with him of bringing the man to justice that 
 he almost felt, that between him and his God he could swear to 
 having seen it. And yet he knew that it was not so. To have 
 the hanging of that man would be to him a privilege only next 
 to that of possessing Edith Jones. And he was a sanguine 
 man, and did believe that in process of time both privileges 
 would be vouchsafed to him. 
 
 But Edith was less sanguine. She could not admit to her- 
 self the possibility that there should be successful love between 
 her and her hero. His presence there in the neighbourhood of 
 her home was stained by constant references to her brother's 
 blood. And then, though there was no chance for Ada, Ada's 
 former hopes militated altogether against Edith. " He had 
 better go away and just leave us to ourselves," she said to her- 
 self. But yet neither was she nor was Ada sunk so low in heart 
 as her father and her brother. 
 
 " Frank," she said to her brother, " whom do you think this 
 letter is from ?" and she held up in her hand Rachel's epistle. 
 
 " I care not at all, unless it be from that most improbable 
 of all creatures, a tenant coming to pay his rent." 
 
 " Nothing quite so beautiful as that." 
 
 " Or from someone who has evidence to give about some of 
 these murders that are going on ? " — A Mr. Morris from the 
 other side of the lake, in County Mayo, had just been killed, 
 and the minds of men were now disturbed with this new horror. 
 — "Anybody can kill anybody who has a taste in that direction. 
 What a country for a man with his family to pitch upon and 
 live in ! And that all this should have been kept under so long 
 by policemen and right-thinking individuals, and then burst out 
 like a subterranean fire all over the country, because the hope 
 has been given them of getting their land for nothing ! In 
 order to indulge in wholesale robbery they are willing at a 
 moment's notice to undertake wholesale murder." 
 
 After listening to words such as these, Edith found it im- 
 possible to introduce Rachel's letter on the spur of the moment 
 
RACHEL IS ILL. 
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 RACHEL IS ILL. 
 
 RACHEL, before the end of March, received the following letter 
 from her friend, but she received it in bed. The whole world 
 of Covent Garden Theatre had been thrown into panic-stricken 
 dismay by the fact that Miss O'Mahony had something the 
 matter with her throat. This was the second attack, the first 
 having been so short as to have caused no trepidations in the 
 world of music ; but this was supposed to be sterner in its nature, 
 and to have caused already great alarm. Before March was 
 over it was published to the world at large that Miss O'Mahony 
 would not be able to sing during the forthcoming week. 
 
 In this catastrophe her lordly lover was of course the most 
 sedulous of attendants. In truth he was so, though when we 
 last met him and his bride together he had made himself very 
 disagreeable. Rachel had then answered him in such language 
 as to make her think it impossible that he should not quarrel 
 with her ; but still here he was, constant at her chamber door. 
 Whether his constancy was due to his position about the 
 theatre or to his ardour as a lover, she did not know ; but in 
 either case it troubled her somewhat, and interfered with her 
 renewed dreams about Frank. Then came the following letter 
 from Frank's sister : 
 
 " Dear Rachel, 
 
 " I am not very much surprised, though I was a little, 
 that you should have accepted Lord Castlewell ; but I had not 
 quite known the ins and outs of it, not having been there to see. 
 Frank says that the separation had certainly come from him, 
 because he could not bring himself to burden your prosperity 
 with the heavy load of his misfortunes. Poor fellow ! They are 
 very heavy. They would have made you- both miserable for 
 awhile, unless you could have agreed to postpone your marriage. 
 Why should it not have been postponed ? 
 
 " But Lord Castlewell came in the way, and I supposed him 
 naturally to be as beautiful and gracious as he is gorgeous and 
 rich. But though you say nothing about him there does creep 
 out from your letter some kind of idea that he is not quite so 
 beautiful in your eyes as was poor Frank. Remember that 
 poor Frank has to wear two blue shirts a week and no more, 
 in order to save the washing ! How many does Lord Castle- 
 well wear ? How many will he wear when he is a marquis ? 
 
 " But at any rate it does seem to be the case that you and 
 the earl are not as happy together as your best friends could 
 wish. We had understood that the earl was ready to expire for 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 love at the sound of every note. Has he slackened in his admi- 
 ration so as to postpone his expiring to the close of every song? 
 Or why is it that Frank should be allowed again to come up 
 and trouble your dreams ? 
 
 " You are so fond of joking that it is almost impossible for a 
 poor steady-going boycotted young woman to follow you to the 
 end. Of course I understand that what you say about Mr. Moss 
 is altogether a joke. But then what you say about Frank is, I 
 am sure, not a joke. If you love him the best, as I am sure you 
 do — so very much the best as to disregard the marble halls — I 
 advise you, in the gentlest manner possible, to tell the marble 
 halls that they are not wanted. It cannot be right to marry one 
 man when you say that you love another as you do Frank. Of 
 course he will wait if you like to wait. All I can say is, that no 
 man loves a girl better than he loves you. 
 
 " We are very much down in the world at the present. We 
 have literally no money. Papa's relatives have given their 
 money to him to invest, and he has laid it out on the property 
 here. Nobody was thought to have done so well as he till 
 lately ; but now they cannot get their interest, and, of course, 
 they are impatient. Commissioners have sat in the neighbour- 
 hood, and have reduced the rents all round. But they can't 
 reduce what doesn't exist. There are tenants who I suppose 
 will pay. Pat Carroll could certainly have done so. But then 
 papa's share in the property will be reduced almost to nothing. 
 He will not get above five shillings out of every twenty shillings 
 of rent, such as it was supposed to be when he bought it. I 
 don't understand all this, and I am sure I cannot make you 
 do so. 
 
 " I have nothing to tell about my young man, as you call 
 him, except that he cannot be mine. I fancy that girls are not 
 fond of writing about their young men when they don't belong 
 to them. Frank, at any rate, is yours, if you will take him ; 
 and you can write about him with an open heart. I cannot do 
 so. Think of poor Florian and his horrid death. Is this a 
 time for marriage, — if it were otherwise possible, — which it is 
 not? 
 
 (t God bless you, dear Rachel. Let me hear from you again 
 soon. I have said nothing to Frank as yet. I attempted it 
 this morning, but was stopped. You can imagine that he, poor 
 fellow, is not very happy. — Yours very affectionately, 
 
 "Edith Jones." 
 
 Rachel read the letter on her sick bed, and as soon as it 
 was read Lord Castlewell came to her. There was always a 
 nurse there, but Lord Castlewell was supposed to be able to see 
 the patient, and on one occasion had been accompanied by his 
 sister. It was all done in the most proper form imaginable, 
 
RACHEL IS ILL. 
 
 229 
 
 much to Rachel's disgust. Incapable as she was in her present 
 state of carrying on any argument, she was desirous of explain- 
 ing to Lord Castlewell that he was not to hold himself as bound 
 to marry her. " If you think that father is an ass, you had 
 better say so outright, and let there be an end of it." She wished 
 to speak to him after this fashion. But she could not say 
 it in the p esence of the nurse and of Lady Augusta. But 
 Lord CastlewelPs conduct to herself made her more anxious 
 than ever to say something of the kind. He was very civil, 
 even tender, in his inquiries, but he was awfully frigid. She 
 could tell from his manner that that last speech of hers was 
 rankling in his bosom as the frigid words fell from his lips. He 
 was waiting for some recovery, — a partial recovery would be 
 better than a whole one, — and then he would speak his mind. 
 She wanted to speak her mind first, but she could hardly do so 
 with her throat in its present condition. 
 
 She had no other friend than her father, no other friend to 
 take her part with her lovers. And she had, too, fallen into 
 such a state that she could not say much to him. According 
 to the orders of the physician, she was not to interest herself at 
 all about anything. 
 
 " I wonder whether the man was ever engaged to two or 
 three lovers at once/' she said to herself, alluding to the doctor. 
 " He knows at any rate of Lord Castlewell, and does he think 
 that I am not to trouble myself about him ?" 
 
 She had a tablet under her pillow, which she took out and 
 wrote on it certain instructions. " Dear father, C. and I 
 quarrelled before I was ill at all, and now he comes here just 
 as though nothing had happened. He said you made an ass of 
 yourself in the House of Commons. I won't have it, and mean 
 to tell him so ; but I can't talk. Won't you tell him from me 
 that I shall expect him to beg my pardon, and that I shall never 
 hear anything of the kind again. It must come to this. Your 
 own R." This was handed to Mr. O'Mahony by Rachel that 
 very day before he went down to the House of Commons. 
 
 " But, my dear ! " he said. Rachel only shook her head. " I 
 can hardly say all this about myself. I don't care twopence 
 whether he thinks me an ass or not." 
 
 " But I do," said Rachel on the tablet. 
 
 " He is an earl, and has wonderful privileges, as well as a 
 great deal of money." 
 
 " Marble halls and impudence," said Rachel on the tablet. 
 Then Mr. O'Mahony, feeling that he ought to leave her in peace, 
 made her a promise, and went his way. At Covent Garden 
 that evening he met the noble lord, having searched for him in vain 
 at Westminster. He was much more likely to find Lord Castle- 
 well among the singers of the day, than with the peers ; but of 
 these things Mr. O'Mahony hardly understood all the particulars. 
 
230 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 "Well, O'Mahony, how is your charming daughter?" 
 
 " My daughter is not inclined to be charming at all. I do 
 hope she may be getting better, but at present she is bothering 
 her head about you." 
 
 " It is natural that she should think of me a little sometimes," 
 said the flattered lord. 
 
 " She has written me a message which she says that I am to 
 deliver. Now mind, I don't care about it the least in the 
 world." Here the lord looked very grave. " She says that you 
 called me an ass. Well, I am to you, and you're an ass to me. 
 I am sure you won't take it as any insult, neither do I. She 
 wants you to promise that you won't call me an ass any more. 
 Of course it would follow that I shouldn't be able to call you 
 one. We should both be hampered, and the truth would suffer. 
 But as she is ill, perhaps it would be better that you should say 
 that you didn't mean it." 
 
 But this was not at all Lord CastlewelFs view of the matter. 
 Though he had been very glib with his tongue in calling 
 O'Mahony an ass, he did not at all like the compliment as paid 
 back to him by his father-in-law. And there was something 
 which he did not quite understand in the assertion that the truth 
 would suffer. All the world was certain that Mr. O'Mahony was 
 an ass. He had been turned out of the House of Commons only 
 yesterday for saying that the Speaker was quite wrong, and 
 sticking to it. There was not the slightest doubt in the world 
 about it. But his lordship knew his gamut, which was all that 
 he pretended to know, and never interfered with matters of 
 which he was ignorant. He was treated with the greatest 
 respect at Covent Garden, and nobody ever suspected him of 
 being an ass. And then he had it in his mind to speak very 
 seriously to Rachel as soon as she might be well enough to hear 
 him. " You have spoken to me in a manner, my dear, which I 
 am sure you did not intend." He had all the words ready 
 prepared on a bit of paper in his pocket-book. And he was by 
 no means sure but that the little quarrel might even yet become 
 permanent. He had discussed it frequently with Lady Augusta, 
 and Lady Augusta rather wished that it might become perma- 
 nent. And Lord Castlewell was not quite sure that he did not 
 wish it also. The young lady had a way of speaking about her 
 own people which was not to be borne. And now she had been 
 guilty of the gross indecency of sending a message to him by her 
 own father,— the very man whom he called an ass. And the man 
 in return only laughed and called him an ass. 
 
 But Lord Castlewell knew the proprieties of life. Here was 
 ^is—girl w hom he had proposed to marry, a sad invalid at the 
 moment. The doctor had, in fact, given him but a sad account 
 of the case. " She has strained her voice continually till it 
 threatens to leave her," said the doctor ; " I do not say that it 
 
RACHEL IS ILL. 
 
 231 
 
 will be so, but it may. Her best chance will be to abandon all 
 professional exertions till next year." Then the doctor told him 
 that he had not as yet taken upon himself to hint anything of all 
 this to Miss O'Mahony. 
 
 Lord Castlewell was puzzled in the extreme. If the lady 
 lost her voice and so became penniless and without a pro- 
 fession ; and if he in such case were to throw her over, and 
 ■leave her unmarried, what would the world say of him ? Would 
 it be possible then to make the world understand that he had 
 deserted her, not on account of her illness, but because she had 
 not liked to hear her father called an ass ? And had not Rachel 
 already begun the battle in a manner intended to show that she 
 meant to be the victor ? Could it be possible that she herself 
 was desirous of backing out ? There was no knowing the extent 
 of the impudence to which these Americans would not go ! No 
 doubt she had, by the use of intemperate language on the 
 occasion when she would not be driven out in the carriage, 
 given him ample cause for a breach. To tell the truth, he had 
 thought then that a breach would be expedient. But she had 
 fallen ill, and it was incumbent on him to be tender and gentle. 
 Then, from her very sick bed, she had sent him this impudent 
 message. 
 
 And it had been delivered so impudently ! " The truth 
 would suffer ! " He was sure that there was a meaning in the 
 words intended to signify that he, Lord Castlewell, was and 
 must be an ass at all times. Then he asked himself whether 
 he was an ass because he did not quite understand O'Mahony's 
 argument. Why did the truth suffer ? As to his being an ass, 
 — O'Mahony being an ass, — he was sure that there was no 
 doubt about that. All the world said so. The House of 
 Commons knew it, — and the newspapers. He had been turned 
 out of the House for saying the Speaker was wrong, and not 
 apologising for having uttered such words. And he, Lord 
 Castlewell, had so expressed himself only to the woman who 
 was about to be his wife. Then she had had the incredible 
 folly to tell her father, and the father had told him that under 
 certain circumstances the " truth must suffer." He did not 
 quite understand it, but was sure that Mr. O'Mahony had 
 meant to say that they were two fools together. 
 
 He was not at all ashamed of marrying a singing girl. It 
 was the thing he would be sure to do. And he thought of some 
 singing girls before his time, and of his time also, whom it 
 would be an honour for such as him to marry. But he would 
 degrade himself — so he felt — by the connection with an ad- 
 vanced Land-leaguing Member of Parliament. He looked 
 round the lot of them, and he assured himself that there was 
 not one from whose loins an English nobleman could choose a 
 wife without disgrace. It was most unfortunate, — so he told 
 
232 
 
 THE LAND-LEA.GUERS. 
 
 himself. The man had not become Member of Parliament till 
 quite the other day. He had not even opened his mouth in 
 Parliament till the engagement had been made. And now, 
 among them all, this O'Mahony was the biggest ass. And yet 
 Lord Castlewell found himself quite unable to hold his own 
 with the Irish member when the Irish member was brought to 
 attack him. He certainly would have made Rachel's conduct a 
 fair excuse for breaking with her, — only that she was ill. 
 
 If he could have known the state of Rachel's mind there 
 might have been an end to his troubles. She had now, at 
 length, been made thoroughly wretched by hearing the truth 
 from the doctor, — or what the doctor believed to be the truth. 
 " Miss O'Mahony, I had better tell you, your voice has gone, at 
 any rate for a year." 
 
 " For a year ! " The hoarse, angry, rusty whisper came 
 forth from her, and in spite of its hoarseness and rustiness was 
 audible enough. 
 
 " I fear so. For heaven's sake don't talk ; use your tablet." 
 Rachel drew the tablet from under her pillow and dashed it 
 across the room. The doctor picked it up, and, with a kind 
 smile and a little caressing motion of his hand, put it again 
 back under the pillow. Rachel buried her head amidst the 
 bedclothes and sobbed bitterly. " Try to make yourself happy 
 in remembering how you have succeeded," said the doctor. 
 
 "It won't be back just the same," she wrote on her tablet. 
 
 " It is in God's hands," said the doctor. There came not 
 another word from Rachel, either by her tablet or by any 
 struggle at speech. The doctor, having made what attempts at 
 comfort he could, went his way. Then her father, who had 
 been in and out constantly, came to his daughter. He had not 
 been present when she threw the tablet away, but he knew what 
 the doctor had said to her. 
 
 " My pet," he said. But she made no attempt to answer 
 him. A year ! At her time of life a year is an eternity. And 
 then this doctor had only told her that her voice was in God's 
 hands. She could talk to herself without any effort. " When 
 they say that they always condemn you. When the doctor tells 
 you that you are in God's hands he means the Devil's." 
 
 She had been so near the gods and goddesses, and now she 
 was no more than any other poor woman. She might be less, 
 as her face had begun to wither with her voice. She had all 
 but succeeded ; as for her face, as for the mere look of her, let 
 it go. She told herself that she cared nothing for her appear- 
 ance. What was Lord Castlewell to her, — what even was 
 Frank's love ? To stand on the boards of the theatre and 
 become conscious of the intense silence of the crowd before her, 
 — so intense because the tone of her voice was the one thing 
 desired by all the world. And then to open her mouth and to 
 
LORD CASTLEWELL IS MUCH TROUBLED. 233 
 
 let the music go forth and to see the ears all erect, as she 
 fancied she could, so that not a sound should be lost, — should 
 not be harvested by the hungry hearers ! That was to be a very 
 god ! As she told herself of all her regrets, there was not a 
 passing sorrow given to Lord Castlewell. And what of the 
 other man ? " Oh, Frank, dear Frank, you will know it all now. 
 There need be no more taking money." But she did take 
 some comfort at last in that promise of God's hands. When 
 she had come, as it were, to the bitterest moment of her grief, 
 she told herself that, though it might be even at the end of a 
 whole year, there was something to be hoped. 
 
 / 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 LORD CASTLEWELL IS MUCH TROUBLED. 
 
 When her father had been with her half-an-hour, and was 
 beginning to think that he could escape and go down to the 
 House, — and he had a rod in pickle for the Speaker's back, 
 such a rod that the Speaker's back should be sore for the rest 
 of the session — Rachel began her lengthened conversation with 
 him. In the last half-hour she had made up her mind as to 
 what she would say. But the conversation was so long and 
 intricate, being necessarily carried on by means of her tablet, 
 that poor O'Mahony's rod was losing all its pickle. " Father, 
 you must go and see Lord Castlewell at once." 
 
 " I think, my dear, he understood me altogether when I saw 
 him before, and he seemed to agree with me. I told him I 
 didn't mind being called an ass, but that you were so absurd as 
 to dislike it. In fact, I gave him to understand that we were 
 three asses ; but I don't think he'll say it again." 
 
 " It isn't about that at all," said the tablet. 
 
 " What else do you want ? " 
 
 Then Rachel went to work and wrote her demand with what 
 deliberation she could assume. 
 
 " You must go and tell him that I don't want to marry him 
 at all. He has been very kind, and you mustn't tell him that 
 he's an ass any more. But it won't do. He has proposed to 
 marry me because he has wanted a singing girl ; and I think I 
 should have done for him, — only I can't sing." 
 
 Then the father replied, having put himself into such a posi- 
 tion on the bed as to read the tablet while Rachel was filling it: 
 "But that'll all come right in a very short time." 
 
 "It can 5 t ; and it wont. The doctor says a year; but he 
 
234 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 knows nothing about it, and says it's in God's hands. He 
 means by that it's as bad as it can be." 
 
 " But, my dear " 
 
 " I tell you it must be so." 
 
 " But you are engaged. He would never be so base a man 
 as to take your word at such a moment as this. Of course he 
 couldn't do it. If you had had small-pox, or anything horrible 
 like that, he would not have been justified." 
 
 " I am as ugly as ever I can be," said the tablet, "and as 
 poor a creature." Then she stopped her pencil for a moment. 
 
 " Of course he's engaged to you. Why, my dear, I'd have to 
 cowhide him if he said a word of the kind." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said the tablet, with frantic energy. 
 
 st But you see if I wouldn't ! You see if I don't ! I suppose 
 they think a lord isn't to be cowhided in this country. I guess 
 111 let 'em know the difference." 
 
 " But I don't love him," said the tablet. 
 
 " Goodness gracious me ! " 
 
 " I don't. When he spoke of you in that way I began to 
 think of it, and I found I hated him. I do hate him like poison, 
 and I want you to tell him so." 
 
 " That will be very disagreeable," said the father, 
 
 " Never mind the disagreeables. You tell him so. I tell you 
 he won't be the worst pleased of the lot of us. He wanted a 
 singer, and not a Land-leaguer's daughter ; now he hasn't got 
 the singer, but has got the Land-leaguer's daughter. And I'll 
 tell you something else. I want " 
 
 " What do you want ? " asked the father, when her hand for 
 a moment ceased to scrawl. 
 
 " I want," she said, " Frank Jones. Now you know all 
 about it." 
 
 Then she hid her face beneath the bed-clothes, and refused 
 to write another word. 
 
 He went on talking to her till he had forgotten the Speaker 
 and the rod in pickle. He besought her to think better of it ; 
 and if not that, just at present to postpone any action in the 
 matter. He explained to her how very disagreeable it would be 
 to him to have to go to the lord with such a message as she now 
 proposed. But she only enhanced the vehemence of her order 
 by shaking her head as her face lay buried in the pillow. 
 
 " Let it wait for one fortnight," said the father. 
 
 " No ! " said the girl, using her own voice for the effort. 
 
 Then the father slowly took himself off, and making his way 
 to the House of Commons, renewed his passion as he went, and 
 had himself again turned out before he had been half-an-hour 
 in the house. 
 
 The earl was sitting alone after breakfast two or three days 
 subsequently, thinking in truth of his difficulty with Rachel. It 
 
LORD CA S TLE WELL LS MUCH TROUBLED. 235 
 
 had come to be manifest to him that he must marry the girl 
 unless something terrible should occur to her. " She might die," 
 he said to himself very sadly, trying to think of cases in which 
 singers had died from neglected throats. And it did make him 
 very sad. He could not think of the perishing of that magnificent 
 treble without great grief ; and, after his fashion, he did love her 
 personally. He did not know that he could ever love anyone 
 very much better. He had certainly thought that it would be a 
 good thing that his father and mother and sister should go and 
 live in foreign lands, — in order, in short, that they might never 
 more be heard of to trouble him, — but he did not even contem- 
 plate their deaths, so sweet-minded was he. But in the first 
 fury of his love he had thought how nice it would be to be left 
 with his singing girl, and no one to trouble him. Now there 
 came across him an idea that something was due to the Marquis 
 of Beaulieu, — something, that is, to his own future position ; 
 and what could he do with a singing girl for his wife who could 
 not sing ? 
 
 He was unhappy as he thought of it all, and would ever and 
 again, as he meditated, be stirred up to mild anger when he 
 remembered that he had been told that " the truth would suffer." 
 He had intended, at any rate, that his singing girl should be 
 submissive and obedient while in his hands. But here had 
 been an outbreak of passion ! And here was this confounded 
 O'Mahony ready to make a fool of himself at a moment's notice 
 before all the world. At that moment the door was opened and 
 Mr. O'Mahony was shown into the room. 
 
 "Oh! dear," exclaimed the lord, "how do you do, Mr. 
 O'Mahony ? I hope I see you well." 
 
 " Pretty well. But upon my word, I don't know how to tell 
 you what I've got to say." 
 
 " Has anything gone wrong with Rachel ? " 
 
 " Not with her illness, — which, however, does not seem to 
 improve. The poor girl ! But you'll say she's gone mad." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 ' 4 1 really hardly know how I ought to break it. You must 
 have learned by this time that Rachel is a girl determined to 
 have her own way." 
 
 " Well ; well ; well ! " 
 
 "And, upon my word, when I think of myself, I feel that I 
 have nothing to do but what she bids me." 
 
 " It's more than you do for the Speaker, Mr. O'Mahony." 
 
 " Yes, it is ; I admit that. But Rachel, though she is in- 
 clined to be tyrannical, is not such a downright positive old 
 blue-bottle nincoompoop as that white-wigged king of kings. 
 Rachel is bad ; but even you can't say that she is bad enough to 
 be Speaker of the House of Commons. My belief is, that he'll 
 come to be locked up yet." 
 
236 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " We have all the highest opinion of him." 
 
 " It's because you like to be sat upon. You don't want to be 
 allowed to say bo to a goose. I have often heard in my own 
 country " 
 
 "But you call yourself an Irishman, Mr. O'Mahony." 
 
 " Never did so in my life. They called me so over there 
 when they wanted to return me to hold my tongue in that House 
 of Torment ; but I guess it will puzzle the best Englishman 
 going to find out whether I'm an American or an Irishman. 
 They did something over there to make me an American ; but 
 they did nothing to unmake me as an Irishman. And there I 
 am, member for Cavan ; and it will go hard with me if I don't 
 break that Speaker's heart before I've done with him. What ! 
 I ain't to say that he goes wrong when he never goes right by 
 any chance ? " 
 
 "Have you come here this morning, Mr. O'Mahony, to 
 abuse the Speaker ? " 
 
 " By no means. It was you who threw the Speaker in my 
 teeth." 
 
 Lord Castlewell did acknowledge to himself his own im- 
 prudence. 
 
 " I came here to tell you about my daughter, and upon my 
 word I shall find it more difficult than anything I may have to 
 say to the Speaker. I have the most profound contempt for the 
 Speaker." 
 
 " Perhaps he returns it." 
 
 " I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't make so much of 
 me as to turn me out of the House. When a man finds it 
 necessary to remove an enemy, let the cause be what it may, he 
 cannot be said to despise that enemy. Now, I wouldn't give a 
 puff of breath to turn him out of the House. In truth, I despise 
 him too much." 
 
 " He is to be pitied," said the lord, with a gentle touch of 
 irony. 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Lord Castlewell " 
 
 " Don't go on about the Speaker, Mr. O'Mahony, — pray don't." 
 
 "You always begin, — but I won't. I didn't come here to 
 speak about him at all. And the Chairman of Committees is 
 positively worse. You know there's a creature called Chairman 
 of Committees ? " 
 
 "Now, Mr. O'Mahony, I really must beg that you will fight 
 your political battles anywhere but here. I'm not a politician. 
 How is your charming daughter this morning?" 
 
 " She is anything but charming. I hardly know what to 
 make of her, but I find that I am always obliged to do what she 
 tells me." There was another allusion to the Speaker on the 
 lord's tongue, but he restrained himself. " She has sent me here 
 to say that she wants the marriage to be broken off." 
 
LORD CASTLEWELL IS MUCH TROUBLED, 237 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " 
 
 " She does. She says that you intend to marry her because 
 she's a singing girl ; — and now she can't sing." 
 " Not exactly that," said the lord. 
 
 u And she thinks she oughtn't to have accepted you at all, — 
 that's the truth." The lord's face became very long. u I think 
 myself that it was a little too hurried. I don't suppose you 
 quite knew your own minds." 
 
 " If Miss O'Mahony repents " 
 
 " Well, Miss O'Mahony does repent. She has got something 
 into her head that I can't quite explain. She thought that she'd 
 do for a countess very well as long as she was on the boards of 
 a theatre. But now that she's to be relegated to private life she 
 begins to feel that she ought to look after someone about her 
 own age." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Is this her message ? " 
 
 " Well ; yes. It is her message. I shouldn't in such a 
 matter invent it all if she hadn't sent me. I don't know, now 
 I think of it, that she did say anything about her own age. 
 But yet she did," remarked Mr. O'Mahony, calling to mind the 
 assertion made by Rachel that she wanted Frank Jones. Frank 
 Jones was about her own age, whereas the lord was as old as 
 her father. 
 
 " Upon my word, I am much obliged to Miss O'Mahony." 
 
 " She certainly has meant to be as courteous as she knows 
 how," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " Perhaps on your side of the water they have different 
 ideas of courtesy. The young lady sends me word that now 
 she means to retire from the stage she finds I am too old for 
 her." 
 
 " Not that at all," said Mr. O'Mahony. But he said it in an 
 apologetic tone, as though admitting the truth. 
 
 Lord Castlewell, as he sat there for a few moments, 
 acknowledged to himself that Rachel possessed certain traits of 
 character which had something fine about them, from whatever 
 side of the water she had come. He was a reasonable man, and 
 he considered that there was a way made for him to escape 
 from this trouble which was not to have been expected. Had 
 Rachel been an English girl, or an Italian, or a Norwegian, he 
 would hardly have been let off so easily. As he was an earl, 
 and about to be a marquis, and as he was a rich man, such 
 suitors are not generally given up in a hurry. This young lady 
 had sent word to him that she had lost her voice permanently 
 and was therefore obliged to surrender that high title, that noble 
 name, and those golden hopes which had glistened before her 
 eyes. No doubt he had offered to marry her because of her 
 singing ; — that is, he would not have so offered had she not have 
 been a singer. But he could not have departed from his engage- 
 
2 3 8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 ment simply because she had become dumb. He quite under- 
 stood that Mr. O'Mahony would have been there with his 
 cowhide, and though he was by no means a coward he did not 
 wish to encounter the American Member of the House of 
 Commons in all his rage. In fact, he had been governed in his 
 previous ideas by a feeling of propriety ; but propriety certainly 
 did not demand him to marry a young lady who had sent to tell 
 him that he was too old. And this irate member of the House 
 of Commons had come to bring him the message ! 
 
 " What am I expected to suggest now ? " said Lord Castle- 
 well, after awhile. 
 
 " Just your affectionate blessing, and you're very sorry," said 
 Mr. O'Mahony, with a shrug. " That's the kind of thing, I 
 should say." 
 
 He couldn't send her his affectionate blessing, and he 
 couldn't say he was very sorry. Had the young lady been about 
 to marry his son, — had there been such a son, — he could have 
 blessed her ; and he felt that his own personal dignity did not 
 admit of an expression of sorrow. 
 
 Was he to let the young lady off altogether? There was 
 something nearly akin, — very nearly akin, — to true love in his 
 bosom as he thought of this. The girl was ill, and no doubt 
 weak, and had been made miserable by the loss of her voice. 
 The doctor had told him that her voice, for all singing purposes, 
 had probably gone for ever. But her beauty remained ; — had 
 not so faded, at least, as to have given any token of permanent 
 decay. And that peculiarly bright eye was there ; and the wit 
 of the words which had captivated him. The very smallness of 
 her stature, gwith its perfect symmetry, had also gone far to 
 enrapture him. 
 
 No doubt, he was forty. He did not openly pretend even to 
 be less. And where was the young lady, singer or no singer, 
 who if disengaged, would reject the heir to a marquisate because 
 he was forty? And he did not believe that Rachel had sent 
 him any message in which allusion was made to his age. That 
 had been added by the stupid father, who was, without doubt, 
 the biggest fool that either America or Ireland had ever pro- 
 duced. Now that the matter had been brought before him in 
 such bald terms, he was by no means sure that he was desirous 
 of accepting the girl's offer to release him. And the father 
 evidently had no desire to catch him. He must acknowledge 
 that Mr. O'Mahony was an honest fool. 
 
 "It's very hard to know what I'm to say." Here Mr. 
 O'Mahony shook his head. " I think that, perhaps, I had 
 better come and call upon her." 
 
 " You mustn't speak a word ! And, if you're to be considered 
 as no longer engaged, perhaps there might be — you know — 
 something — well, something of delicacy in the matter ! 99 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL IS MUCH TROUBLED. 239 
 
 Mr. O'Mahony felt at the moment that he ought to protect 
 the interests of Frank Jones. 
 
 " I understand. At any rate I am not disposed to send her 
 my blessing at present as a final step. An engagement to be 
 married is a very serious step in life." 
 
 But her father remembered that she had told him that she 
 wanted Frank Jones. Should he tell the lord the exact truth, 
 and explain all about Frank Jones ? It would be the honest 
 thing to do. And yet he felt that his girl should have another 
 chance. This lord was not much to his taste ; but still, for a 
 lord, he had his good points. 
 
 " I think we had better leave it for the present," said the 
 lord. " I feel that in the midst of all your eloquence I do not 
 quite catch Miss O'Mahony's meaning." 
 
 O'Mahony felt that this lord was as bad a lord as any of 
 them. He would like to force the lord to meet him at some 
 debating club where there was no wretched Speaker and there 
 force him to give an answer on any of the burning questions 
 which now excited the two countries. 
 
 " Very well. I will explain to Rachel as soon as I can that 
 the matter is still left in abeyance. Of course we feel the honour 
 done us by your lordship in not desiring to accept at once her 
 decision. Her condition is no doubt sad. But I suppose she 
 may expect to hear once more from yourself in a short time." 
 
 So Mr. O'Mahony took his leave, and as he went to Cecil 
 Street endeavoured in his own mind to investigate the character 
 of Lord Castlewell. That he was a fool there could be no doubt, 
 a fool with whom he would not be forced to live in the constant 
 intercourse of married life for any money that could be offered 
 to him. He was a man who, without singing himself, cared for 
 nothing but the second-hand life of a theatre. But then he, Mr. 
 O'Mahony, was not a young woman, and was not expected to 
 marry Lord Castlewell. But he had told himself over and 
 over again that Lord Castlewell had been " caught." He was a 
 great lord rolling in money, and Rachel had " caught " him. 
 He had not quite approved of Rachel's conduct, but the lord 
 had been fair game for a woman. What the deuce was he to 
 think now of the lord who would not be let off? 
 
 " I wonder whether it can be love for her," said he to him- 
 self ; " such love as I used to feel." 
 
 Then he sighed heavily as he went home. 
 
240 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S FIRST TRIUMPH. 
 
 It was now April, and this April was a sad month in Ireland. I 
 do not know why the deaths of two such men as were then mur- 
 dered should touch the heart with a deeper sorrow than is felt for 
 the fate of others whose lot is lower in life ; why the poor widow, 
 who has lost her husband while doing his duty amidst outrages 
 and unmanly revenges, is not to be so much thought of as the 
 sweet lady who has been robbed of her all in the same fashion. 
 But so it is with human nature. We know how a people will 
 weep for their Sovereign, and it was with such tears as that, 
 with tears as sincere as those shed for the best of kings, that 
 Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were lamented. In 
 April these two men had fallen, hacked to death in front of the 
 Viceregal Lodge. By whom they were killed, as I write now, 
 no one knows, and as regards Lord Frederick one can hardly 
 guess the reason. He had come over to Ireland on that very 
 day, to take the place which his luckier predecessor had just 
 vacated, and had as yet done no service, and excited no 
 vengeance in Ireland. He had only attended an opening 
 pageant ; — because with him had come a new Lord Lieutenant, 
 — not new indeed to the office, but new in his return. An 
 accident had brought the two together on the day, but Lord 
 Frederick was altogether a stranger, and yet he had been 
 selected. Such had been his fate, and such also the fate of 
 Mr. Burke, who, next to him in official rank, may possibly have 
 been in truth the doomed one. They were both dealt with 
 horribly on that April morning, — and all Ireland was grieving. 
 All Ireland was repudiating the crime, and saying that this 
 horror had surely been done by American hands. Even the 
 murderers native to Ireland seemed to be thoroughly ashamed 
 of this deed. 
 
 It would be needless here to tell, — or to attempt to tell, — how 
 one Lord-Lieutenant had made way for another, and one Chief 
 Secretary for another Chief Secretary. It would be trying to 
 do too much. In the pages of a novel the novelist can hardly 
 do more than indicate the sources of the troubles which have 
 fallen upon the country, and can hardly venture to deal with 
 the names and characters of those who have been concerned. 
 For myself, I do most cordially agree with the policy of him in 
 whose place Lord Frederick had this day suffered, — as far as 
 his conduct in Ireland can be read from that which he did and 
 from that which he spoke. As far as he had agreed with the 
 Government in their measure for interfering with the price paid 
 or land in the country, — for putting up a new law devised by 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S FIRST TRIUMPH. 241 
 
 themselves in lieu of that time-honoured law by which property- 
 has ever been protected in England, — I disagree. Of my dis- 
 agreement no one will take notice ; — but my story cannot be 
 written without expressing it. 
 
 But down at Morony Castle, mingled with their sorrows, 
 there was a joy and a triumph ; not loud indeed, not sounded 
 with trumpets, not as yet perfect, not quite assured even in the 
 mind of one man ; but yet assuring in the mind of that man, — 
 and indeed of one other, — almost to conviction. That man was 
 Captain Yorke Clayton, and that other man was only poor 
 Hunter, the wounded policeman. For such triumph as was theirs 
 a victim is needed ; and in this case the victim, the hoped-for 
 victim, was Mr. Lax. 
 
 Nothing had ever been made out in regard to the murder of 
 Terry Carroll in the Court House at Galway. Irish mysteries 
 are coming to be unriddled now, but there will be no unriddling 
 of that. Yorke Clayton, together with Hunter and all the police of 
 County Galway, could do nothing in regard to that mystery. They 
 had struggled their very best, and, from the nature of the crime, 
 had found themselves almost obliged to discover the perpe- 
 trator. The press of the two countries, the newspapers in othc'' 
 respects so hostile to each other, had united in declaring that 
 the police were bound to know all about it. The police had 
 determined to know nothing about it, because the Government 
 did not dare to bring forward such evidence. This was the 
 Irish Land-league view ; and though it contained an accusation 
 against the Government for having contrived the murder itself,, 
 it was all the better on that account. The English papers 
 simply said that the Galway police must be fast asleep. This 
 man had been murdered when in the very hands of the officers 
 of justice. The judge had seen the shots fired. The victim 
 fell into the hands of four policeman. The pistol was found at 
 his feet. It was done in daylight, and all Galway was looking 
 on. The kind of things that were said by one set of news- 
 papers and another drove Yorke Clayton almost out of his wits. 
 He had to maintain a show of good humour, and he did main- 
 tain it gallantly. " My hero is a hero still," whispered Edith 
 to her own pillow. But, in truth, nothing could be done as 
 to that Galway case. Mr. Lax was still in custody, and was 
 advised by counsel not to give any account of himself at that 
 time. It was indecent on the part of the prosecution that he 
 should be asked to do so. So said the lawyers on his side, 
 but it was clear that nobody in the court and nobody in 
 Galway could be got to say that he or she had seen him do 
 it. And yet Yorke Clayton had himself seen the hip of the 
 stooping man. "I suppose I couldn't swear to it," he said 
 to himself ; and it would be hard to see how he could swear 
 to the man without forswearing himself. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 But while this lamentable failure was going on, success 
 reached him from another side. He didn't care a straw what 
 the newspapers said of him, so long as he could hang Mr. 
 Lax. His triumph in that respect would drown all other 
 failures. Mr. Lax was still in custody, and many insolent 
 petitions had been made on his behalf in order that he might 
 be set free. "Did the Crown intend to pretend that they had 
 any shadow of evidence against him as to the shooting of Terry 
 Carroll ? " 
 
 "No; — but there was another murder committed a day 
 or two before. Poor young Florian Jones had been murdered. 
 Even presuming that Lax's hand cannot be seen visible in the 
 matter of Terry Carroll, there is, we think, something to connect 
 him with the other murder. The two, no doubt, were committed 
 in the same interest. The Crown is not prepared to allow Lax 
 to escape from its hands quite yet." Then there were many 
 words on the subject going on just at the time at which Lax 
 especially wanted his freedom, and at which, to tell the truth, 
 Yorke Clayton was near the end of his tether in regard to poor 
 Florian. 
 
 In the beginning of his inquiry as to the Ballyglunin murder, 
 he entertained an idea that Lax, after firing the shot, had been 
 seen by that wicked car-driver, who had boycotted Mr. Jones in 
 his great need. The reader will probably have forgotten that 
 Mr. Jones had required to be driven home to Morony Castle 
 from Ballyglunin station, and had been refused the accommo- 
 dation by a wicked old Land-leaguer, who had joined the 
 conspiracy formed in the neighbourhood against Mr. Jones. 
 He had done so, either in fear of his neighbours, or else in 
 a true patriot spirit — because he had gone without any supper, 
 as had also his horses, on the occasion. The man's name was 
 Teddy Mooney, the father of Kit Mooney who stopped the 
 hunting at Moytubber. And he certainly was patriotic. From 
 day to day he went on refusing fares, — for the boycotted 
 personages were after all more capable of paying fares than 
 the boycotting hero of doing without them, — suffering much 
 himself from want of victuals, and more on behalf of his poor 
 animal. He saw his son Kit more than once or twice in those 
 days, and Kit appeared to be the stancher patriot of the two. 
 Kit was a baker, and did earn wages ; but he utterly refused to 
 subsidise the patriotism of his father. " If ye can't do that for 
 the ould counthry," said Kit, " ye ain't half the man I took ye 
 for." But he refused him a gallon of oats for his horse. 
 
 It was not at once that the old man gave way'. He went on 
 boycotting individuals till he hadn't a pair of breeches left to sit 
 upon, and the non-boycotted tradesmen of the little towns 
 around declined to sit upon his car, because the poqr horse, fed 
 upon roadside grasses, refused to be urged into a trot. " Tare 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S FIRST TRIUMPH. 243 
 
 and ages, man, what's the good of it ? Ain't we a-cutting the 
 noses off our own faces, and that with the money so scarce that 
 I haven t seen the sight of a half-crown these two weeks." It 
 was thus that he declared his purpose of going back to the 
 common unpatriotic ways of mankind, to an old pal, whom 
 he had known all his days. He did do so, but found, alas ! that 
 his trade had perished in the meanwhile or forced itself into 
 other channels. 
 
 m The result was that Teddy Mooney became very bitter 
 in spirit, and was for a while an Orangeman, and almost a 
 Protestant The evil things that had been done to him were 
 terrible to his spirit. He had been threatened with eviction 
 from ten acres of ground because he couldn't pay his rent • or 
 as he said, because he had declined to drive a maid-servant 
 to the house of another gentleman who was also boycotted 
 This had not been true, but it had served to embitter Teddy 
 Mooney And now, at last, he had determined to belong to the 
 other side. to 
 
 When an Irishman does make up his mind to serve the 
 other side he is very much determined. There is but the 
 meditation of two minutes between Land-leaguingand Oran^eism 
 between boycotting landlords and thorough devotion to the dear 
 old landlord. When Kit Mooney had first laid down the law to 
 his father, how he ought to assist in boycotting all the enemies 
 ot the Land-league, no one saw his way clearer than did Teddy 
 Mooney. I wouldn't mind doing without a bit or a sup," he 
 said when his son explained to him that he might have to suffer 
 a little for the cause. " Not a bit or a sup when the ould 
 counthry wants it." He had since had a few words with his son 
 Kit, and was now quite on the other side of the question He 
 was told that somebody had threatened to cut off his old mare's 
 tail because he had driven Phil D'Arcy. Since that he had 
 become a martyr as well as an Orangeman, and was disposed 
 k g °. u ny , l6ngth { °I the S'^tVmen^ This had come all 
 about by degrees— had been coming about since poor Florian's 
 murder ; and at last he wrote a letter to Yorke Clayton, or eot 
 someone else to write it : b 
 
 " Yer Honour,— It was Lax as dropped Master Flory. Divil 
 a doubt about it. There's one as can tell more about it as is on 
 the road from Ballyglunin all round. This comes from a well- 
 wisher to the ould cause. For Muster Clayton " 
 
 When Captain Clayton received this he at once knew from 
 whom it had come. The Land-leaguing car-driver, who had 
 turned gentlemen s friend, was sufficiently well known to history 
 to have been talked about. Clayton, therefore, did not lose 
 much time in going down to Ballyglunin station and requiring 
 to be driven yet once again from thence to Carnlough. '"And 
 now, Mr. Teddy Mooney," he said, after they had travelled 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 together a mile or two from Ballyglunin, and had come almost 
 to the spot at which the poor boy had been shot, " tell me 
 what you know about Mr. Lax's movements in this part of the 
 world." He had never come there before since the fatal day 
 without having three policemen with him, but now he was alone. 
 Such a man as Teddy Mooney would be most unwilling to open 
 his mouth in the presence of two or more persons. 
 
 " O Lord, Captain, how you come on a poor fellow all 
 unawares ! " 
 
 " Stop a moment, Mr. Mooney," and the car stopped. 
 " Whereabouts was it the young gentleman perished ? " 
 
 "Them's the very shot-holes," said Teddy, pointing up to the 
 temporary embrasure, which had indeed been knocked down 
 half a score of times since the murder, and had been as often 
 replaced by the diligent care of Mr. Blake and Captain 
 Clayton. 
 
 " Just so. They are the shot-holes. And which way did the 
 murderer run?" Teddy pointed with his whip away to the 
 east, over the ground on which the man had made his escape. 
 " And where did you first see him ? " 
 
 " See him 1 " ejaculated Teddy. It became horrible to his 
 imagination as he thought that he was about to tell of such a 
 deed. 
 
 " Of course, we know you did see him ; but I want to know 
 the exact spot." 
 
 " It was over there, nigh to widow Dolan's cottage." 
 
 " It wasn't the widow who saw him, I think?" 
 
 " Faix, it was the widow thin, with her own eyes. I hardly 
 know'd him. And yet I did know him, for I'd seen him once 
 travelling from Ballinasloe with Pat Carroll. And Lax is a man 
 as when you've once seen him you've seen him for allays. But 
 she knowed him well. Her husband was one of the boys 
 when the Fenians were up. If he didn't go into the widow 
 Dolan's cabin my name's not Teddy Mooney." 
 
 " And who else was there ?" 
 
 " There was no one else ; but only her darter, a slip of a girl 
 o' fifteen, come up while Lax was there. I know she come up, 
 because I saw her coming jist as I passed the door." 
 
 Captain Clayton entered into very friendly relations with 
 Teddy Mooney on that occasion, trying to make him under- 
 stand, without any absolute promises, that all the luck and all 
 the rewards, — in fact, all the bacon and oats, — lay on- the dish 
 to which Mr. Lax did not belong. Under these influences 
 Teddy did become communicative — though he lied most 
 awfully. That did not in the least shock Captain Clayton, 
 who certainly would have believed nothing had the truth been 
 told him without hesitation. At last it came out that the car- 
 driver was sure as to the personality of Lax, — had seen him 
 
CAPTAIN CLAYTON'S FIRST TRIUMPH 245 
 
 again and again since he had first made his acquaintance 
 in Carroll's company, and could swear to having seen him in 
 the widow's cabin. He knew also that the widow and her 
 daughter were intimate with Lax. He had not seen the shot 
 fired. This he said in an assured tone, but Captain Clayton 
 had known that before. He did not expect to find anyone who 
 had seen the shot fired, except Mr. Jones and Peter. As to 
 Peter he had his suspicions. Mr. Jones was certain that Peter 
 had told the truth in declaring that he had seen no one ; but 
 the Captain had argued the matter out with him. u A fellow of 
 that kind is in a very hard position. You must remember that 
 for the truth itself he cares nothing. He finds a charm rather 
 in the romantic beauty of a lie. Lax is to him a lovely object, 
 even though he be aware that he and Lax be on different sides. 
 And then he thoroughly believes in Lax ; thinks that Lax 
 possesses some mysterious power of knowing what is in his 
 mind, and of punishing him for his enmity. All the want of 
 evidence in this country comes from belief in the marvellous. 
 The people think that their very thoughts are known to men 
 who make their name conspicuous, and dare not say a word 
 which they suppose that it is desired they shall withhold. In 
 this case Peter no doubt is on our side, and would gladly hang 
 Lax with his own hand if he were sure he would be safe. But 
 Lax is a mysterious tyrant, who in his imagination can slaughter 
 him any day; whereas he knows that he shall encounter no 
 harm from you. He and poor Florian were sitting on the car 
 with their backs turned to the embrasure ; and Peter's attention 
 was given to the driving of the car, — so that there was no 
 ground for thinking that he had seen the murderer. All the 
 circumstances of the moment ran the other way. But still it 
 was possible." 
 
 And Captain Clayton was of opinion that Peter was beginning 
 to be moved from the determined know-nothingness of his 
 primary evidence. He had seen the flash. And then, as his 
 master had run up the bank, he didn't know whether he hadn't 
 caught the flying figure of a man. 
 
 " I had the poor boy's head on my knees, Captain Clayton ; 
 and how is a poor man to look much about him then ? " 
 
 In this condition stood Captain Clayton's mind in regard to 
 Peter, when he heard, for the first time, a word about the widow 
 Dolan and the widow Dolan's daughter. 
 
 The woman swore by all her gods that she knew nothing of 
 Lax. But then she had already fallen into the difficulty of 
 having been selected as capable of giving evidence. It generally 
 happens that no one first person will be found even to indicate 
 others, so that there is no finding a beginning to the case. But 
 when a witness has been indicated, the witness must speak. 
 
 "The big blackguard!" exclaimed Mrs. Dolan, when she 
 
246 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 heard of the evil that had been brought her ; " to have the 
 imperence to mention my name ! n 
 
 It was felt, all the country through, to be an impertinence, 
 — for anybody to drag anybody else into the mess of troubles 
 which was sure to arise from an enforced connection with a law 
 court. Most unwillingly the circumstances were drawn from 
 Mrs. Dolan, and with extreme difficulty also from that ingenious 
 young lady her daughter. But, still, it was made to appear that 
 Lax had taken refuge in their cottage, and had gone down from 
 thence to a little brook, where he effected the cleansing of his 
 pistol. The young lady had done all in her power to keep her 
 mother silent, but the mother had at last been tempted to speak 
 of the weapon which Lax had used. 
 
 Now there was no further question of letting Lax go loose 
 from prison ! That very irate barrister, Mr. O'Donnell, who 
 was accustomed to speak of all the Land-league criminals as 
 patriotic lambs, — whose lamblike qualities were exceeded only 
 by their patriotism, — did not dare to intimate such a wish any 
 further. But he did urge, with all that benevolence for which 
 he was conspicuous, that the trial should come on at that 
 immediate spring assizes. A rumour had, however, already 
 reached the ears of Captain Clayton, and others in his position, 
 that a great alteration was to be effected in the law. This, 
 together with Mrs. Dolan's evidence, might enable him to hang 
 Mr. Lax. Therefore the trial was postponed ; — not, indeed, 
 with outspoken reference as to the new measure, but with much 
 confidence in its resources. 
 
 It would be useless here to refer to that Bill which was to 
 have been passed for trying certain prisoners in Ireland without 
 the intervention of a jury, and of the alteration which took place 
 in it empowering the Government to alter the venue, and to 
 submit such cases to a selected judge, to selected juries, to 
 selected counties. The Irish judges had remonstrated against 
 the first measure, and the second was to be first tried, so that 
 should it fail the judges might yet be called upon to act. 
 
 Such was the law under which criminals were tried in 1882, 
 and the first capital convictions were made under which the 
 country began to breathe freely. But the tidings of the law had 
 got abroad beforehand, and gave a hope of triumph to such men 
 as Captain Clayton. Let a man undertake what duty he will in 
 life, if he be a good man he will desire success ; and if he be a 
 brave man he will long for victory. The presence of such a 
 man as Lax in the country was an eyesore to Captain Clayton, 
 which it was his primary duty to remove. And it was a triumph 
 to him now that the time had come in which he might remove 
 him. Three times had Mr. Lax fired at the Captain's head, 
 and three times had the Captain escaped. " I think he has 
 done with his guns and his pistols now," said Captain Clayton, 
 in his triumph. 
 
YORKE CLAYTON AGAIN MAKES LOVE. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 YORKE CLAYTON AGAIN MAKES LOVE. 
 
 "I am not quite sure about Peter yet," said Clayton to Mr. 
 Jones. " But if we could look into his very soul I am afraid he 
 could not do much for us." 
 
 " I never believed in Peter as a witness,'' replied Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 .** I should like to know exactly what he did see: — whether it 
 was a limb or a bit of his coat. But I think that young lady 
 crept out and saw him cleaning his pistol. And I think that 
 the old lady had a glimpse of the mask. I think that they can 
 be made to say so." 
 
 " I saw the mask myself, and the muzzle of the rifle ;— and I 
 saw the man running as plainly as I see you." 
 
 "That will all be wanted, Mr. Jones. But I trust that we 
 may have to summon you to Dublin. As things are at present, 
 if Lax had been seen in broad daylight firing at the poor boy 
 by a dozen farmers it would do no good in County Galway. 
 There is Miss Edith out there. She is awfully anxious about 
 this wretch who destroyed her brother. I will go and tell her." 
 So Captain Clayton rushed out, anxious for another cause for 
 triumph. 
 
 Mr. Jones had heard of his suit, and had heard also that the 
 suit was made to Edith and not to Ada. " There is not one in 
 a dozen who would have taken Edith," said he to himself, — 
 u unless it be one who saw her with my eyes." But yet he'did 
 not approve of the marriage. " They were poverty stricken," 
 he said, and Clayton went about from day to day with his life 
 in his hand. " A brave man," he said to himself ; " but singularly 
 foolhardy, — unless it be that he wants to die." He had not been 
 called upon for his consent, for Edith had never yielded. She, 
 too, had said that it was impossible. " If Ada would have 
 suited, it might have been possible, but not between Yorke and 
 me." They had both come now to call him by his Christian 
 name ; and they to him were Ada and Edith ; but with their 
 father he had never quite reached the familiarity of a Christian 
 name. 
 
 Mr. Jones had, in truth, been so saddened by the circum- 
 stances of the last two years that he could not endure the idea 
 of marriages in his family. " Of course, if you choose, my dear, 
 you can do as you like," he used to say to Edith. 
 
 " But I don't choose." 
 
 " What there are left of us should, I think, remain together. 
 I suppose they cannot turn me out of this house. The Prime 
 Minister will hardly bring in a Bill that the estates bought this 
 
248 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 Inst hundred years shall belong to the owners of the next century. 
 He can do so, of course, as things go now. There are no longer 
 any lords to stop him, and the House of Commons, who want 
 their seats, will do anything he bids them. It's the First 
 Lieutenant who looks after Ireland, who has ideas of justice 
 with which the angels of light have certainly not filled his mind. 
 That we should get nothing from our purchased property this 
 century, and give it up in the course of the next, is in strict 
 accordance with his thinking. We can depend upon nothing. 
 My brother-in-law can, of course, sell me out any day, and 
 would not stop for a moment. Everybody has to get his own, 
 except an Irish landlord. But I think we should fare ill all 
 together. Your brother is behaving nobly, and I don't think we 
 ought to desert him. Of course you can do as you please." 
 
 Then the squire pottered on, wretched in heart ; or, rather, 
 down in the mouth, as we say, and gave his advice to his 
 younger daughter, not, in truth, knowing how her heart stood. 
 But a man, when he undertakes to advise another, should not be 
 down in the mouth himself. Equam 77temento rebus in arduis 
 servare mentem, non seats ac bonis. If not, your thoughts will 
 be too strongly coloured by your own misfortunes to allow of 
 your advising others. 
 
 All this Edith knew, — except the Latin. The meaning of it 
 had been brought home to her by her own light. "Poor papa 
 is so hipped," she said to herself, " that he thinks that nobody 
 will ever be happy again." But still she resolved that she would 
 not marry Yorke Clayton. There had been a mistake, and she 
 had made it, — a miserable blunder for which she was respon- 
 sible. She did not quite analyse the matter in her own mind, 
 or look into the thoughts of Ada, or of Yorke himself, — the hero 
 of her pillow ; but she continued to tell herself that the proper 
 order of things would not admit it. Ada, she knew, wished it. 
 Yorke longed for her, more strongly even than for Lax, the 
 murderer. For herself, when she would allow her thoughts to 
 stray for a moment in that direction, all the bright azure tints of 
 heaven were open to her. But she had made a mistake, and she 
 did not deserve it. She had been a blind fool, and blind fools 
 deserved no azure tints of heaven. 
 
 If she could have had her own way she would still have 
 married Ada to Yorke Clayton. When Ada told her that she 
 had got over her foolish love, it was the mere babble of unsel- 
 fishness. Feel a passion for such a man as Yorke Clayton, look 
 into the depth of his blue eyes, and fancy for herself a partner- 
 ship with the spirit hidden away within, and then get over it ! 
 Edith was guilty here of the folly of judging of her sister as her- 
 self. And as for Yorke himself; — a man, she said, always satis- 
 fies himself with that which is lovely and beautiful. And with 
 Ada he would have such other gitts as so strong a man as 
 
YORKE CLAYTON AGAIN MAKES LOVE. 249 
 
 Yorke always desires in his wife. In temper she was perfect ; 
 in unselfishness she was excellent. In all those ways of giving 
 aid, which some women possess and some not at all, — but 
 which, when possessed, go so far to make the comfort of a 
 house, — she was supreme. If a bedroom were untidy, her eye 
 saw it at once. If a thing had to be done at the stroke of noon, 
 she would remember that other things could not be done at the 
 same time. If a man liked his egg half-boiled, she would bear 
 it in her mind for ever. She would know the proper day for 
 making this marmalade and that preserve ; and she would 
 never lose her good looks for a moment when she was doing 
 these things. With her little dusting-brush at her girdle, no 
 eyes that knew anything would ever take her for aught but a 
 lady. She was just the wife for Yorke Clayton. 
 
 So Edith argued it in her own bosom, adding other wondrous 
 mistakes to that first mistake she had made. In thinking of it 
 all she counted herself for nothing, and made believe that she 
 was ugly in all eyes. She would not allow the man to see as his 
 fancy led him ; and could not bring herself to think that if now 
 the man should change his mind and offer his hand to Ada, it 
 would be impossible that Ada should accept it. Nor did she 
 perceive that Ada had not suffered as she had suffered. 
 
 " I wanted to catch you just for one moment," said Yorke 
 Clayton, running out so as to catch his prey. She had half 
 wished to fly from him, and had half told herself that any such 
 flight was foolish. 
 
 " What is it, Yorke ? " she said. 
 
 " I think, — I do think that I have at last got Lax upon the 
 hip." 
 
 " You are so bloody-minded about Lax." 
 
 " What ! Are you going to turn round and be merciful ?* 
 He was her hero, and she certainly felt no mercy towards the 
 murderer of her brother ; no mercy towards him who she now 
 thought had planned all the injury done to her father ; no 
 mercy towards him who had thrice fired at her beloved. This 
 wretched man had struggled to get the blood of him who was 
 all the world to her ; and had been urged on to his black deeds 
 by no thought, by no feeling, that was not in itself as vile as 
 hell ! Lax was to her a viper so noxious as to be beyond the 
 pale of all mercy. To crush him beneath the heel of her boot, 
 so as to make an end of him, as of any other poisonous animal, 
 was the best mercy to all other human beings. But she had 
 said the word at the spur of the moment, because she had been 
 instigated by her feelings to gainsay her hero, and to contradict 
 him, so that he might think that he was no hero of hers. She 
 looked at him for the moment, and said nothing, though he 
 held her by the arm. " If you say I am to spare him, I will 
 spare him." 
 
250 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " No," she answered, " because of your duty." 
 
 "Have I followed this man simply as a duty? Have I lain 
 awake thinking of it till I have given to the pursuit such an 
 amount of energy as no duty can require ? Thrice he has 
 endeavoured to kill me, firing at me in the dark, gecting at me 
 from behind hedges, as no one who has anything of the spirit of 
 man in his bosom will do when he strives to destroy his enemy. 
 All that has been nothing. I am a policeman in search of him, 
 and am the natural enemy of a murderer. Of course in the 
 ordinary way I would not have spared him ; but the ordinary 
 way would have sufficed. Had he escaped me I could have 
 laughed at all that. But he took that poor lad's life ! n Here 
 he looked sadly into her face, and she could see that there was 
 a tear within his eye. " That was much, but that was not all. 
 That lad was your brother, him whom you so dearly loved. He 
 shot down the poor child before his father's face, simply because 
 he had said that he would tell the truth. When you wept, when 
 you tore your hair, when you flung yourself in sorrow upon the 
 body, I told myself that either he or I must die. And now you 
 bid me be merciful." Then the big tears dropped down his 
 cheeks, and he began to wail himself, — hardly like a man. 
 
 And what did Edith do ? She stood and looked at him for 
 a few moments ; then extricated herself from the hold he still 
 had of her, and flung herself into his arms. He put down his 
 face and kissed her forehead and her cheeks ; but she put up 
 her mouth and kissed his lips. Not once or twice was that kiss 
 given ; but there they stood closely pressed to each other in a 
 long embrace. " My hero," she said ; " my hero." It had all 
 come at last, — the double triumph ; and there was, he felt, no 
 happier man in all Ireland than he. He thought, at least, that 
 the double battle had been now won. But even yet it was not 
 so. " Captain Clayton," she began. 
 
 " Why Captain ? Why Clayton ? " 
 
 " My brother Yorke," and she pressed both his hands in 
 hers. "You can understand that I have been carried away by 
 my feelings, to thank you as a sister may thank a brother." 
 
 " I will not have it," he exclaimed fiercely. " You are no 
 sister, nor can I ever be your brother. You are my very own 
 now, and for ever." And he rushed at her again as though 
 to envelop her in his arms, and to crush her against his 
 bosom. 
 
 "No!" she exclaimed, avoiding him with the activity of a 
 young fawn ; "not again. I had to beg your pardon, and it was 
 so I did it." 
 
 " Twenty times you have offended me, and twenty times you 
 must repeat your forgiveness." 
 
 <J No, no, it must not be so. I was wrong to say that you 
 were bloody-minded. I cannot tell why I said so. I would not 
 
THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 251 
 
 for worlds have you altered in anything ; — except," she said, 6t in 
 your love for me." 
 
 " But have you told me nothing ? " 
 
 " I have called you my hero, — and so you are." 
 
 "Nay, Edith, it is more than that. It is not for me to 
 remind you,-but it is more than that." 
 
 She stood there blushing before him, over her cheeks and up 
 to her forehead ; but yet did not turn away her face. 
 
 " How am I to tell you why it is more than that ? You can- 
 not tell me," she replied. 
 
 " But, Edith " 
 
 "You cannot tell me. There are moments for some of us the 
 feelings of which can never be whispered. Tou shall be my hero 
 and my brother if you will ; or my hero and my friend ; or, if 
 not that, my hero and my enemy." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 " No, my enemy you cannot be ; for him who is about to 
 revenge my brother's death no name less sweet than dearest 
 friend will suffice. My hero and my dearest friend ! " 
 
 Then she took him by the hand, and turned away from the 
 walk, and, escaping by a narrow path, was seen no more till she 
 met him at dinner with her father and her brother and her 
 sister. 
 
 " By God ! she shall be mine ! " said Clayton. " She must be 
 mine ! 33 
 
 And then he went within, and, finding Hunter, read the 
 details of the evidence for the trial of Mr. Lax in Dublin, as 
 prepared by the proper officers in Galway city. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 It will be well that they who are interested only in the sensational 
 incidents of our story to skip this chapter and go on to other 
 parts of our tale which may be more in accordance with their 
 taste. It is necessary that this one chapter shall be written in 
 which the accidents that occurred in the lives of our three heroines 
 shall be made subordinate to the political circumstances of the 
 day. This chapter should have been introductory and initiative ; 
 but the facts as stated will suit better to the tellingof my story if they 
 be told here. There can be no doubt that I reland has been and still 
 is in a most precarious condition, that life has been altogether 
 unsafe there, and that property has been jeopardised in a degree 
 unknown for many years in the British Islands. It is, I think, 
 
252 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 the general opinion that these evils have been occasioned by the 
 influx into Ireland of a feeling which I will not call American, 
 but which has been engendered in America by Irish jealousy, 
 and warmed into hatred by distance from English rule. As far 
 as politics are regarded, Ireland has been the vassal of England 
 as Poland has been of those masters under which she has been 
 made to serve. She was subjected to much ill-usage, and though 
 she has readily accepted the language, the civilisation, and the 
 customs of England, and has in fact grown rich by adopting 
 them, the memories of former hardships have clung to her, and 
 have made her ready to receive willingly the teachings of those 
 whose only object it has been to undermine the prestige of the 
 British Empire. In no respect has she more readily taken 
 to her bosom English practices than in that of the letting and 
 the hiring of land. In various countries, such as Italy, Russia, 
 France, and the United States, systems have grown up different 
 from that which has prevailed in England. Whether the 
 English system or any other may be the best is not now the 
 question. But in answering that question it is material to know 
 that Ireland has accepted and, at any rate for two centuries, has 
 followed that system. The landlord has been to his tenants a 
 beneficent or, occasionally, a hard master, and the tenants have 
 acknowledged themselves as dependent, generally with much 
 affection, though not unfrequently with loud complaint. It has 
 been the same in England. Questions of tenant-right, of leases, 
 and of the cruelty of evictions have from time to time cropped 
 up in Ireland. But rents were readily paid up to 1878 and 
 1879 ; though abatements were asked for, — as was the case also 
 in England ; and there were men ready to tell the Irish from 
 time to time, since the days of O'Connell downwards, that they 
 were ill-treated in being kept out of their " ould " properties by 
 the rightful owners. 
 
 Then the American revolt, growing out of Smith O'Brien's 
 logic and physical force, gave birth to Fenianism. 1 he true 
 Fenian I take to be one desirous of opposing British power, by 
 using a fulcrum placed on American soil. Smith O'Brien's 
 logic consisted in his assertion that if his country wished to 
 hammer the British Crown, they could only do it by using 
 hammers. Smith O'Brien achieved little beyond his own exile ; — 
 but his words, acting upon his followers, produced Fenianism. 
 That died away, but the spirit remained in America ; and when 
 English tenants began to clamour for temporary abatements in 
 their rent, the clamours were heard on the other side of the 
 water, and assisted the views of those American-Irish who had 
 revivified Ribandism and had given birth to the cry of Home 
 Rule. 
 
 During the time that this was going on, a long unflagging 
 series of beneficial Acts of Parliament, and of consequently 
 
THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 253 
 
 ameliorated circumstances, had befallen the country. I was 
 told the other day by an Irish Judge, whose name stands 
 conspicuous among those who are known for their wisdom and 
 their patriotism, by a Roman Catholic Judge too, that in studying 
 the latter laws of the two countries, the laws affecting England 
 and Ireland in reference to each other, he knew no law by which 
 England was specially favoured, though he knew various laws 
 redounding to the benefit of Ireland. When the cry for some 
 relief to suffering Ireland came up, at the time of the Duchess 
 of Marlborough's Fund, it was alleged in proof of Ireland's poor 
 condition that there was not work by which the labourers could 
 earn wages. I have known Ireland for more than forty years, — 
 say from 1842 to 1882. In 1842 we paid five shillings a week 
 for the entire work of a man. As far as I can learn, we now 
 pay, on an average, nine shillings for the same. The question 
 is not whether five shillings was sufficient, or whether nine be 
 insufficient, but that the normal increase through the country 
 has been and can be proved to be such as is here declared. 
 
 I will refer to the banks, which can now be found established 
 in any little town, almost in any village, through the country. 
 Fifty years ago they were very much rarer. Banks do not 
 spring up without money to support them. The increase of 
 wages, — and the banks also in an indirect manner, — have come 
 from that decrease in the population which followed the potato 
 famine of 1846. The famine and its results were terrible while 
 they lasted ; but they left behind them an amended state of 
 things. When man has failed to rule the world rightly, God 
 will step in, and will cause famines, and plagues, and pestilence 
 — even poverty itself — with His own Right Arm. But the cure 
 was effected, and the country was on its road to a fair amount 
 of prosperity, when the tocsin was sounded in America, and 
 Home Rule became the cry. 
 
 Ireland has lain as it were between two rich countries, 
 England, her near neighbour, abounds in coal and iron, and 
 has by means of these possessions become rich among the 
 nations. America, very much the more distant, has by her 
 unexampled agricultural resources put herself in the way to 
 equal England. It is necessary, — necessary at any rate for 
 England's safety, — that Ireland should belong to her. This is 
 here stated as a fact, and I add my own opinion that it is 
 equally necessary for Ireland's welfare. But on this subject 
 there has arisen a feud which is now being fought out by all the 
 weapons of rebellion on one side, and on the other by the force 
 of a dominating Government, restrained, as it is found to be, by 
 the self-imposed bonds of a democratic legislature. But there 
 is the feud, and the battle, and the roaring of the cannons is 
 heard afar off. 
 
 I now purpose to describe in a very few words the nature of 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 the warfare. It may be said that the existence of Ireland as a 
 province of England depends on the tenure of the land. If the 
 land were to be taken altogether from the present owners, and 
 divided in perpetuity among any possible number of tenants, so 
 as to be the property of each tenant, without payment of any 
 rent, all England's sense of justice would be outraged, the 
 English power of governing would be destroyed, and all that 
 could then be done by England would be to give a refuge to 
 the present owners till the time should come for righting them- 
 selves, and they should be enabled to make some further attempt 
 for the recovery of their possessions. This would probably 
 arrive, if not sooner, from the annihilation of the new proprietors 
 under the hands of their fellow-countrymen to whom none of 
 the spoil had been awarded. But English statesmen, — a small 
 portion, that is, of English statesmen, — have wished in their 
 philanthropy to devise some measure which might satisfy the 
 present tenants of the land, giving them a portion of the spoil ; 
 and might leave the landlords contented, — not indeed with their 
 lot, which they would feel to be one of cruel deprivation, but 
 with the feeling that something had at any rate been left to 
 them. A compromise would be thus effected between the two 
 classes whose interests have always been opposed to each other 
 since the world began, — between the owners of property and 
 those who have owned none. 
 
 The statesmen in question have now come into power by 
 means of their philanthropy, their undoubted genius, and great 
 gifts of eloquence. They have almost talked the world out of 
 its power of sober judgment. I hold that they have so succeeded 
 in talking to the present House of Commons. And when the 
 House of Commons has been so talked into any wise or foolish 
 decision, the House of Lords and the whole legislating machinery 
 of the country is bound to follow. 
 
 But how should their compromises be effected ? It does not 
 suit the present writer to name any individual statesman. He 
 neither wishes to assist in raising a friend to the gods, or to 
 lend his little aid in crushing an enemy. But to the Liberal 
 statesmen of the day, men in speaking well of whom — at a 
 great distance — he has spent a long life, he is now bound to 
 express himself as opposed. We all remember the manner after 
 which the Coercion Bill of 1881 was passed. The hoarse shrieks 
 with which a score of Irish members ran out of the House crying 
 " Privilege," when their voices had been stopped by the salutary 
 but certainly unconstitutional word of the Speaker, is still ring- 
 ing in our ears. Then the Government and the Irish score were 
 at daggers-drawn with each other. To sit for thirty-six hours 
 endeavouring to pass a clause was then held by all men to be 
 an odious bondage. But when these clauses had thus roughly- 
 been made to be the law, the sugar-plum was to follow by which 
 
THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 255 
 
 all Ireland was to be appeased. The second Bill of 1881 was 
 passed, which, with various additions, has given rise to Judge 
 O'Hagan's Land Court. That, with its various sub-commis- 
 sioners, is now engaged in settling at what rate land shall be 
 let in Ireland. 
 
 That Judge O'Hagan and his fellow commissioners are well 
 qualified to perform their task, — as well qualified, that is, by 
 kindness, by legal knowledge and general sagacity as any men 
 can be, — I have heard no one deny. In the performance of 
 most difficult duties they have hitherto encountered no censure. 
 But they have, I think, been taxed to perform duties beyond the 
 reach of any mortal wisdom. They are expected to do that 
 which all the world has hitherto failed in doing, — to do that 
 against which the commonest proverbs of ancient and modern 
 wisdom have raised their voice. There is no proverb more 
 common than that of " caveat emptor •." It is Judge O'Hagan's 
 business to do for the poorer party in each bargain made 
 between a landlord and a tenant that against which the above 
 proverb warns him. The landlord has declared that the tenant 
 shall not have the land unless he will pay £\o a year for it. The 
 tenant agrees. Then comes Judge O'Hagan and tells the two con- 
 tracting parties to take up their pens quickly and write down £8 as 
 the fair rent payable for the land. And it was with the object of 
 doing this, of reducing every £10 by some percentage, twenty 
 per cent, or otherwise, that this commission was appointed. 
 The Government had taken upon itself to say that the greed of 
 Irish landlords had been too greedy, and the softness of Irish 
 tenants too soft, and that therefore Parliament must interfere. 
 Parliament has interfered, and £8 is to be written down for a 
 term of years in lieu of £10, and the land is to become the 
 possession of the tenant instead of the landlord as long as he 
 may pay this reduced rent. In fact all the bonds which have 
 bound the landlord to his land are to be annihilated. So also 
 are the bonds which bind the tenant, who will sell the property 
 so acquired when he shall have found that that for which he 
 pays £8 per annum shall have become worth ^10 in the market. 
 
 It is useless to argue with the commissioners, or with the 
 Government, as to the inexpediency of such an attempt to alter 
 the laws for governing the world, which have forced themselves 
 on the world's acceptance. Many such attempts have been 
 made to alter these laws. The Romans said that twelve per 
 cent, should be the interest for money. A feeling long prevailed 
 in England that legitimate interest should not exceed five per 
 cent. It is now acknowledged that money is worth what it will 
 fetch ; and the interests of the young, the foolish, and the reck- 
 less, who are tempted to pay too much for it, are protected only 
 by public opinion. The usurer is hated, and the hands of the 
 honest men are against him. That suffices to give the borrower 
 
256 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS: 
 
 such protection as is needed. So it is with landlords and 
 tenants. Injury is no doubt done, and injustice is enabled to 
 prevail here and there. But it is the lesser injury, the lesser 
 injustice, which cannot be prevented in the long run by any 
 attempt to escape the law of 11 caveat emptor" 
 
 It is, however, vain to talk to benevolent commissioners, or 
 to a Government working by eloquence and guided by philan- 
 thropy, regardless of political economy. "Would you have the 
 heart," asks the benevolent commissioner, " to evict the poor 
 man from his small holding on which he has lived all his life, 
 where his only sympathies lie, and send him abroad to a distant 
 land, where his solitary tie will be that of labour?" The bene- 
 volent commissioner thus expresses with great talk and with 
 something also of the eloquence of his employers the feeling 
 which prevails on that side of the question. But that which he 
 deprecates is just what I could do ; and having seen many 
 Irishmen both in America and in Ireland, I. know that the 
 American Irishman is the happiest man of the two. He eats 
 more ; and in much eating the happiness of mankind depends 
 greatly. He is better clothed, better sheltered, and better 
 instructed. Though his women wail when he departs, he sends 
 home money to fetch them. This may be for the profit of 
 America. There are many who think that it must therefore be 
 to the injury of England. The question now is whether the 
 pathetic remonstrance of the tear-laden commissioner should be 
 allowed to prevail. I say that the tenant who undertakes to 
 pay for land that which the land will not enable him to pay had 
 better go, — under whatever pressure. 
 
 Let us see how many details, how many improbabilities, will 
 have to be met before the benevolence of the commissioner 
 can be made to prevail. The reductions made on the rent 
 average something between twenty and twenty-five per cent. 
 Let us take them at twenty. If a tenant has to be evicted for a 
 demand of ,£10, will he be able to live in comfort if he pay only 
 £& ? Shall one tenant live in comfort on a farm, the rent of 
 which has been reduced him from £100 to £80, and another, 
 the reduction having been from £20 to £16 ? In either case, if 
 a tenant shall do well with tw r o children, how shall he do with 
 six or eight ? A true teetotaller can certainly pay double the 
 rent which may be extracted from a man who drinks. Shall the 
 normal tenant earn wages beyond what he gets from the land 
 under his own tillage ? Shall the idle man be made equal to 
 the industrious, — or can this be done, or should it be done, by 
 any philanthropy ? Statesmen sitting together in a cabinet may 
 resolve that they will set the world right by eloquence and bene- 
 volence combined ; but the practices to which the world have 
 been brought by long experience will avail more than eloquence 
 and benevolence. Statesmen may decree that land shall be let 
 
THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 257 
 
 at a certain rate, and the decree will prevail for a time. It may- 
 prevail long enough to put out of gear the present affairs of the 
 Irish world with which these statesmen will have tampered. 
 But the long experience will come back, and bargains will again 
 be made between man and man, though the intervening injuries 
 will be heartbreaking. 
 
 But the benevolence of the Government and its com- 
 missioners will not have gone far. The Land Law of 1881 has, 
 as I now write, been at work for twelve months, and the results 
 hitherto accomplished have been very small. It may be doubted 
 whether a single reluctant tenant, — a single tenant who would 
 have been unwilling to leave his holding, —has been preserved 
 from American exile by having his ^10 or £20 or ^30 of rent 
 reduced to £8 or ^16 or £i\. The commissioners work slowly, 
 having all the skill of the lawyers, on one side or the other, 
 against them. It is piteous to see the hopelessness of three 
 sub-commissioners in the midst of a crowd of Irish attorneys. 
 And the law, as it exists at present, can be made to act only on 
 holdings possessed by tenants for one year. And the skill of 
 the lawyers is used in proving on the part of the landlords that 
 the land is held by firm leases, and cannot, therefore, be 
 subjected to the law ; and then by proving, on behalf of the 
 tenants, that the existing leases are illegal, and should be 
 broken. The possession of a lease, which used to be regarded 
 as a safeguard and permanent blessing to the tenant, is now 
 held to be cruelly detrimental to him, as preventing the lowering 
 of his rent, and the immediate creation for him of a tenancy for 
 ever. It is not to be supposed that the sub-commissioners can 
 walk over the land and straightway reduce the rents, though 
 the lands would certainly be subject to such reduction did 
 not the law interfere. In a majority of cases, — a majority as 
 far as all Ireland is concerned, — a feeling of honesty does 
 prevail between landlord and tenant, which makes them 
 both willing to subject themselves to the new law without the 
 interference of attorneys, and many are preparing themselves 
 for such an arrangement. The landlord is willing to lose twenty 
 per cent, in fear of something worse, and the tenant is willing 
 to take it, hardly daring to hope for anything better. Such is 
 the best condition which the law has ventured to anticipate. 
 But in either case this is to be done as tempering the wind to 
 the shorn lamb. The landlord is anxious if possible to save for 
 himself and those who may come after him something of the 
 reality of his property, and the tenant feels that, though some- 
 thing of the nobility of property has been promised to him by 
 the Land-leaguers, he may after all make the best bargain by so 
 far submitting himself to his shorn landlord. 
 
 But on estates where the commissioners are allowed their 
 full swing, the whole nature of the property in the land will be 
 
 S 
 
2 5 8 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 altered. The present tenant, paying a tax of £8 per annum 
 which will be subjected to no reduction and on which no 
 abatement can be made, in lieu of a £10 rent, will be the 
 owner. The small man will be infinitely more subject to dis- 
 turbance than at present, because the tax must be paid. The 
 landlord will feel no mercy for him, seeing that the bonds 
 between them which demanded mercy have been abrogated. 
 The extra £2 or £4 or £6 will not enable the tenant to live the 
 life of ease which he will have promised himself. If his interest 
 has been made to be worth anything, — and it will be worth some- 
 thing, seeing that it has been worth something, and is saleable 
 under its present condition, — it will be sold, and the emigration 
 will continue. There are cruel cases at present. There will be 
 cases not less cruel under the regime which the new law is 
 expected to produce. But the new law will be felt to have been 
 unjust as having tampered with the rights of property, and 
 having demanded from the owners of property its sale or other 
 terms than those of mutual contract. 
 
 But the time selected for the measure was most inappropriate. 
 If good in itself, it was bad at the time it was passed. Home 
 Rule coming across to us from America had taken the guise of 
 rebellion. I have met gentlemen who, as Home-Rulers, have 
 simply desired to obtain for their country an increase of power 
 in the management of their own affairs. These men have been 
 loyal and patriotic, and it might perhaps be well to meet their 
 views. The Channel no doubt does make a difference between 
 Liverpool and Dublin. But the latter-day Home-Rulers, of 
 whom I speak, brought their politics, their aspirations, and 
 their money from New York, and boldly made use of the means 
 which the British Constitution afforded them to upset the British 
 Constitution as established in Ireland. That they should not 
 succeed in doing this is the determination of all, at any rate on 
 this side of the Channel. It is still, I believe, the desire of most 
 thinking men on the Irish side. But parliamentary votes are 
 not given only to thinking men ; and consequently a body of 
 members has appeared in the House, energetic and now well 
 trained, who have resolved by the clamour of their voices to put 
 an end to the British power of governing the country. These 
 members are but a minority among those whom Ireland sends 
 to Parliament ; but they have learned what a minority can 
 effect by unbridled audacity. England is still writhing in her 
 attempt to invent some mode of controlling them. But long 
 before any such mode had been adopted, — had been adopted or 
 even planned, — the Government in 1881 brought out their plan 
 for securing to the tenants fair rents, fixity of tenure, and 
 freedom of sale. 
 
 As to the first, it will, of course, be admitted by all men that 
 rents should be fair, as also should be the price at which a horse 
 
THE STATE OF IRELAND. 
 
 259 
 
 is sold. It is, however, beyond the power of Parliament to 
 settle the terms which shall be fair. " Caveat empt or" is, the 
 only rule by which fair ren ts may be reached. * By fixity of 
 tenure is meant such a hoTImg- of the land as shall enable the 
 tenant to obtain an adequate return for his labour and his 
 capital, and to this is added a romantic and consequently a 
 most unjust idea that it may be well to settle this question on 
 behalf of the tenant by granting htm such a term as shall leave 
 no doubt. Let him have the land for ever as long as he will 
 pay a stipulated sum, which shall be considerably less than the 
 landlord's demand. That idea I call romantic, and therefore 
 unjust. But, even though the beauty of the romance be held 
 sufficient to atone for the injustice, this was not the poetical 
 re-arrangement of all the circumstances of land tenure in 
 Ireland. Freedom of sale is necessarily annexed to fixity of 
 tenure. If a man is to have the possession of land in perpetuity, 
 surely he should be allowed to sell it. Whether he be allowed 
 or not, he will contrive to do so. Freedom of sale means, I 
 take it, that the so-called landlord shall have no power of putting 
 a veto on the transaction. We cannot here go into the whole 
 question as it existed in Ulster before 1870 ; but the freedom of 
 sale intended is such, I think, as I have defined it. 
 
 Whether these concessions be good or bad, this was, at any 
 rate, no time for granting them. JJj£^e£m tQjso^Q^mxx^ 
 _tq wholesale confiscation. But supposing me to be wrong in 
 that, can I be wrong in thinking that a period of declared 
 rebellion is not a time for concessions ? When the Land Bill 
 was passed the Land-league was in full power ; boycotting had 
 become the recognised weapon of an illegal association ; and 
 the Home-Rulers of the day, — the party, that is, who represented 
 the Land-league, — were already in such possession of large 
 portions of the country as to prevent the possibility of carrying 
 out the laws. 
 
 At this moment the Government brought forward its romantic 
 theory as to the manipulation of land, and, before that theory was 
 at work, commenced its benevolent intentions by locking up all 
 those who were supposed to be guilty of an intention to carry 
 out the Government project further than the Government would 
 carry it out itself. It is held, as a rule, in politics that coercion 
 and concession cannot be applied together. Ireland was in 
 mutiny under the guidance of a mutinous party in the House of 
 Commons, and at that moment a commission was put in 
 operation, under which it was the intention of the Government 
 to transfer the soil of the country at a reduced price to the very 
 men among whom the mutineers are to be found. How do the 
 tidings of such a commission operate upon the ears of Irishmen 
 at large ? He is told that under the fear of the Land-league his 
 rent is to be reduced to an extent which is left to his imagina- 
 
 S 2 
 
260 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 tion ; and then, that he is to be freed altogether from the incubus 
 of a landlord ! He is, in fact, made to understand that his 
 cherished Land-league has become all-powerful. And yet he 
 hears that odious men, whom he recognises only as tyrants, are 
 filling the jails thiough the country with all his dearest friends. 
 Demanding concessions, and the continued increase of them, 
 and having learned the way to seize upon them when they are 
 not given, he will not stand coercion. Abated rent soon becomes 
 no rent. When it is left to the payer of the rent to decide on 
 which system he will act, it is probable that the no-rent theory 
 will prevail. 
 
 So it was in 1882. Tenants were harassed by needy land- 
 lords, and when they were served with forms of ejectment the 
 landlords were simply murdered, either in their own persons or 
 in that of their servants. Men finding their power, and begin- 
 ning to learn how much might be exacted from a yielding 
 Government, hardly knew how to moderate their aspirations. 
 When they found that the expected results did not come at 
 once, they resorted to revenge. Why should these tyrants keep 
 them out from the good things which their American friends 
 had promised them, and which were so close within their grasp ? 
 And their anger turned not only against their landlords, but 
 against those who might seem in any way to be fighting on the 
 landlords' side. Did a neighbour occupy a field from which a 
 Land-leaguing tenant had been evicted, let the tails of that neigh- 
 bour's cattle be cut off, or the legs broken of his beasts of 
 burden, or his sheep have their throats cut. Or if the injured 
 one have some scruples of conscience, let the oppressor simply 
 be boycotted, and put out of all intercourse with his brother 
 men. Let no well-intentioned Land-leaguing neighbour buy from 
 him a ton of hay, or sell to him a loaf of bread. 
 
 But as a last resource, if all others fail, let the sinner be 
 murdered. We all know, alas ! in how many cases the sentence 
 has been pronounced and the judgment given, and the punish- 
 ment executed. 
 
 Such have been the results of the Land Law passed in 
 1 88 1. And under the curse so engendered the country is now 
 labouring. It cannot be denied that the promoters of the Land 
 Laws are weak, and that the disciples of the Land-league are 
 strong. In order that the truth of this may be seen and made 
 apparent, the present story is told 
 
LORD CASTLEWELVS FAREWELL. 261 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 LORD CASTLEWELL'S FAREWELL. 
 
 POOR Mr. O'Mahony had enemies on every side. There had 
 come up lately a state of things which must be very common in 
 political life. The hatreds which sound so real when you read 
 the mere words, which look so true when you see their scornful 
 attitudes, on which for the time you are inclined to pin your 
 faith so implicitly, amount to nothing. The Right Honourable 
 A. has to do business with the Honourable B., and can best carry 
 it on by loud expressions and strong arguments such as will be 
 palatable to readers of newspapers ; but they do not hate each 
 other as the readers of the papers hate them, and are ready 
 enough to come to terms, if coming to terms is required. Each 
 of them respects the other, though each of them is very careful 
 to hide his respect. We can fancy that the Right Honourable 
 A. and the Honourable B. in their moments of confidential 
 intercourse laugh in their joint sleeves at the antipathies of the 
 public. In the present instance it was alleged that the Right 
 Honourable A. and the Honourable B. had come to some truce 
 together, and had ceased for a while to hit each other hard 
 knocks. Such a truce was supposed to be a feather in the cap 
 of the Honourable B., as he was leader of a poor party of no 
 more than twenty ; and the Right Honourable A. had in this 
 matter the whole House at his back. But for the nonce each 
 had come off his high horse, and for the moment there was 
 peace between them. 
 
 But Mr. O'Mahony would have no peace. He understood 
 nothing of compromises. He really believed that the Right 
 Honourable gentleman was the fiend which the others had 
 only called him. To him it was a compact with the very devil. 
 Now the leader of his party, knowing better what he was about, 
 and understanding somewhat of the manner in which politics 
 are at present carried on, felt himself embarrassed by the 
 honesty of such a follower as Mr. O'Mahony. Mr. O'Mahony, 
 when he was asked whether he wished to lead or was willing 
 to serve, declared that he w T ould neither lead nor serve. What 
 he wanted was the "good of Ireland." And he was sure that 
 that was not to be obtained by friendship with Her Majesty's 
 Government. This was in itself very well, but he was soon 
 informed that it was not as a free-lance that he had been elected 
 member for Cavan. " That is between me and my constituency," 
 said Mr. O'Mahony, standing up with his head thrown back, and 
 his right hand on his heart. But the constituency soon gave 
 him to understand that he was not the man they had taken him 
 to be. 
 
262 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 He, too, had begun to find that to spend his daughter's 
 money in acting patriotism in the House of Commons was not 
 a fine role in life. He earned nothing and he did nothing. 
 Unless he could bind himself hand and foot to his party he had 
 not even a spark of delegated power. He was not allowed to 
 speak when he desired, and was called upon to sit upon those 
 weary benches hour after hour, and night after night, only pre- 
 tending to effect those things which he and his brother members 
 knew could not be done. He was not allowed to be wrathful 
 with true indignation, not for a moment ; but he was expected 
 to be there from question time through the long watches of the 
 night — taking, indeed, his turn for rest and food — always ready 
 with some mock indignation by which his very soul was fretted; 
 and no one paid him the slightest respect, though he was, indeed, 
 by no means the least respectable of his party. He would have 
 done true work had it been given him to do. But at the present 
 moment his own party did not believe in him. There was no 
 need at present for independent wrathful eloquence. There 
 seldom is need in the House of Commons for independent 
 eloquence. The few men who have acquired for themselves at 
 last the power of expressing it, not to empty benches, not 
 amidst coughings and hootings, and loud conversation, have 
 had to make their way to that point either by long efficient 
 service or by great gifts of pachydermatousness. Mr. O'Mahony 
 had never served anyone for an hour, and was as thin-skinned 
 as a young girl ; and, though his daughter had handed him all 
 her money, so that he might draw upon it as he pleased, he 
 told himself, and told her also, that his doing so was mean. 
 " You're welcome to every dollar, father, only it doesn't seem to 
 make you happy." 
 
 " I should be happy to starve for the country, if starving 
 would do anything." 
 
 " I don't see that one ever does any good by starving as long 
 as there is bread to eat. This isn't a romantic sort of thing, this 
 payment of rents ; but we ought to try and find out what a man 
 really owes." 
 
 " No man owes a cent to any landlord on behalf of rent." 
 
 " But how is a man to get the land ? " she said. " Over in 
 our country a rough pioneering fellow goes and buys it, and then 
 he sells it, and of course the man who buys it hasn't to pay rent. 
 But I cannot see how any fellow here can have a right to the 
 land for nothing." Then Mr. O'Mahony reminded his daughter 
 that she was ill and should not exert herself. 
 
 It was now far advanced in May, and Mr. O'Mahony had 
 resolved to make one crushing eloquent speech in the House of 
 Commons and then to retire to the United States. But he had 
 already learned that even this could not be effected without the 
 overcoming of many difficulties. In himself, in his eloquence, 
 
LORD CASTLEWELLS FAREWELL. 
 
 263 
 
 in the supply of words, he trusted altogether ; but there was the 
 opportunity to be bought, and the Speaker's eye to be found, — 
 he regarded this Speaker's eye as the most false of all luminaries, 
 — and the empty benches to be encountered, and then drowsy 
 reporters to be stirred up ; and then on the next morning, — if 
 any next morning should come for such a report, — there would 
 not be a tithe of what he had spoken to be read by any man, 
 and, in truth, very little of what he could speak would be worthy 
 of reading. His words would be honest and indignant and fine- 
 sounding, but the hearer would be sure to say, " What a fool is 
 that Mr. O'Mahony ! " At any rate, he understood so much of 
 all this that he was determined to accept the Chiltern Hundreds 
 and flee away as soon as his speech should be made. 
 
 It was far advanced in May, and poor Rachel was still very 
 ill. She was so ill that all hope had abandoned her either as to 
 her profession or as to either of her lovers. But there was some 
 spirit in her still, as when she would discuss with her father her 
 future projects. " Let me go back," she said, " and sing little 
 songs for children in that milder climate. The climate is 
 mild down in the South, and there I may, perhaps, find some 
 fragment of my voice." But he who was becoming so despondent 
 both for himself and for his country, still had hopes as to his 
 daughter. Her engagement with Lord Castlewell was not even 
 yet broken. Lord Castlewell had gone out of town at a most 
 unusual period, — at a time when the theatres always knew him, 
 and had been away on the exact day which had been fixed for 
 their marriage. Rachel had done all that lay in herself to dis- 
 turb the marriage, but Lord Castlewell had held to it, urged by 
 feelings which he had found it difficult to analyse. Rachel had 
 in her sickness determined to have done with him altogether, 
 but latterly she had had no communication with him. She had 
 spoken of him to her father as though he were a being simply 
 to be forgotten. " He has gone away, and, as far as he is con- 
 cerned, there is an end of me. It could not have finished 
 better." But her mind still referred to Frank Jones, and from 
 him she had received hardly a word of love. Further words 
 of love she could not send him. During her illness many letters, 
 or little notes rather, had been written to Castle Morony on her 
 behalf by her father, and to these there had come replies. 
 Frank was so anxious to hear of her well-doing. Frank had 
 not cared so much for her voice as for her general health. 
 Frank was so sorry to hear of her weakness. It had all been 
 read to her, but as it had been read she had only shaken her 
 head ; and her father had not carried the dream on any further. 
 To his thinking she was still engaged to the lord, and it would 
 be better for her that she should marry the lord. The lord no 
 doubt was a fool, and filled the most foolish place in the world, 
 — that of a silly faineant earl. But he would do no harm to his 
 
264 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 daughter, and the girl would learn to like the kind of life which 
 would be hers. At present she was very, very ill, but still there 
 was hope for recovery. 
 
 By the treasury of the theatre she had been treated muni- 
 ficently. Her engagement had been almost up to the day fixed 
 for her marriage, and the money which would have become due 
 to her under it had been paid in full. She had sent back the 
 latter payments, but they had been returned to her with the 
 atfectionate respects of the managers. Since she had put her 
 foot upon these boards she had found herself to be popular with 
 all around her. That, she had told herself, had been due to the 
 lord who was to become her husband. But Rachel had become, 
 and was likely to become, the means of earning money for 
 them, and they were grateful. To tell the truth, Lord Castle- 
 well had had nothing to do with it. 
 
 But gradually there came upon them the conviction that her 
 voice was gone, and then the payment of the money ceased. 
 She, and the doctor, and her father, had discussed it together, 
 and they had agreed to settle that it must be so. 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, smiling, "it is bitter. All my hopes! 
 And such hopes ! It is as though I were dead, and yet were 
 left alive. If it had been small-pox, or anything in that way, I 
 could have borne it. But this thing, this terrible misfortune !" 
 
 Then she laughed, and then burst out sobbing with loud 
 tears, and hid her face. 
 
 " You will be married, and still be happy," said the doctor. 
 
 " Married ! Rubbish ! So much you know about it. Am 
 I ever to get strong in my limbs again, so as to be able to cross 
 the water and go back to my own country ?" 
 
 Here the doctor assured her that she would be able to go 
 back to her own country, if it were needed. 
 
 " Father/' she said, as soon as the doctor had left her, " let 
 there be an end to all this about Lord Castlewell. I will not 
 marry him." 
 
 " But, my dear ! " 
 
 " I will not marry him. There are two reasons why I should 
 not. I do not love him, and he does not love me. There are 
 two other reasons. I do not want to marry him, and he does 
 not want to marry me." 
 
 " But he says he does." 
 
 " That is his goodness. He is very good. I do not know 
 why a man should be so good who has had so bad a bringing 
 up. Think of me, — how good I ought to be, as compared with 
 him. I haven't done anything naughty in all my life worse 
 than tear my frock, or scold poor Frank ; and yet I find it 
 harder to give him up, merely because of the grandeur, than he 
 does to marry me, the poor singing girl, who can never sing 
 again. No ! My good looks are gone, such as they were. 
 
LORD CASTLE WELL'S FAREWELL. 
 
 265 
 
 I can feel it, even with my fingers. You had better take me 
 back to the States at once." 
 
 "Good-bye, Rachel," said the lord, coming into her room the 
 day but one after this. Her father was not with her, as she 
 had elected to be alone when she would bid her adieu to her 
 intended husband. 
 
 " This is very good of you to come to me.' 5 
 
 " Of course I came." 
 
 " Because you were good. You need not have come unless 
 you had wished it. I had so spoken to you as to justify you in 
 staying away. My voice is gone, and I can only squeak at you 
 in this broken treble." 
 
 "Your voice would not have mattered at all." 
 
 " Ah, but it has mattered to me. What made you want to 
 marry me ?" 
 
 " Your beauty quite as much as your voice," said the lord. 
 
 "And that has gone too. Everything I had has gone. It 
 is melancholy ! No, my lord," she said, interrupting him when 
 he attempted to contradict her, "there is not a word more to be 
 said about it. Voice and beauty, such as it was, and the tittle 
 wit, are all gone. I did believe in my voice myself, and there- 
 fore I felt myself fitting to marry you. I could have left a name 
 behind me if my voice had remained. But, in truth, my lord, it 
 was not fitting. I did not love you." 
 
 " That, indeed ! » 
 
 " As far as I know myself, I did not iove you. You have 
 heard me speak of Frank Jones, — a man who can only wear 
 two clean shirts a week because he has been so boycotted 
 by those wretched Irish as to be able to afford no more. I 
 would take him with one shirt to-morrow, if I could get him. 
 One does not know why one loves a person. Of course he's 
 handsome, and strong, and brave. I don't think that has done 
 it, but I just got the fancy into my head, and there it is still. 
 And he with his two shirts, working every day himself with his 
 own hands to earn something for his father, would not marry 
 me because I was a singing girl and took wages. He would 
 not have another shirt to be washed with my money. Oh, that 
 the chance were given to me to go and wash it for him with my 
 own hands ! " 
 
 Lord Castlewell sat through the interview somewhat dis- 
 traught, as well he might be ; but when it was over, and he had 
 taken his leave and kissed her forehead, as he went home in his 
 cab, he told himself that he had got through that little adven- 
 ture very well. 
 
266 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 MR. MOSS IS FINALLY ANSWERED. 
 
 Some days after the scene last recorded Rachel was sitting in 
 her bedroom, partly dressed, but she was, as she was wont to 
 declare to her father, as weak as a cat with only one life. She 
 had in the morning gone through a good deal of work. She 
 had in the first place counted her money. She had something 
 over ,£600 at the bank, and she had always supplied her father 
 with what he had wanted. She had told her future husband 
 that she must sing one month in the year so as to earn what 
 would be necessary for the support of the Member of Parliament, 
 and singularly enough her father had yielded. But now the six 
 hundred and odd pouuds was all that was left to take them 
 both back to the United States. " I think I shall be able to 
 lecture there," Mr. O'Mahony had said. " Wait till I express 
 my opinion about queens, and lords, and the Speaker ! I think 
 I shall be able to say a word or two about the Speaker ! — and 
 the Chairman of Committees. A poor little creature who can 
 hardly say bo to a goose unless he had got all the men to back 
 him. I don't want to abuse the Queen, because I believe she 
 does her work like a lady ; but if I don't lay it on hot on the 
 Speaker of the British House of Commons, my name is not 
 Gerald O'Mahony." 
 
 "You forget your old enemy, the Secretary." 
 
 " Him we used to call Buckshot ? I'm not so sure about 
 him. At any rate he has had a downfall. When a man's had a 
 downfall I don't care about lecturing against him. But I don't 
 think it probable that the Speaker will have a downfall, and 
 then I can have my fling." 
 
 Rachel had dismissed her brougham, and she had written 
 to Edith Jones. That, no doubt, had been the greatest effort of 
 the morning. We need not give here the body of her letter, but 
 it may be understood that she simply declared at length the 
 nature of the prospect before her. There was not a word of 
 Frank Jones in it. She had done that before, and Frank Jones 
 had not responded. She intended to go with her father direct 
 from Liverpool to New York, and her letter was full chiefly of 
 affectionate farewells. To Edith and to Ada and to their father 
 there were a thousand written kisses sent. But there was not 
 a kiss for Frank. There was not a word for Frank, so that any 
 reader of the letter, knowing there was a Frank in the family, 
 would have missed the mention of him, and asked why it was 
 so. It was very, very bitter to poor Rachel this writing to 
 Morony Castle without an allusion to the man ; but, as she had 
 said, he had been right not to come and live on her wages, and 
 
MR. MOSS IS FINALLY ANSWERED. 267 
 
 he certainly was right not to say a word as to their loss, when 
 neither of them had wages on which to live. It would have 
 suited in the United States, but she knew that it would not suit 
 here in the old country, and therefore when the letter was 
 written she was sitting worn-out, jaded and unhappy in her own 
 bedroom. 
 
 The lodging was still in Cecil Street, from which spot she 
 and her father had determined not to move themselves till after 
 the marriage, and had now resolved to remain there till Rachel 
 should be well enough for her journey to New York. As she 
 sat there the servant, whom in her later richer days she had 
 taken to herself, came to her and announced a visitor. Mr. 
 Moss was in the sitting-room. " Mr. Moss here ! " The girl 
 declared that he was in the sitting-room, and in answer to 
 further inquiries alleged that he was alone. How he had got 
 there the girl could not say. Probably somebody had received 
 a small bribe. Mr. O'Mahony was not in, — nor was anybody 
 in. Rachel told the girl to be ready when she was ready to 
 accompany her into the parlour, and thus resolving that she 
 would see Mr. Moss she sent him a message to this effect. Then 
 she went to work and perfected her dressing very slowly. 
 
 When she had completed the work she altered her purpose, 
 and determined that she would see Mr. Moss alone. " You be 
 in the little room close at hand," she said, " and have the door 
 ajar, so that you can come to me if I call. I have no reason to 
 suspect this man, and yet I do suspect him." So saying, she 
 put on her best manners, as it might be those she had learned 
 from the earl when he was to be her husband, and walked into 
 the room. She had often told herself, since the old days, as 
 she had now told the maid, that no real ground for suspicion 
 existed ; and yet she knew that she did suspect the man. 
 
 Rachel was pale and wan, and moved very slowly as though 
 with haughty gesture. Mr. Moss, no doubt, had reason for 
 knowing that the marriage with Lord Castlewell was at an end. 
 The story had been told about among the theatres. Lord 
 Castlewell did not mean to marry Miss O'Mahony ; or else the 
 other and stranger story, Miss O'Mahony did not mean to 
 marry Lord Castlewell. Though few believed that story, it was 
 often told. Theatrical people generally told it to one another 
 as a poetical tale. The young lady had lost her voice and her 
 beauty. The young lady was looking very old and could 
 never sing again. It was absolutely impossible that in such 
 circumstances she] should decline to marry the lord if he were 
 willing. But it was more than probable that he should decline 
 to marry her. The theatrical world had been much astonished 
 by Lord Castlewell's folly, and now rejoiced generally over his 
 escape. But that he should still want to marry the young lady, 
 and that she should refuse, — that was quite impossible. 
 
268 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 But Mr. Moss was somewhat different from the theatrical 
 world in general. He kept himself to himself, and kept his 
 opinion very much in the dark. Madame Socani spoke to him 
 often about Rachel, and expressed her loud opinion that Lord 
 Castlewell had never been in earnest. And she was of opinion 
 that Rachel's voice had never had any staying property. 
 Madame Socani had once belittled Rachel's voice, and now her 
 triumph was very great. In answer to all this Mr. Moss almost 
 said nothing. Once he did turn round and curse the woman 
 violently, but that was all. Then, when the news had, he 
 thought, been made certain, either in one direction or the 
 other, he came and called on the young lady. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Moss," said the young lady, with a smile that 
 was intended to be most contemptible and gracious. 
 
 " I have been so extremely sorry to hear of your illness, my 
 dear young lady." 
 
 Her grandeur departed from her all at once. To be called 
 this man's "dear young lady" was insufferable. And grandeur 
 did not come easily to her, though wit and sarcasm did. 
 
 " Your dear young lady, as you please to call her, has had a 
 bad time of it." 
 
 " In memory of the old days I called you so, Miss O'Mahony. 
 You and I used to be thrown much together." 
 
 " You and I will never be thrown together again, as my 
 singing is all over." 
 
 " It may be so and it may not." 
 
 "It is over, at any rate as far as the London theatres go, — 
 as far as you and I go." 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " I tell you it is. I am going back to New York at once, and 
 do not think I shall sing another note as long as I live. I'm 
 going to learn to cook dishes for papa, and we mean to settle 
 down together." 
 
 " I hope not," he repeated. 
 
 "Very well ; but at any rate I must say good-bye to you. 
 I am very weak, and cannot do much in the talking line." 
 
 Then she got up and stood before him, as though determined 
 to wish him good-bye. She was in truth weak, but she was 
 minded to stand there till he should have gone. 
 
 " My dear Miss O'Mahony, if you would sit down for a 
 moment, I have a proposition to make to you. I think that it 
 is one to which you may be induced to listen." 
 
 Then she did sit down, knowing that she would want the 
 strength which rest would give her. The conversation with Mr. 
 Moss might probably be prolonged. He also sat down 
 at a little distance, and held his shining new hat dangling 
 between his knees. It was part of her quarrel with him that he 
 had always on a new hat. 
 
MR. MOSS IS FINALLY ANSWERED. 269 
 
 (l Your marriage with Lord Castlewell, I believe, is off." 
 "Just so." 
 
 " And also your marriage with Mr. Jones ? " 
 
 " No doubt. All my marriages are off. I don't mean to be 
 married at all. I tell vou I'm going home to keep house for my 
 father." 
 
 " Keep house for me," said Mr. Moss. 
 
 " I would rather keep house for the devil," said Rachel, 
 rising from her chair in wrath. 
 
 " Vy ? — vy ?" — Mr. Moss was reduced by his eagerness and 
 enthusiasm to his primitive mode of speaking — " Vat is it that 
 you shall want of a man but that he shall love you truly ? I 
 come here ready to marry yo 1, and to take my chance in all 
 things. You say your voice has gone. I am here ready to take 
 the risk. Lord Castlewell will not have you, but I will take 
 you." Now he had risen from his chair, and was standing close 
 to her ; but she was so surprised at his manner and at his words 
 that she did not answer him at all. " That lord cared for you 
 not at all, but I care. That Mr. Jones, who was to have been 
 your husband, he is gone ; but I am not gone. Mr. Jones!" 
 then he threw into his voice a tone of insufferable contempt. 
 
 This Rachel could not stand. 
 
 " You shall not talk to me about Mr. Jones." 
 
 " I talk to you as a man who means vat he is saying. I will 
 marry you to-morrow." 
 
 " I would sooner throw myself into that river," she said, 
 pointing down to the Thames. 
 
 " You have nothing, if I understand right, — nothing ! You 
 have had a run for a few months, and have spent all your 
 money. I have got ,£10,000 ! You have lost your voice, — I 
 have got mine. You have no theatre, — I have one of my own. 
 I am ready to take a house and furnish it just as you please. 
 You are living here in these poor, wretched lodgings. Why do 
 I do that ? " And he put up both his hands. 
 
 " You never will do it," said Rachel. 
 
 " Because I love you. " Then he threw away his new hat, 
 and fell on his knees before her. " I will risk it all, — because I 
 love you ! If your voice comes back, — well! If it do not come 
 back, you will be my wife, and I shall do my best to keep you 
 like a lady." 
 
 Here Rachel leant back in her chair, and shut her eyes. In 
 truth she was weak, and was hardly able to carry on the battle 
 after her old fashion. And she had to bethink herself whether 
 the man was making this offer in true faith. If so, there was 
 something noble in it ; and, though she still hated the man, as 
 a woman may hate her lover, she would in such case be bound 
 not to insult him more than she could help. A softer feeling 
 than usual came upon her, and she felt that he would be suffi- 
 
270 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 ciently punished if she could turn him instantly out of the room. 
 She did not now feel disposed " to stick a knife into him," as 
 she had told her father when describing Mr. Moss. But he was 
 at her knees, and the whole thing was abominable. 
 
 " Rachel, say the word, and be mine at once." 
 
 " You do not understand how I hate you ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Rachel, come to my arms ! " 
 
 Then he got up as though to clasp the girl in his embrace. 
 She ran from him, and immediately called the girl whom she 
 had desired to remain in the next room with the door open. 
 But the door was not open, and the girl, though she was in the 
 room, did not answer. Probably the bribe which Mr. Moss had 
 given was to her feeling rather larger than ordinary. 
 
 " My darling, my charmer, my own one, come to my arms ! " 
 
 And he did succeed in getting his hand round on to Rachel's 
 waist, and getting his lips close to her head. She did save her 
 face so that Mr. Moss could not kiss her, but she was knocked 
 into a heap by his violence, and by her own weakness. He still 
 had hold of her as she rose to her feet, and, though he had 
 become acquainted with her weapon before, he certainly did not 
 fear it now. A sick woman, who had just come from her bed, 
 was not likely to have a dagger with her. When she got up she 
 was still more in his power. She was astray, scrambling here 
 and there, so as to be forced to guard against her own awkward- 
 ness. Whatever may be the position in which a woman may 
 find herself, whatever battle she may have to carry on, she has 
 first to protect herself from unseemly attitudes. Before she 
 could do anything she had first to stand upon her legs, and gather 
 her dress around her. 
 
 " My own one, my life, come to me ! " he exclaimed, again 
 attempting to get her into his embrace. 
 
 But he had the knife stuck into him. She had known that 
 he would do it, and now he had done it. 
 
 " You fool, you," she said ; " it has been your own doing." 
 
 He fell on the sofa, and clasped his side, where the weapon 
 had struck him. She rang the bell violently, and, when the 
 girl came, desired her to go at once for a surgeon. Then she 
 fainted. 
 
 " I never was such a fool as to faint before," she told Frank 
 afterwards. " I never counted on fainting. If a girl faints, of 
 course she loses all her chance. It was because I was ill. But 
 poor Mr. Moss had the worst of it." 
 
 Rachel, from the moment in which she fainted, never saw 
 Mr. Moss any more. Madame Socani came to visit her, and 
 told her father, when she failed to see her, that Mr. Moss had 
 only three days to live. Rachel was again in bed, and could 
 only lift up her hands in despair. But to her father, and to 
 Frank Jones, she spoke with something like good humour. 
 
FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN 271 
 
 " I knew it would come," she said to her father. " There 
 was something about his eye which told me that an attempt 
 would be made. He would not believe of a woman that she 
 could have a will of her own. By treating her like an animal he 
 thought he would have his own way. I don't imagine he will 
 treat me in that way again." And then she spoke of him to 
 Frank. " I suppose he does like me ?" 
 
 " He likes your singing, — at so much a month." 
 
 " That's all done now. At any rate, he cannot but know that 
 it is an extreme chance. He must fancy that he really likes me. 
 A man has to be forgiven a good deal for that. But a man must 
 be made to understand that if a woman won't have him, she 
 won't ! I think Mr. Moss understands it now." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN. 
 
 These last words had been spoken after the coming of Frank 
 Jones, but something has to be said of the manner of his coming, 
 and of the reasons which brought him, and something also 
 which occurred before he came. It could not be that Mr. Moss 
 should be wounded after so desperate a fashion and that not a 
 word should be said about it. 
 
 Of what happened at the time of the wounding Rachel knew 
 nothing. She had been very brave and high in courage till the 
 thing was done, but as soon as it was done she sent for the 
 servant and fainted away. She knew nothing of what had 
 occurred till she had been removed out of the room on one side 
 and he on the other. She did not hear, therefore, of the sug- 
 gestion made by Mr. Moss that some vital part of him had been 
 reached. 
 
 He did bleed profusely, but under the aid of the doctor and 
 Mr. O'Mahony, who was soon on the scene, he recovered him- 
 self more quickly than poor Rachel, who was indeed somewhat 
 neglected till the hero of the tragedy had been sent away. He 
 behaved with sufficient courage at last, though he had begun by 
 declaring that his days were numbered. At any rate he had 
 said when he found the power of ordinary speech, " Don't let a 
 word be whispered about it to Miss O'Mahony ; she isn't like 
 other people." Then he was taken back to his private lodging, 
 and confided to the care of Madame Socani, where we will for 
 the present leave him. Soon after the occurrence, — a day or 
 two after it, — Frank Jones appeared suddenly on the scene. Of 
 course it appeared that he had come to mourn the probable 
 
272 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 death of Mr. Moss. But he had in truth heard nothing of the 
 fatal encounter till he had arrived in Cecil Street, and then 
 could hardly make out what had occurred amidst the confused 
 utterances. 
 
 " Frank Jones ! " she exclaimed. " Father, what has brought 
 him here ? " and she blushed up over her face and head to the 
 very roots of her hair. e< Come up, of course he must come up. 
 When a man has come all the way from Castle Morony he must 
 be allowed to come up. Why should you wish to keep him 
 down in the area?" Then Frank Jones soon made his ap- 
 pearance within the chamber. 
 
 It was midsummer, and Rachel occupied a room in the 
 lowest house in the street, looking right away upon the river, 
 and her easy-chair had been brought up to the window at which 
 she sat, and looked out on the tide of river life as it flowed by. 
 She was covered at present with a dressing gown, as sweet and 
 fresh as the morning air. On her head she wore a small net of 
 the finest golden filigree, and her tiny feet were thrust into a 
 pair of bright blue slippers bordered with swansdown. "Am I 
 to come back ? " her obedient father had asked. But he had 
 been told not to come back, not quite at present. " It is not 
 that I want your absence," she had said, " but he may. He 
 can tell me with less hesitation that he is going to set up a pig- 
 killing establishment in South Australia than he could probably 
 you and me together." So the father simply slapped him on 
 the back, and bade him walk upstairs till he would find No. 1 5 
 on the second landing. " Of course you have heard," he said, 
 as Frank was going, "of what she has been and done to 
 Mahomet M. Moss?" 
 
 " Not a word," said Frank. " What has she done ?" 
 
 " Plunged a dagger into him," said Mr. O'Mahony, — in a 
 manner which showed to Frank that he was not much afraid of 
 the consequences of the accident. " You go up and no doubt 
 she will tell you all about it.' 5 Then Frank went up, and was 
 soon admitted into Rachel's room. 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! " she said, " how are you ? What on earth 
 has brought you here ? " Then he at once began to ask ques- 
 tions about poor Moss, and Rachel of course to answer them. 
 " Well, yes ; how was I to help it ? I told him from the time 
 that I was a little girl, long before I knew you, that something 
 of this kind would occur if he would not behave himself." 
 
 " And he didn't ? " asked Frank, with some little pardonable 
 curiosity. 
 
 " No, he did not. Whether he wanted me or my voice, 
 thinking that it would come back again, I cannot tell, but he 
 did want something. There was a woman who brought 
 messages from him, and even she wanted something. Then 
 his ideas ran higher." 
 
FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN. 273 
 
 " He meant to marry you," said Frank. 
 
 u I suppose he did, — at last. I am very much obliged to 
 him, but it did not suit. Then, — to make a short story of it, 
 Frank, I will tell you the whole truth. He took hold of me. 
 I cannot bear to be taken hold of ; you know that yourself." 
 
 He could only remember how often he had sat with her 
 down among the willows at the lake side with his arm round 
 her waist, and she had never seemed to be impatient under the 
 operation, 
 
 " And though he has such a beautiful shiny hat he is 
 horribly awkward. He nearly knocked me down and fell on 
 me, by way of embracing me." 
 
 Frank thought that he had never been driven to such 
 straits as that. 
 
 " To be knocked down and trampled on by a beast like 
 that ! There are circumstances in which a girl must protect 
 herself, when other circumstances have brought her into danger. 
 In those days — yesterday, that is, or a week ago — I was a poor 
 singing girl. I was at every man's disposal, and had to look 
 after myself. There are so many white bears about, ready to 
 eat you, if you do not look after yourself. He tried to eat me, 
 and he was wounded. You do not blame me, Frank." 
 
 " No, indeed ; not for that." 
 
 " What do you blame me for ? " 
 
 " I cannot think you right/' he answered with almost 
 majestic sternness, "to have accepted the offer of Lord. 
 Castlewell." 
 
 " You blame me for that." 
 
 He nodded his head at her. 
 
 " What would you have had me do ? " 
 
 " Marry a man when you love him, but not when you 
 don't." 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! I couldn't. How was I to marry a man when 
 I loved him, — I who had been so treated? But, sir," she said, 
 remembering herself, " you have no right to say I did not love 
 Lord Castlewell. You have no business to inquire into that 
 matter. Nobody blames you, or can, or shall, in that affair, — 
 not in my hearing. You behaved as gentlemen do behave ; 
 gentlemen who cannot act otherwise, because it is born in their 
 bones and their flesh. I — I have not behaved quite so well. 
 Open confession is good for the soul. Frank, I have not 
 behaved quite so well. You may inquire about it. I did not 
 love Lord Castlewell, and I told him so. He came to me when 
 my singing was all gone, and generously renewed his offer. 
 Had I not known that in his heart of hearts he did not wish 
 it, — that the two things were gone for which he had wooed me, 
 — my voice, which was grand, and my prettiness, which was 
 but a little thing, I should have taken his second offer, because 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 it would be well to let him have what he wanted. It was not 
 so ; and therefore I sent him away, well pleased." 
 " But why did you accept him ? " 
 
 "Oh, Frank ! do not be too hard. How am I to tell you — 
 you, of all men, what my reasons were? I was alone in the 
 world ; alone with such dangers before me as that which 
 Mr. Moss brought with him. And then my profession had 
 become a reality, and this lord would assist me. Do all the 
 girls refuse the lords who come and ask them ? " 
 
 Then he stood close over her, and shook his head. 
 
 " But I should have done so," she continued after a pause. 
 " I recognise it now ; and let there be an end of it. There is a 
 something which does make a woman unfit for matrimony." 
 And the tears coursed themselves down her wan cheeks. " Now 
 it has all been said that need be said, and let there be an end 
 of it. I have talked too much about myself. What has brought 
 you to London ? " 
 
 " Just a young woman," he whispered slowly. 
 
 A pang shot through her heart ; and yet not quite a pang, 
 for with it there was a rush of joy, which was not, however, 
 perfect joy, because she felt that it must be disappointed. 
 
 " Bother your young woman ! " she said ; " who cares for 
 your young woman ? How are you going on in Gal way ? " 
 
 " Sadly enough, to tell the truth." 
 
 " No rents ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Nothing but murders and floods ? " 
 
 "The same damnable old story running on from day to 
 
 day." 
 
 " And have the girls no servants yet ? " 
 
 " Not a servant ; except old Peter, who is not quite as faithful 
 as he should be." 
 
 " And, — and what about that valiant gay young gentleman, 
 Captain Clayton ? " 
 
 "Everything goes amiss in love as well as war," said 
 Frank. " Between the three of them, I hardly know what they 
 want." 
 
 " I think I know." 
 
 " Very likely. Everything goes so astray with all of us, so 
 that the wanting it is sufficient reason for not getting it.' 5 
 "Is that all you have come to tell me ? " 
 " I suppose it is." 
 
 " Then you might have stayed away." 
 " I may as well go, perhaps." 
 
 " Go ? no ! I am not so full of new friends that I can afford 
 to throw away my old like that. Of course you may not go, as 
 you call it ! Do you suppose I do not care to hear about those 
 girls whom I love, — pretty nearly with all my heart ? Why don't 
 
FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN 275 
 
 you tell me about them, and your father? You come here, but 
 you talk of nothing but going. You ain't half nice." 
 
 " Can I come in yet ?" This belonged to a voice behind the 
 door, which was the property of Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " Not quite yet, father. Mr. Jones is telling me about them 
 all at Morony Castle." 
 
 " I should have thought I might have heard that," said 
 Mr. O'Mahony. 
 
 " The girls have special messages to send," said Rachel. 
 
 " I'll come back in another ten minutes," said Mr. O'Mahony. 
 "I shall not wait longer than that." 
 
 " Only their love," said Frank ; upon which Rachel looked 
 as though she thought that Frank Jones was certainly an ass. 
 
 u Of course I want to hear their love," said Rachel. " Dear 
 Ada, and dear Edith ! Why don't you tell me their love ?" 
 
 " My poor sick girl," he said, laying his hand upon her 
 shoulder, and looking into her eyes. 
 
 " Never mind my sickness. I know I am as thin and as wan 
 as an ogre. Nevertheless, I care for their love." 
 
 " Rachel, do you care for mine ?" 
 
 " I haven't got it ! Oh, Frank, why don't you speak to me ? 
 You have spoken a word, just a word, and all the blood is 
 coming back to my veins already." 
 
 " Dearest, dearest, dearest Rachel." 
 
 " Now you have spoken ; now you have told me of your 
 sisters and your father. Now I know it all ! Now my father 
 may come in." 
 
 " Do you love me, then ?" 
 
 " Love you ! That question you know to be unnecessary. 
 Love you ! Why I spend every day and every night in loving 
 you ! But, Frank, you wouldn't have me when I was going to 
 be rich. I ought not to have you now that I am to be poor." 
 But by this time she was in his arms and he was kissing her, till, 
 as she had said, the blood was once again running in her veins. 
 " Oh, Frank, what a tyrant you are ! Did I not tell you to let 
 poor father come into the room ? You have said everything 
 now. There cannot be another word to say, Frank. Frank, 
 Frank ! I have found it out at last. I cannot live without 
 you." 
 
 " But how are you to live with me ? There is no money." 
 
 " Bother money. Wealth is sordid. Washing stockings 
 over a tub is the only life for me,— so long as I have you to 
 come back to me." 
 
 " And your health ? " 
 
 " I tell you it is done. I was merely sick of the Jones 
 complaint. Oh, Heavens ! how I can hate people, and how I 
 can love them!" Then she threw herself on the sofa, absolutely 
 worn out by the violence of her emotions. 
 
276 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 Mr. O'Mahony was commissioned, and set down by his 
 girl's side to comfort her. But she wanted no comforting. 
 " So you and Frank have made it up, have you ? 99 said Mr. 
 O'Mahony. 
 
 " We have never quarrelled so far as I am concerned," said 
 Frank. " The moment I heard Lord Castlewell was dismissed, 
 I came back." 
 
 " Yes," said she, raising herself half up on the sofa. " Do 
 you know his story, father ? It is rather a nice story for a girl 
 to hear of her own lover, and to feel that it is true. When 1 was 
 about to make I don't know how many thousand dollars a year 
 by my singing, he would not come and take his share of it. Then 
 I have to think of my own disgrace. But it enhances his 
 glory. Because he was gone, I brought myself to accept this 
 lord." 
 
 "Now, Rachel, you shall not exert yourself," said Frank. 
 
 " I will, sir," she replied, holding him by the hand. " I will 
 tell my story. He had retreated from the stain, and the lord 
 had come in his place. But he was here always," and she 
 pressed his hand to her side. " He could not be got rid of. 
 Then I lost my voice, and was 6 utterly dished,' as the theatrical 
 people say. Then the lord went, — behaving better than I did 
 however, — and I was alone. Oh, what bitter moments there 
 came then, — long enough for the post to go to Ireland and to 
 return ! And now he is here. Once more at my feet again, 
 old man, once more ! And then he talks to me of money ! 
 What is money to me ? I have got such a comforting portion 
 that I care not at all for money." Then she all but fainted 
 once again, and Frank and her father both knelt over her 
 caressing her. 
 
 It was a long time before Frank left her, her father going in 
 and out of the room as it pleased him the while. Then he 
 declared that he must go down to the House, assuring Frank 
 that one blackguard there was worse than another, but saying 
 that he would see them to the end as long as his time lasted. 
 Rachel insisted that Frank should go with him. 
 
 " I am just getting up from my death-bed," she said, laughing, 
 "and you want me to go on like any other man's young woman. 
 I can think about you without talking to you." And so saying 
 she dismissed him. 
 
 On the next morning, when he came again, she discussed 
 with him the future arrangements of his life and hers. 
 
 " Of course you must stay with your father," she said. 
 "You do not want to marry me at once, I suppose. And of 
 course it is impossible if you do. I shall go to the States with 
 father as soon as this Parliament affair is over. He is turned 
 out of the House so often that he will be off before long for 
 good and all. But there is the mail still running, and remember 
 
MR. ROBERT MORRIS. 
 
 277 
 
 that what I say is true. I shall be ready and willing to be 
 made Mrs. Frank Jones as soon as you will come and fetch me, 
 and will tell me that you are able to provide me just with a crust 
 and a blanket in County Galway. Whatever little you will do 
 with, I will do with less." 
 
 Then she sat upon his knee, and embraced him and kissed 
 him, and swore to him that no other Lord Castlewell who came 
 should interfere with his rights. 
 
 "And as for Mr. Moss," she added, " I do not think that he 
 will ever appear again to trouble your little game." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 MR. ROBERT MORRIS. 
 
 One morning, a little later in the summer, about the beginning 
 of August, all Galway were terrified by the tidings of another 
 murder. Mr. Morris had been killed, — had been " dropped," 
 as the language of the country now went, from behind a wall 
 built by the roadside. It had been done at about five in the 
 afternoon, in full daylight ; and, as was surmised by the police, 
 with the consciousness of many of the peasantry around. He 
 had been walking along the road from Cong to his own house, 
 and had been " dropped," and left for dead by the roadside. 
 Dead, indeed, he was when found. Not a word more would 
 have been said about it, but for the intervention of the police, 
 who were on the spot within three hours of the occurrence. A 
 little girl had been coming into Cong, and had told the news. 
 The little girl was living at Cong, and was supposed to be in no 
 way connected with the murder. 
 
 " It's some of them boys this side of Clonbur," said one of 
 the men of Cong. 
 
 No one thought it necessary after that to give any further 
 explanation of the circumstances. 
 
 Mr. Robert Morris was somewhat of an oddity in his way ; 
 but he was a man who only a few months since was most un- 
 likely to have fallen a victim to popular anger. He was about 
 forty years of age, and had lived altogether at Minas Cottage, 
 five or six miles from Cong, as you pass up the head of Lough 
 Corrib, on the road to Maum. He was unmarried, and lived 
 quite alone in a small house, trusting to the attentions of two 
 old domestics and their daughter. He kept a horse and a car 
 and a couple of cows and a few cocks and hens ; but otherwise 
 he lived alone. He was a man of property, and had, indeed, 
 come from a family very long established in the county. People 
 
278 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 said of him that he had ^500 a year ; but he would have been 
 very glad to have seen the half of it paid to his agent ; for 
 Mr. Morris, of Minas Cottage, had his agent as well as any other 
 gentleman. He was a magistrate for the two counties, Galway 
 and Mayo, and attended sessions both at Cong and at Clonbur. 
 But when there he did little but agree with some more active 
 magistrate ; and what else he did with himself no one could 
 tell of him. 
 
 But it was said in respect to him that he was a benevolent 
 gentleman ; and but a year or two since very many in the 
 neighbourhood would have declared him to be especially 
 the poor man's friend. With ^500 a year he could have 
 done much ; with half that income he could do something to 
 assist them, and something he still did. He had his foibles 
 and fancies, but such as they were they did not tread on the 
 corns of any of his poorer neighbours. He was proud of his 
 birth, proud of his family, proud of having owned, either in his 
 own hands or those of his forefathers, the same few acres, — and 
 many more also, for his forefathers before him had terribly 
 diminished the property. There was a story that his great- 
 great-grandfather had lived in a palatial residence in County 
 Kilkenny. All this he would tell freely, and would remark 
 that to such an extent had the family been reduced by the ex- 
 travagance of his forefathers. " But the name and the blood 
 they can never touch," he would remark. They would not ask 
 as to his successor, because they valued him too highly, and 
 because Mr. Morris would never have admitted that the time 
 had come when it was too late to bring a bride home to the 
 western halls of his forefathers. But the rumour went that 
 Minas Cottage would go in the female line to a second cousin, 
 who had married a cloth merchant in Galway city, to whom 
 nor to her husband did Mr. Morris ever speak. There might 
 be something absurd in this, but there was nothing injurious to 
 his neighbours, and nothing that would be likely to displease 
 the poorer of them. 
 
 But Mr. Morris had been made the subject of various 
 requests from his tenants. They had long since wanted and 
 had received a considerable abatement in their rent. Hence 
 had come the straitened limits of ^250 a year. Thev had then 
 offered the " Griffith's valuation." To explain the " Griffith's 
 valuation " a chapter must be written, and as no one would read 
 the explanation if given here it shall be withheld. Indeed, the 
 whole circumstances of Mr. Morris's property were too intricate 
 to require, or to admit, elucidation here. He was so driven 
 that if he were to keep anything for himself he must do so by 
 means of the sheriff's officer, and hence it had come to pass 
 that he had been shot down like a mad dog by the roadside. 
 
 County Galway was tolerably well used to murders by this 
 
MR. ROBERT MORRIS. 
 
 279 
 
 time, but yet seemed to be specially astonished by the assassina- 
 tion of Mr. Morris. The innocence of the man ; for the dealings 
 of the sheriff's officer were hardly known beyond the townland 
 which was concerned ! And then the taciturnity of the county 
 side when the murder had been effected ! It was not such a 
 deed as was the slaughtering of poor Florian Jones, or the killing 
 of Terry Carroll in the Court House. They had been more 
 startling, more alarming, more awful for the tradesmen, and 
 such like, to talk of among themselves, but the feeling of mystery 
 there had been connected with the secret capacity of one 
 individual. Everyone, in fact, knew that those murders had 
 been done by Lax. And all felt that for the doing of murders 
 Lax was irrepressible. But over there in the neighbourhood of 
 Clonbur, or in the village of Cong, Lax had never appeared. 
 There was no one in the place to whom the police could attribute 
 any Lax-like properties. In that respect, the slaughtering of 
 Mr. Morris had something in it more terrible even than those 
 other murders. It seemed as though murder were becoming 
 the ordinary popular mode by which the people should redress 
 themselves, — as though the idea of murder had recommended 
 itself easily to their intellects. And then they had quietly 
 submitted — all of them — to taciturnity. They who were not 
 concerned in the special case, the adjustment that is of Mr. 
 Morris's rent, accepted his murder with perfect quiescence, as 
 did those who were aggrieved. Nobody had seen anything. 
 Nobody had heard anything. Nobody had known anything. 
 Such were the only replies that were given to the police. If 
 Mr. Morris, then why not another — and another— till the whole 
 country would be depopulated ? In Mr. Morris's case a land- 
 lord had been chosen ; but in other localities agents and 
 sheriffs' officers, — and even those keepers on a property which 
 a gentleman is supposed to employ, — were falling to the right 
 and to the left. But of Mr. Morris and his death nothing was 
 heard. 
 
 Yorke Clayton of course went down there, for this, too, was 
 in his district, and Hunter went with him, anxious, if possible, 
 to learn something. They saw every tenant on the property ; 
 and, indeed, they were not over numerous. There was not one 
 as to whom they could obtain evidence that he was ever 
 ferocious by character, " They've got to think that they have 
 the right to it all. The poor creatures are not so bad as them 
 that is teaching them. If I think as the farm is my own, of 
 course I don't like to be made to pay rent for it." That was 
 the explanation of the circumstances, as given by Mrs. Davies, 
 of the hotel at Clonbur. And it was evident that she thought it 
 to be sufficient. The meaning of it, according to Captain 
 Clayton's reading, was this : "If you allow such doctrines to be 
 preached abroad by Members of Parliament and Land-league 
 
28o 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 leaders, — to be preached as a doctrine fit for the people, — then 
 you cannot be surprised if the people do as they are taught and 
 hold their tongues afterwards." 
 
 This Mr. Morris had been the first cousin of our poor old 
 friend Black Tom Daly. 
 
 " Good God ! ; ' he exclaimed, as soon as he read the news, 
 sitting in his parlour at Daly's Bridge ; " there is Bob Morris 
 gone now." 
 
 " Bob Morris, of Minas Cottage ! " exclaimed Peter Bodkin, 
 who had ridden over to give Tom Daly some comfort in his 
 solitude, if it might be possible. 
 
 "By George ! yes ; Bob Morris ! Did you know him ?" 
 
 " I don't think he ever came out hunting." 
 
 " Hunting, indeed ! How should he, when he hadn't a horse 
 that he could ride upon ? And Bob knew nothing of sport. 
 The better for him, seeing the way that things are going now. 
 No, he never was out hunting, poor fellow ! But for downright 
 innocence and kindness and gentleness of heart, there is no one 
 left like him. And now they have murdered him ! What is to 
 be the end of it ? There is Persse telling me to hold on by the 
 hounds, when I couldn't keep a hound in the kennels at Ahaseragh 
 if it were ever so." 
 
 "Times will mend," said Peter. 
 
 " And Raheeny Gorse fired so as to drive every fox out of 
 the country ! Persse is wrong, and I am wrong to stay at his 
 bidding. The very nature of mankind has altered in the old 
 country. There are not the same hearts within their bosoms. 
 To burn a gorse over a fox's head ! There is a damnable 
 
 cruelty in it of which men were not guilty, — by G ! they 
 
 were not capable, — a year or two ago. These ruffians from 
 America have come and told them that they shall pay no rent, 
 and their minds have been so filled with the picture that its 
 magnificence has overcome them. They used to tell us that 
 money is the root of all evil ; it proves to be true now. The 
 idea that they should pay no rent has been too much for them ; 
 and they have become fiends under the feelings which have 
 been roused. Only last year they were mourning over a poor 
 fox like a Christian, — a poor fox that had been caught in a trap, 
 — and now they would not leave a fox in the country, because 
 the gentlemen, they think, are fond of them. The gentlemen 
 are their enemies, and therefore they will spite them. They 
 will drive every gentleman out of the country, and where will 
 they be then ? " Here Tom Daly sat quiet for a while, looking 
 silent through the open window, while Peter sat by him feeling 
 the occasion to be too solemn for speech. After a while Tom 
 continued his ejaculations. " Gladstone ! Gladstone ! There 
 are those who think that man to be great and good ; but how 
 can he be great and good if he lets loose such spirits among us? 
 
MR. ROBERT MORRIS. 
 
 281 
 
 They tell me that he's a very amiable man in his own family, 
 and goes to church regular ; but he must be the most ignorant 
 human being that ever took upon himself to make laws for a 
 people. He can understand nothing about money, nothing 
 about property, nothing about rents ! I suppose he thinks it 
 fair to take away one man's means and give them to another, 
 simply because one is a gentleman and the other not ! A fair 
 rent ! There's nothing I hate so much in my very soul as the 
 idea of a fair rent. A fair rent means half that a man pays 
 now ; but in a few years' time it will mean again whatever the 
 new landlord may choose to ask. And fixity of tenure ! Every 
 man is to get what doesn't belong to him, and if a man has 
 anything he's to be turned out ; that is fixity of tenure. And 
 freedom of sale ! A man is to be allowed to sell what isn't his 
 own. He thinks that when he has thrown half an eye over a 
 country he can improve it by altering all the wisdom of ages. 
 A man talks and talks, and others listen to him till they flatter 
 him that another God Almighty has been sent upon earth." It 
 was thus that Tom Daly expressed himself as to the Prime 
 Minister of the day ; but Tom was a benighted Tory, and had 
 thought nothing of these subjects till they were driven into his 
 mind by the strange mortality of the foxes around him. 
 
 Poor Mr. Morris was buried, and there was an end of him. 
 The cloth merchant's wife in Galway got the property ; and, as 
 far as we can hear at present, is not likely to do as well with it 
 as her husband is with his bales of goods. No man perhaps 
 more insignificant than Mr. Robert Morris could have departed. 
 He did nothing, and his figure, as he walked about between 
 Cong and Clonbur, could be well spared. But his murder had 
 given rise to feelings through the country which were full of 
 mischief and full of awe. He had lived most inoffensively, and 
 yet he had gone simply because it had occurred to some poor 
 ignorant tenant, who had held perhaps ten or fifteen acres of 
 land, out of which he had lived upon the potatoes grown from 
 two or three of them, that things would go better with him if 
 he had not a landlord to hurry him for rent ! Then the tenant 
 had turned in his mind the best means of putting his landlord 
 out of the way, and had told himself that it was an easy thing 
 to do. He had not, of his own, much capacity for the use of 
 firearms ; but he had four pound ten, which should have gone 
 to the payment of his rent, and of this four pound ten, fifteen 
 shillings secured the services of some handy man out of the 
 next parish. He had heard the question of murder freely dis- 
 cussed among his neighbours, and by listening to others had 
 learned the general opinion that there was no danger in it. So 
 he came to a decision, and Mr. Morris was murdered. 
 
 So far the question was solved between this tenant and this 
 landlord ; but each one of the neighbours, as he thought of it, 
 
282 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 felt himself bound to secrecy pro bono publico. There was 
 a certain comfort in this, and poor Bob Morris's death seemed 
 likely to be passed over with an easy freedom from suspicion. 
 Any man might be got rid of silently, and there need be no 
 injurious results. But men among themselves began to talk 
 somewhat too freely, and an awe grew among them as this man 
 and that man were named as objectionable. And the men so 
 named were not all landlords or even agents. This man was a 
 sheriff's officer, and that a gamekeeper. The sheriffs' officers 
 and gamekeepers were not all murdered, but they were named, 
 and a feeling of terror crept cold round the hearts of those who 
 heard the names. Who was to be the keeper of the list and 
 decide finally as to the victims ? Then suddenly a man went, 
 and no one knew why he went. He was making a fence 
 between two fields, and it was whispered that he had been 
 cautioned not to make the fence. At any rate he had been 
 stoned to death, and though there must have been three at least 
 at the work, no one knew who had stoned him. Men began to 
 whisper among each other, and women also, and at last it was 
 whispered to them that they had better not whisper at all. 
 Then they began to feel that not only was secrecy to be exacted 
 from them, but they were not to be admitted to any participation 
 in the secrecy. 
 
 And with such of the gentry as were left there had grown up 
 precautions which could not but fill the minds of the peasantry 
 with a vague sense of fear. They went about with rifles in their 
 hands, and were always accompanied by police. They had thick 
 shutters made to their windows, and barred themselves within 
 their houses. Those who but a few months since had been the 
 natural friends of the people, now appeared everywhere in arms 
 against them. If it was necessary that there should be inter- 
 course between them, that intercourse took place by means of 
 a policeman. A further attempt at murder had been made 
 in the neighbourhood, and was so talked of that it seemed that 
 all kindly feeling had been severed. Men began to creep about 
 and keep out of the way lest they should be suspected ; and, 
 indeed, it was the fact that there was hardly an able-bodied 
 man in three parishes to whom some suspicion did not attach 
 itself. 
 
 And thus the women would ask for fresh murders, and 
 would feel disappointed when none were reported to them, 
 craving, as it were, for blood. And all this had come to pass 
 certainly within the space of two years ! A sweeter-tempered 
 people than had existed there had been found nowhere ; nor 
 a people more ignorant, and possessing less of the comforts 
 of civilisation. But no evil was to be expected from them, no 
 harm came from them — beyond a few simple lies, which were 
 only harmful as acting upon their own character. As Tom Daly 
 
CONG. 
 
 283 
 
 had said, these very men were not capable of it a few months ago. 
 The tuition had come from America ! That, no doubt, was true ; 
 but it had come by Irish hearts and Irish voices, by Irish 
 longings and Irish ambition. Nothing could be more false than 
 to attribute the evil to America, unless that becomes American 
 which has once touched American soil. But there does grow 
 up in New York, or thereabouts, a mixture of Irish poverty with 
 American wealth, which calls itself " Democrat," and forms as 
 bad a composition as any that I know from which either to 
 replenish or to create a people. 
 
 A very little of it goes unfortunately a long way. It is like 
 gin made of vitriol when mingled with water. A small modicum 
 of gin, though it does not add much spirit to the water, will 
 damnably defile a large quantity. And this gin has in it a 
 something of flavour which will altogether deceive an un- 
 educated palate. There is an alcoholic afflatus which mounts 
 to the brain and surrounds the heart and permeates the veins, 
 which for the moment is believed to.be true gin. But it makes 
 itself known in the morning, and after a few mornings tells its 
 own tale too well. These " democrats " could never do us the 
 mischief. They are not sufficient, either in intellect or in number; 
 but there are men among us who have taught themselves to 
 believe that the infuriated gin drinker is the true holder of a new 
 gospel. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 CONG. 
 
 In those days Captain Clayton spent much of his time at Cong, 
 and Frank Jones was often with him. Frank, however, had 
 returned from London a much altered man. Rachel had 
 knocked under to him. It was thus that he spoke of it to 
 himself. I do not think that she spoke of it to herself exactly 
 in the same way. She knew her own constancy, and felt that 
 she was to be rewarded. 
 
 " Nothing, I think, would ever have made me marry Lord 
 Castlewell." 
 
 It was thus she talked to her father while he was awaiting 
 the period of his dismissal. 
 
 " I dare say not," said he. u Of course he is a poor weak 
 creature. But he would have been very good to you, and there 
 would have been an end to all your discomforts." 
 
 Rachel turned up her nose. An end to all her discomforts ! 
 
 Her father knew nothing of what would comfort her and 
 what would discomfort. 
 
284 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 She was utterly discomforted in that her voice was gone 
 from her. She would lie and sob on her bed half the morning, 
 and would feel herself to be inconsolable. Then she would 
 think of Frank, and tell herself that there was some consolation 
 in store even for her. Had her voice been left to her she would 
 have found it to be very difficult to escape from the Castlewell 
 difficulty. She would have escaped, she thought, though the 
 heavens might have been brought down over her head. When 
 the time had come for appearing at the altar, she would have 
 got into the first train and disappeared, or have gone to bed and 
 refused to leave it. She would have summoned Frank at the 
 last moment, and would submit to be called the worst behaved 
 young woman that had ever appeared on the London boards. 
 Now she was saved from that ; but, — but at what a cost ! 
 
 " I might have been the greatest woman of the day, and now 
 I must be content to make his tea and toast." 
 
 Then she began to consider whether it was good that any 
 girl should be the greatest woman of the day. 
 
 " I don't suppose the Queen has so much the best of it with 
 a pack of troubles on her hands." 
 
 But Frank in the meantime had gone back to Galway, and 
 Mr. Robert Morris had been murdered. Soon after the death 
 of Mr. Morris the man had been killed as he was mending the 
 ditch, and Captain Clayton found that the tone of the people 
 was varied in the answers which they made to his inquiries. 
 They were astounded, and, as it were, struck dumb with surprise. 
 Nobody knew anything, nobody had heard anything, nobody 
 had seen anything. They were as much in the dark about poor 
 Pat Gilligan as they had been as to Mr. Robert Morris. They 
 spoke of Pat as though he had been slaughtered by a direct 
 blow from heaven ; but they trembled, and were evidently un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 " That woman knows something about it," said Hunter to 
 his master, shaking his head. 
 
 " No doubt she knows a good deal about it ; but it is not 
 because she knows that she is bewildered and bedevilled in her 
 intellect. She is beginning to be afraid that the country is one 
 in which even she herself cannot live in safety." 
 
 And the men looked to be dumbfoundered and sheepfaced. 
 They kept out of Captain Clayton's way, and answered him as 
 little as possible. " What's the good of axing when ye knows 
 that I knows nothing?" This was the answer of one man, and 
 was a fair sample of the answers of many ; but they were given 
 in such a tone that Clayton was beginning to think that the 
 evil was about to work its own cure. 
 
 " Frank," he said one day when he was walking with his 
 friend in the gloom of the evening, "this state of things is too 
 horrible to endure." The faithful Hunter followed them, and 
 
CONG. 
 
 285 
 
 another policeman, for the Captain was never allowed to stir 
 two steps without the accompaniment of a brace of guards. 
 
 " Much too horrible to be endured/ 5 said Frank. " My idea 
 is that a man, in order to make the best of himself, should run 
 away from it. Life in the United States has no such horrors as 
 these. Though we're apt to say that all this comes from 
 America, I don't see American hands in it." 
 
 " You see American money.' 5 
 
 " American money in the shape of dollar bills ; but they 
 have all been sent by Irish people. The United States is a 
 large place, and there is room there, I think, for an honest 
 man." 
 
 " I'll never be frightened out of my own country, 5 ' said 
 Clayton. " Nor do I think there is occasion. These abominable 
 reprobates are not going to prevail in the end. 55 
 
 "They have prevailed with poor Tom Daly. He was a man 
 who worked as hard as anyone to find amusement, — and 
 employment too. He never wronged anyone. He was even so 
 honest as to charge a fair price for his horses. And there he is, 
 left high and dry, without a horse or a hound that he can venture 
 to keep about his own place. And simply because the majority 
 of the people have chosen that there shall be no more hunting ; 
 and they have proved themselves to be able to have their own 
 way. It is impossible that poor Daly should hunt if they will 
 not permit him, and they carry their orders so far that he cannot 
 even keep a hound in his kennels because they do not choose 
 to allow it. 55 
 
 " And this you think will be continued always ? " asked 
 Clayton. 
 
 " For all that I can see it may go on for ever. My father 
 has had those water-gates mended on the meadows though he 
 could ill afford it. I have told him that they may go again to- 
 morrow. There is no reason to judge that they should not do 
 so. The only two men, — or the man, rather, and the boy, — 
 who have been punished for the last attempt were those who 
 endeavoured to tell of it. See what has come of that ! " 
 
 "All that is true. 55 
 
 " Will it not be better to go to America, to go to Africa, to 
 go to Asia, or to Russia even, than to live in a country like this, 
 where the law can afford you no protection, and where the law- 
 givers only injure you ? 55 
 
 " I know nothing about the lawgivers, 55 said Clayton, " but I 
 have to say a word or two about the law. Do you think this 
 kind of thing is going to remain ? 5 ' 
 
 " It does remain, and every day becomes worse." 
 
 "An evil will always become worse till it begins to die away. 
 I think I see the end of things approaching. Evil-doers are 
 afraid of each other, and these poor fellows here live in mortal 
 
286 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 agony lest some Lax of the moment should be turned loose at 
 their own throats. I don't think that Lax is an institution that 
 will remain for ever in the country. This present Lax we have 
 fast locked up. Law at present, at any rate, has so much of power 
 that it is able to lock up a Lax, — when it can catch him. As 
 for this present man, I do hope that the law will find itself 
 powerful enough to fasten a rope round his neck. No Galway 
 jury would find him guilty, and that is bad enough. But the 
 lawgivers have done this for us, that we may try him before a 
 Dublin jury, and there are hopes. When Lax has been well 
 hung out of the world I can turn round and take a moment for 
 my own happiness." 
 
 Yorke Clayton, as he said this, was alluding to his love affair 
 with Edith Jones. He had now conquered all the family with 
 one exception. Even the father had assented that it should be so, 
 though tardily and with sundry misgivings. The one person 
 was Edith herself, and it had come to be acknowledged by 
 all around her that she loved Yorke Clayton. As she herself 
 never now denied it, it was admitted on all sides at Morony 
 Castle that the Captain was certainly the favoured lover. But 
 Edith still held out, and had gone so far as to tell the Captain 
 that he could not be allowed to come to the Castle unless he 
 would desist. 
 
 " I never shall desist," he had replied. " As to that you may 
 take my word." Then Edith had of course loved him so much 
 the more. 
 
 " I don't think this kind of thing will go on," he continued, 
 still addressing Frank Jones. " The people are so fickle that 
 they cannot be constant even to anything evil. It is quite on 
 the cards that Black Tom Daly should next year be the most 
 popular master of hounds in all Ireland, and that Mr. Kit 
 Mooney should not be allowed to show his face within reach of 
 Moytubber Gorse on hunting mornings." 
 
 " They'd have burned the gorse before they have come round 
 to that state of feeling. Look at Raheeny." 
 
 " It isn't so easy to destroy anything," said the philosophic 
 Clayton. " If the foxes are frightened out of Raheeny or 
 Moytubber, they will go somewhere else. And even if poor 
 Tom Daly were to run away from County Galway, as you're 
 talking of doing, the county would find another master." 
 
 " Not like Tom Daly," said Frank Jones, enthusiastically. 
 
 "There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. 
 Tom Daly is a first-class man, I admit ; and he had no more 
 obedient slave than myself when I used to get out hunting two 
 or three days in the session. But he is a desponding man, and 
 cannot look forward to better times. For myself, I own that 
 my hopes are fixed. Hang Lax, and then the millennium ! " 
 
 a I will quite agree as to the hanging of Lax," said Frank ; 
 
CONG. 
 
 287 
 
 "but for any millennium, I want something more strong than 
 Irish feeling. You'll excuse me, old fellow." 
 
 "Oh, certainly! Of course, I'm an Irishman myself, and 
 might have been a Lax instead of a policeman, if chance had 
 got hold of me in time. As it is, I've a sort of feeling that the 
 policeman is going to have the best of it all through Ireland." 
 Then there came a sudden sound as of a sharp thud, and Yorke 
 Clayton fell as it were dead at Frank Jones's feet. 
 
 This occurred at a corner of the road, from which a little 
 boreen or lane ran up the side of the mountain between 
 walls about three feet high. But here some benevolent enter- 
 prising gentleman, wishing to bring water through Lower Lough 
 Cong to Lough Corrib, had caused the beginnings of a canal to 
 be built, which had, however, after the expenditure of large 
 sums of money, come to nothing. But the ground, or rather 
 rock, had so been moved and excavated as to make it practicable 
 for some men engaged, as had been this man, to drop at once 
 out of sight. Hunter was at once upon his track, with the other 
 policeman, both of whom fired at him. But as they acknow- 
 ledged afterwards, they had barely seen the skirt of his coat in 
 the gloom of the evening. The whole spot up and behind the 
 corner of the road was so honeycombed by the works of the in- 
 tended canal as to afford hiding-places and retreats for a score 
 of murderers. Here, as was afterwards ascertained, there was 
 but one, and that one had apparently sufficed. 
 
 Frank Jones had remained on the road with his friend, and 
 had raised him in his arms when he fell. "They have done for 
 me this time," Clayton had said, but had said no more. He 
 had in truth fainted, but Frank Jones, in his ignorance, had 
 thought that he was dead. It turned out afterwards that the 
 bullet had struck his ribs in the front of his body, and, having 
 been turned by the bone, had passed round to his back, and 
 had there buried itself in the flesh. It needs not that we dwell 
 with any length on this part of our tale, but may say at once 
 that the medical skill of Cong sufficed to extract the bullet on 
 the next morning. 
 
 After a while one of the two policemen came back to the 
 road, and assisted Frank Jones to carry up poor Clayton to the 
 inn. Hunter, though still maimed by his wound, stuck to the 
 pursuit, assisted by two other policemen from Cong, who soon 
 appeared upon the scene. But the man escaped, and his flight 
 was soon covered by the darkness of night. It had been eight 
 o'clock before the party had left the inn, and had wandered with 
 great imprudence further than they had intended. At least, so 
 it was said after the occurrence ; though, had nothing happened 
 they would have reached their homes before night had in truth 
 set in. But men said of Clayton that he had become so hardened 
 by the practices of his life, and by the failure of all attempts 
 
288 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 hitherto made against him, that he had become incredulous of 
 harm. 
 
 " They have got me at last," he said to Frank the next 
 morning. " Thank God it was not you instead of me. I have 
 been thinking of it as I lay here in the night, and have blamed 
 myself greatly. It is my business and not yours." And then 
 again further on in the day he sent a message to Edith. "Tell 
 her from me that it is all over now, but that had I lived she 
 would have had to be my wife." 
 
 But from that time forth he did in truth get better, though 
 we in these pages can never again be allowed to see him as an 
 active working man. It was his fault, — as the Galway doctor 
 said, his egregious sin, — to spend the most of his time in lying 
 on a couch out in the garden at Morony Castle, and talking of 
 the fate of Mr. Lax. The remainder of his hours he devoted to 
 the acceptance of little sick-room favours from his hostess, — I 
 would say from his two hostesses, were it not that he soon came 
 to terms with Ada, under which Ada was not to attend to him 
 with any particular care. " If I could catch that fellow," he 
 said to Ada, alluding to the man who had intended to murder 
 him, " I would have no harm done to him. He should be let 
 free at once ; for I could not possibly have got such an 
 opportunity by any other means." 
 
 But poor Edith, the while, felt herself to be badly used. 
 She and Ada had often talked of the terrible perils to which 
 Yorke Clayton was subjected, and, as the reader may remember, 
 had discussed the propriety of a man so situated allowing 
 himself to become familiar with any girl. But now Captain 
 Clayton was declared to be safe by everybody. The doctors 
 united in saying that his constitution would carry him through 
 a cannon-ball. But Edith felt that all the danger had fallen to 
 her lot. 
 
 In the meantime the search for the double murderers, — 
 unless indeed one murderer had been busy in both cases,— was 
 carried vainly along. The horror of poor Mr. Morris's fate 
 had almost disappeared under the awe occasioned by the attack 
 on Captain Clayton. It was astonishing to see how entirely 
 Mr. Morris, with all his family and his old acres, and with 
 Minas Cottage, — which, to the knowledge of the entire popula- 
 tion of Cong, was his own peculiar property, — was lost to notice 
 under the attack that had been made with so much audacity 
 on Captain Yorke Clayton. He, as one of four, all armed to 
 the teeth, was attacked by one individual, and attacked success- 
 fully. There were those who said at first that the bars of 
 Galway Gaol must have been broken, and that Lax the omni- 
 potent, Lax the omnipresent, had escaped. And it certainly 
 was the case that many were in ignorance as to who the 
 murderer had been. Probably all were ignorant, — all of those 
 
CONG. 
 
 289 
 
 who were in truth well acquainted with the person of Mr. 
 Morris's murderer. And in the minds of the people generally 
 the awe became greater than ever. To them it was evident 
 that anybody could murder anybody ; and evident also that it 
 was permitted to them to do so by this new law which had 
 sprung up of late in the country, almost enjoining them to 
 exercise this peculiar mode of retaliation. The bravest thought 
 that they were about to have their revenge against their old 
 masters, and determined that the revenge should be a bloody 
 one. But the more cowardly, and very much the more 
 numerous on that account, feared that, poor as they were, 
 they might be the victims. No man among them could be 
 much poorer than Pat Gilligan, and he had been chosen as 
 one to be murdered, for some reason known only to the 
 murderer. 
 
 A new and terrible aristocracy was growing up among 
 them, — the aristocracy of hidden firearms. There was but 
 little said among them, even by the husband to the wife, or 
 by the father to the son ; because the husband feared his 
 wife, and the father his own child. There had been a feeling 
 of old among them that they were being ground down by the 
 old aristocracy. There must ever be such an idea on the part 
 of those who do not have enough to eat in regard to their 
 betters, who have more than plenty. It cannot be but that 
 want should engender such feeling. But now the dread of the 
 new aristocracy was becoming worse than that of the old. In 
 the dull, dim minds of these poor people there arose, gradually 
 indeed but quickly, a conviction that the new aristocracy might 
 be worse even than the old ; and that law, as administered by 
 Government, might be less tyrannical than the law of those who> 
 had no law to govern them. So the people sat silent at their 
 hearths, or crawled miserably about their potato patches, 
 speaking not at all of the life around them. 
 
 When a week was over, tidings came to them that Captain 
 Clayton, though he had been shot right through the body, — 
 though the bullet had gone in at his breast and come out at his 
 back, as the report went, — was still alive, and likely to live. 
 " He's a-spending every hour of his blessed life a-making love 
 to a young lady who is a-nursing him." This was the report 
 brought up to Cong by the steward of the lake steamer, and 
 was received as a new miracle by the Cong people. The fates 
 had decreed that Captain Clayton should not fall by any bullet 
 fired by Lax, the Land-leaguer ; for, though Lax, the Land- 
 leaguer, was himself fast in prison when the attempt was made, 
 such became more than ever the creed of the people when it 
 was understood that Captain Clayton, with his own flesh and 
 blood, was at this moment making love to Mr. Jones's youngest 
 daughter at Morony Castle. 
 
 U 
 
290 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 KERRYCULLION. 
 
 Captain Clayton was thoroughly enjoying life, now perhaps, 
 for the first time since he had had a bullet driven through his 
 body. It had come to pass that everything, almost everything, 
 was done for him by the hands of Edith. And yet Ada was 
 willing to do everything that was required ; but she declared 
 always that what she did was of no avail. " Unless you take it 
 to him, you know he won't eat it," she would still say. No 
 doubt this was absurd, because the sick man's appetite was 
 very good, considering that a hole had been made from his 
 front to his back within the last month. It was still September, 
 the weather was as warm as summer, and he insisted on lying 
 out in the garden with his rugs around him, and enjoying the 
 service of all his slaves. But among his slaves Edith was 
 the one whom the other slaves found it most difficult to 
 understand. 
 
 " I will go on," she said to her father, " and do everything 
 for him while he is an invalid. But, when he is well enough to 
 be moved, either he or I must go out of this." 
 
 Her father simply said that he did not understand it ; but 
 then he was one of the other slaves. 
 
 " Edith," said the Captain, one day, speaking from his rugs 
 on the bank upon the lawn, "just say that one word, e I yield.' 
 It will have to be said sooner or later." 
 
 " I will not say it, Captain Clayton," said Edith with a firm 
 voice. 
 
 " So you have gone back to the Captain," said he. 
 
 " I will go back further than that, if you continue to annoy 
 me. It shall be nothing but plain ' sir,' as hard as you please. 
 You might as well let go my hand ; you know that I do not take 
 it away violently, because of your wound." 
 
 " I know — I know — I know that a girl's hand is the sweetest 
 thing in all creation if she likes you, and leaves it with you 
 willingly." Then there was a little pull, but it was only very 
 little. 
 
 " Of course, I don't want to hurt you," said Edith. 
 
 " And, therefore, it feels as though you loved me. Of course 
 it does. Your hand says one thing and your voice another. 
 Which way does your heart go ? " 
 
 " Right against you," said Edith. But she could not help 
 blushing at the lie as she told it. " My conscience is altogether 
 against you, and I advise you to attend more to that than 
 to anything else." But still he held her hand, and still she let 
 him hold it. 
 
KERR YCULLION. 
 
 291 
 
 At that moment Hunter appeared upon the scene, and Edith 
 regained her hand. But had the Captain held the hand, Hunter 
 would not have seen it. Hunter was full of his own news ; and, 
 as he told it, very dreadful the story was. " There has been a 
 murder worse than any that have happened yet, just the ether 
 side of the lake," and he pointed away to the mountains, and to 
 that part of Lough Corrib which is just above Cong. 
 
 " Another murder ? " said Edith. 
 
 " Oh, miss, no other murder ever told of had any horror in 
 it equal to this ! I don't know how the governor will keep him- 
 self quiet there, with such an affair as this to be looked after. 
 There are six of them down, — or at any rate five." 
 
 "When a doubt creeps in, one can always disbelieve as 
 much as one pleases." 
 
 " You can hardly disbelieve this, sir, as I have just heard the 
 story from Sergeant Malcolm. There were six in the house, 
 and five have been carried out dead. One has been taken to 
 Cong, and he is as good as dead. Their names are Kelly. An 
 old man and an old woman, and another woman and three 
 children. The old woman was very old, and the man appears 
 to have been her son." 
 
 " Have they got nobody ? " asked Clayton. 
 
 " It appears not, sir. But there is a rumour about the place 
 that there were many of them in it." 
 
 " Looking after one another," said Clayton, " so that none 
 should escape his share of the guilt." 
 
 " It may be so. But there were many in it, sir. I can't 
 tell much of the circumstances, except the fact that there are 
 the five bodies lying dead." And Hunter, with some touch of 
 dramatic effect and true pathos, pointed again to the mountains 
 which he had indicated as the spot where this last murder was 
 committed. 
 
 It was soon settled among them that Hunter should go off to 
 the scene of action, Cong, or wherever else his services might 
 be required, and that he should take special care to keep his 
 master acquainted with all details as they came to light. For 
 us, we may give here the details as they did reach the Captain's 
 ears in the course of the next few days. 
 
 Hunter's story had only been too true. The six persons 
 had been murdered, barring one child, who had been taken 
 into Cong in a state which was supposed hardly to admit of his 
 prolonged life. The others, who now lay dead at a shebeen 
 house in the neighbourhood, consisted of an old woman and her 
 son, and his wife and a grown daughter, and a son. All these 
 had been killed in various ways, — had been shot with rifles, and 
 stoned with rocks, and made away with, after any fashion that 
 might come most readily to the hands of brutes devoid of light, 
 of mercy, of conscience, and apparently of fear. It must have 
 
 U 2 
 
292 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 been a terrible sight to see, for those who had first broken in 
 upon the scene of desolation. In the course of the next morn- 
 ing it had become known to the police, and it was soon 
 rumoured throughout England and Ireland that there had been 
 ten murderers engaged in the bloody fray. It must have been 
 as Captain Clayton had surmised ; one with another intent upon 
 destroying that wretched family, — or perhaps only one among 
 its number, — had insisted that others should accompany him. 
 A man who had been one of their number was less likely to tell 
 if he had a hand in it himself. And so there were ten of them. 
 It might be that one among the number of the murdered had 
 seen the murder of Mr. Morris, or of Pat Gilligan, or the 
 attempted murder of Captain Clayton. And that one was not 
 sure not to tell, — had perhaps shown by some sign and indication 
 that to tell the truth about the deed was in his breast, — or in 
 hers ! Some woman living there might have spoken such a 
 word to a friend less cautious in that than were the neighbours 
 in general. Then we can hear, or fancy that we can hear, the 
 muttered reasons of those who sought to rule amidst that bloody 
 community. They were a family of the Kellys, — these poor 
 doomed creatures,— but amidst those who whispered together, 
 amidst those who were forced to come into the whispering, there 
 were many of the same family ; or, at any rate, of the same 
 name. For the Kellys were a tribe who had been strong in the 
 land for many years. Though each of the ten feared to be of 
 the bloody party, each did not like not to be of it, for so the 
 power would have come out of their hands. They wished to be 
 among the leading aristocrats, though still they feared. And 
 thus they came together, dreading each other, hating each other 
 at last ; each aware that he was about to put his very life within 
 the other's power, and each trying to think, as far as thoughts 
 would come to his dim mind, that to him might come some 
 possibility of escape by betraying his comrades. 
 
 But a miracle had occurred, — that which must have seemed 
 to be a miracle when they first heard it, and to the wretches 
 themselves, when its fatal truth was made known to them. 
 While in the dead of night they were carrying out this most in- 
 human massacre there were other eyes watching them ; six other 
 eyes were looking at them, and seeing what they did perhaps 
 more plainly than they would see themselves ! Think of the 
 scene ! There were six persons doomed, and ten who had 
 agreed to doom them ; and three others looking on from behind 
 a wall, so near as to enable them to see it all, under the fitful 
 light of the stars ! Nineteen of them engaged round one small 
 cabin, of whom five were to die that night ; — and as to ten 
 others, it cannot but be hoped that the whole ten may pay the 
 penalty due to the offended feelings of an entire nation ! 
 
 It may be that it shall be proved that some among the ten 
 
KERRYCULLION. 
 
 293 
 
 had not struck a fatal blow. Or it may fail to be proved that 
 some among the ten have done so. It will go hard with any 
 man to adjudge ten men to death for one deed of murder ; and 
 it is very hard for that one to remember always that the doom he 
 is to give is the only means in our power to stop the downward 
 path of crime among us. It may be that some among the ten 
 shall be spared, and it may be that he or they who spare them 
 shall have done right. 
 
 But such was not the feeling of Captain Yorke Clayton, 
 as he discussed the matter, day after day, with Hunter, or 
 with Frank Jones, upon the lawn at Castle Morony. <e It 
 would be the grandest sight to see, — ten of them hanging in a 
 row." 
 
 " The saddest sight the world could show," said Frank. 
 
 " Sad enough, that the world should want it. But if you 
 had been employed as I have for the last few years, you would 
 not think it sad to have achieved it. If the judge and the jury 
 will do their work as it should be done there will be an end to 
 this kind of thing for many years to come. Think of the country 
 we are living in now ! Think of your father's condition, and of 
 the injury which has been done to him and to your sisters, and 
 to yourself. If that could be prevented and atoned for, and set 
 right by the hanging in one row of ten such miscreants as those, 
 would it not be a noble deed done ? These ten are frightful to 
 you because there are ten at once, — ten in the same village, — 
 ten nearly of the same name ! People would call it a bloody 
 assize where so many are doomed. But they scruple to call the 
 country bloody where so many are murdered day after day. It 
 is the honest who are murdered ; but would it not be well to rid 
 the world of these ruffians ? And, remember, that these ten 
 would not have been ten, if some one or two had been dealt 
 with for the first offence. And if the ten were now all spared, 
 whose life would be safe in such a Golgotha ? I say that, to 
 those who desire to have their country once more human, once 
 more fit for an honest man to live in, these ten men hanging in 
 a row will be a goodly sight." 
 
 There must have been a feeling in the minds of these three 
 men that some terrible step must be taken to put an end to the 
 power of this aristocracy, before life in the country would be 
 again possible. When they had come together to watch their 
 friends and neighbours, and see what the ten were about to do, 
 there must have been some determination in their hearts to tell 
 the story of that which would be enacted. Why should these 
 ten have all the power in their own hands ? Why should these 
 questions of life and death be remitted to them, to the exclusion 
 of those other three ? And if this family of Kellys were doomed, 
 why should there not be other families of other Kellys, — why 
 not their own families? And if Kerrycullion were made to 
 
294 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 swim in blood, — for that was the name of the townland in which 
 these Kellys lived, — why not any other homestead round the 
 place in which four or five victims may have hidden themselves ? 
 So the three, with mutual whisperings among themselves, with 
 many fears and with much trembling, having obtained some 
 tidings of what was to be done, agreed to follow and to see. It 
 was whispered about that one of the family, the poor man's 
 wife, probably, had seen the attack made upon poor Pat Gilligan, 
 and may, or may not, have uttered some threat of vengeance ; 
 may have shown some sign that the murder ought to be made 
 known to someone. Was not Pat Gilligan her sister's husband's 
 brother's child? And he was not one of the other, the rich 
 aristocracy, against whom all men's hands were justly raised. 
 Some such word had probably passed the unfortunate woman's 
 lips, and the ten men had risen against her. The ten men, 
 each protecting each other, had sworn among themselves that 
 so villainous a practice, so glaring an evil as this, of telling 
 aught to the other aristocracy, must be brought to an end. 
 
 But then the three interfered, and it was likely that the 
 other, the rich aristocracy, should now know all about it. It 
 was not to save the lives of those unfortunate women and 
 children that they went. There would be danger in that. And 
 though the women and children were, at any rate, their near 
 neighbours, why should they attempt to interfere and incur 
 manifest dangers on their account ? But they would creep 
 along and see, and then they could tell ; or should they be 
 disturbed in their employment, they could escape amidst the- 
 darkness of the night. There could be no escape for those 
 poor wretches, stripped in their bed ; none for that aged woman, 
 who could not take herself away from among the guns and 
 rocks of her pursuers ; none for those poor children ; none, 
 indeed, for the father of the family, upon whom the ten would 
 come in his lair. If his wife had threatened to tell, he must pay 
 for his wife's garrulity. Pat Gilligan had suffered for some such 
 offence, and it was but just that she and he and they should 
 suffer also. But the three might have to suffer, also, in their 
 turns, if they consented to subject themselves to so bloody an 
 aristocracy. And therefore they stalked forth at night and 
 went up to Kerrycullion, at the heels of the other party, and 
 saw it all. Now, one after another, the six were killed, or all 
 but killed, and then the three went back to their homes, resolved 
 that they would have recourse to the other aristocracy. 
 
 Between Galway and Cong and Kerrycullion, Hunter was 
 kept going in these days so as to obtain always the latest 
 information for his master. For, though the neighbourhood of 
 Morony Castle was now supposed to be quiet, and though the 
 Captain was not at the moment on active service, Hunter was 
 still allowed to remain with him. And, indeed, Captain Clayton's 
 
KERR YCULLION. 
 
 295 
 
 opinion was esteemed so highly, that, though he could do 
 nothing, he was in truth on active service. " They are sticking 
 to their story, all through ? " he asked Hunter, or rather 
 communicated the fact to Hunter for his benefit. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! sir ; they stick to their story. There is no doubt 
 about them now. They can't go back." 
 
 " And that boy can talk now ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he can talk a little." 
 
 " And what he says agrees with the three men ? There will 
 be no more murders in that county, Hunter, or in County 
 Galway either. When they have once learned to think it 
 possible that one man may tell of another, there will be an end 
 to that little game. But they must hang them of course." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! sir," said Hunter. " I'd hang them myself ; the 
 whole ten of them, rather than keep them waiting." 
 
 " The trial is to be in Dublin. Before that day comes we 
 shall find what they do about Lax. I don't suppose they will 
 want me ; or if they did, for the matter of that, I could go 
 myself as well as ever." 
 
 " You could do nothing of the kind, Captain Clayton," said 
 Edith, who was sitting there. " It is absurd to hear you talk in 
 such a way." 
 
 " I don't suppose he could just go up to Dublin, miss," said 
 Hunter. 
 
 " Not for life and death ? " roared the sick man. 
 
 " I suppose you could for life and death," said Hunter, — 
 with a little caution. 
 
 " For his own death he could," said Edith. " But it's the 
 death of other people that he is thinking of now." 
 
 "And you, what are you thinking of? " 
 
 " To tell the truth, just at this moment I was thinking of 
 yours. You are here under our keeping, and as long as you 
 remain so, we are bound to do what we can to keep you from 
 killing yourself ; you ought to be in your bed." 
 
 "Tucked up all round, — and you ought to be giving me 
 gruel." Then Hunter simpered and went away. He generally 
 did go away when the love-scenes began. 
 
 " You could give one something which would cure me 
 instantly." 
 
 " No, I could not ! There are no such instant cures known 
 in the medical world for a man who has had a hole right through 
 him." 
 
 " That bullet will certainly be immortal." 
 
 " But you will not if you talk of going up to Dublin." 
 
 " Edith, a kiss would cure me." 
 
 " Captain Clayton, you are in circumstances which should 
 prevent you from alluding to any such thing. I am here to 
 nurse you, and I should not be insulted." 
 
296 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 " That is true," he said. * And if it be an insult to tell you 
 what a kiss would do for me, I withdraw the word. But the 
 feeling it would convey, that you had in truth given yourself to 
 me, that you were really, really my own, would I think cure me, 
 though a dozen bullets had gone through me." 
 
 Then when Ada had come down, Edith went to her bed- 
 room, and kissed the pillow, instead, of him. Oh, if it might be 
 granted to her to go to him, and frankly to confess, that she was 
 all, all his own ! And she felt, as days went on, she would 
 have to yield, though honour still told her that she should never 
 do so. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE NEW ARISTOCRACY FAILS. 
 
 From this moment the mystery of the new aristocracy began to 
 fade away, and get itself abolished. Men and women began to 
 feel that there might be something worse in store for them than 
 the old course of policemen, juries, and judges. It had seemed, 
 at first, as though these evil things could be brought to an end, 
 and silenced altogether as far as their blessed country was con- 
 cerned. A time was coming in which everyone was to do as 
 he pleased, without any fear that another should tell of him. 
 Though a man should be seen in the broad daylight cutting 
 the tails off half a score of oxen it would be recognised in the 
 neighbourhood as no more than a fair act of vengeance, and 
 nothing should be told of the deed, let the policemen busy 
 themselves as they might. And the beauty of the system con- 
 sisted in the fact that the fear of telling was brought home to 
 the minds of all men, women, and children. Though it was 
 certain that a woman had seen a cow's tail mangled, though it 
 could be proved beyond all doubt that she was in the field when 
 the deed was done, yet if she held her peace no punishment 
 would await her. The policemen and the magistrate could do 
 nothing to her. But Thady O'Leary, the man who had cut a 
 cow's tail off, could certainly punish her. If nothing else were 
 done she could be boycotted, or, in other words, not allowed to 
 buy or sell the necessaries of life. Or she could herself be mur- 
 dered, as had happened to Pat Gilligan. The whole thing had 
 seemed to run so smoothly ! 
 
 But now there had come, or would soon come, a change o'er 
 the spirit of the dream. The murder of Pat Gilligan, though it 
 had made one in the necessary sequence of events, one act in 
 the course of the drama which, as a whole, had appeared to be 
 
THE NEW ARISTOCRACY FAILS, 
 
 297 
 
 so perfect, seemed to them all to have about it something terrible. 
 No one knew what offence Pat Gilligan had given, or why he 
 had been condemned. Each man began to tremble as he 
 thought that he too might be a Pat Gilligan, and each woman 
 that she might be a Mrs. Kelly. It was better to go back to the 
 police and the magistrates than this ! 
 
 I do not know that we need lean too heavily on the stupidity 
 of the country's side in not having perceived that this would be 
 so. The country's side is very slow in perceiving the course 
 which things will take. These ten murderers had been brought 
 together, each from fear of the others ; and they must have felt 
 that though they were ten, — a number so great when they con- 
 sidered the employment on which they were engaged as to cause 
 horror to the minds of all of them, — the ten could not include 
 all who should have been included. Had the other three been 
 taken in, if that were possible, how much better it would have 
 been ! But the desire for murder had not gone so far, — its 
 beauty had not been so perfectly acknowledged as to make it 
 even yet possible to comprise a whole parish in destroying one 
 family. 
 
 Then the three had seen that the whole scheme, the mystery 
 of the thing, the very plan upon which it was founded, must be 
 broken down and thrown to the winds. And we can imagine 
 that, when the idea first came upon the minds of those three, 
 that the entire family of the Kellys was to be sacrificed to stop 
 the tongue of one talkative old woman, a horror must have 
 fallen upon them as they recognised the duty which was incum- 
 bent on them. The duty of saving those six unfortunates they 
 did not recognise. They could not screw themselves up to the 
 necessary pitch of courage to enable them to enter in among 
 loaded pistols and black-visaged murderers. The two women 
 and the children had to die, though the three men were so close 
 to them ; so close as to have been certainly able to save them, 
 or some of them, had they rushed into the cabin'and created the 
 confusion of another advent. To this they could not bring them- 
 selves, for are not the murderers armed ? But an awful horror 
 must have crept round their minds as they thought of the self- 
 imposed task they had undertaken. They waited until the 
 murders had been completed, and then they went back home 
 and told the police. 
 
 From this moment the mystery by which murders in County 
 Galway and elsewhere were for a short period protected was 
 over in Ireland. Men have not seen, as yet, how much more 
 lovely it is to tell frankly all that has been done, to give openly 
 such evidence as a man may have to police magistrates and 
 justices of the peace, than to keep anything wrapped within his 
 own bosom. The charm of such outspoken truth does not 
 reconcile itself at once to the untrained mind ; but the fact of 
 
298 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 the loveliness does gradually creep in, and the hideous ugliness 
 of the other venture. On the minds of those men of Kerrycullion 
 something of the ugliness and something of the loveliness must 
 have made itself apparent. And when this had been done it 
 was not probable that a return to the utter ugliness of the lie 
 should be possible. Whether the ten be hanged, — to the 
 intense satisfaction of Hunter and his master, — or some fewer 
 number, such as may suffice the mitigated desire for revenge 
 which at present is burning in the breasts of men, the thing 
 will have been done, and the mystery with all its beauty will 
 have passed away. 
 
 At Castle Morony the beginning of the passing away of the 
 mystery was hailed with great delight. It took place in this 
 wise. A little girl who had been brought up there in the 
 kitchen, and had reached the age of fifteen under the eyes of 
 Ada and Edith, — a slip of a girl, whose feet our two girls had 
 begun to trammel with shoes and stockings, and who was old 
 enough to be proud of the finery though she could not bear the 
 confinement, — had gone under the system of boycotting, when 
 all the other servants had gone also. Peter, who was very 
 stern in his discipline to the younger people, had caught hold 
 of her before she went, and had brought her to Mr. Jones, 
 recommending that at any rate her dress should be stripped 
 from her back, and her shoes and stockings from her feet. " If 
 you war to wallop her, sir, into the bargain, it would be a good 
 deed done," Peter had said to his master. 
 
 " Why should I wallop her for leaving my service ? " 
 
 " She ain't guv' no notice," said the indignant Peter. 
 
 "And if I were to wallop you because you had taken it into 
 your stupid head to leave me at a moment's notice, should I be 
 justified in doing so?" 
 
 " There is differences," said Peter, drawing himself up. 
 
 " You are stronger, you mean, and Feemy Carroll is weak. 
 Let her go her own gait as she pleases. How am I to take 
 upon myself to say that she is not right to go ? And for the 
 shoes and stockings, let them go with her, and the dress also, 
 if I am supposed to have any property in it. Fancy a Land- 
 leaguer in Parliament asking an indignant question as to my 
 detaining forcibly an unwilling female servant. Let them all 
 go ; the sooner we learn to serve ourselves the better for us. I 
 suppose you will go too before long." 
 
 This had been unkind, and Peter had made a speech in 
 which he had said so. But the little affair had taken place in 
 the beginning of the boycotting disarrangements, and Mr. Jones 
 had been bitter in spirit. Now the girls had shown how deftly 
 they could do the work, and had begun to talk pleasantly how 
 well they could manage to save the wages and the food. " It's 
 my food you'll have to save, and my wages," said Captain 
 
THE NEW ARISTOCRACY FAILS. 
 
 Clayton. But this had been before he had a hole driven through 
 him, and he was only awed by a frown. 
 
 But now news was brought in that Feemy had crept in at 
 the back door. "Drat her imperence," said Peter, who brought 
 in the news. " It's like her ways to come when she can't get a 
 morsel of wholesome food elsewhere." 
 
 Then Ada and Edith had rushed off to lay hold of the 
 delinquent, who had indeed left a feeling in the hearts of her 
 mistresses of some love for her little foibles. " Oh ! Feemy, so 
 you've come back again," said Ada, "and you've grown so big!" 
 But Feemy cowered and said not a word. " What have you 
 been doing all the time ?" said Edith. " Miss Ada and I have 
 had to clean out all the pots and all the pans, and all the grid- 
 irons, though for the matter of that there has been very little to 
 cook on them." Then Ada asked the girl whether she intended 
 to come back to her old place. 
 
 " If I'm let," said the girl, bursting into tears. 
 
 " Where are the shoes and stockings ? " said Ada. 
 
 But the girl only wept. 
 
 u Of course you shall come back, shoes or no shoes. I 
 suppose times have been too hard with you at home to think 
 much of shoes or stockings. Since your poor cousin was shot 
 in jail," — for Feemy was a cousin of the tribe of Carrolls, — " I 
 fear it hasn't gone very well with you all." But to this Feemy 
 had only answered by renewed sobs. She had, however, from 
 that moment taken up her residence as of yore in the old house, 
 and had gone about her business just as though no boycotting 
 edict had been pronounced against Castle Morony. 
 
 And gradually the other servants had returned, falling back 
 into their places almost without a word spoken. One boy, who 
 had in former days looked after the cows, absolutely did come 
 and drive them in to be milked one morning without saying a 
 word. 
 
 " And who are you, you young deevil ?" said Peter to him. 
 " Fm just Larry O'Brien." 
 
 "And what business have you here?" said Peter. "How 
 many months ago is it since last year you took yourself off with- 
 out even a word said to man or woman ? Who wants you back 
 again now, I wonder ? " 
 
 The boy, who had grown half-way to a man since he had 
 taken his departure, made no further answer, but went on with 
 the milking of his cows. 
 
 And the old cook came back again from Galway, though she 
 came after the writing of a letter which must have taken her long 
 to compose, and the saying of many words. 
 
 " Honoured Miss," the letter went, " I've been at Peter 
 Corcoran's doing work any time these twelve months. And 
 glad I've been to find a hole to creep into. But Peter Cor- 
 
3oo 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 coran's house isn't like Castle Morony, and so IVe told him 
 scores of times. But Peter is one of them Land-leaguers, and 
 is like to be bruk', horse, foot, and dragoons, bekaise he 
 wouldn't serve the gentry. May the deevil go along with him, 
 and with his pollytiks. Sure you know, miss, they wouldn't let 
 me stay at Castle Morony. Wasn't one side in pollitiks the same 
 as another to an old woman like me, who only wants to 'arn her 
 bit and her sup ? I don't care the vally of a tobacco-pipe for 
 none of them now. So if the squire would take me back again, 
 may God bless him for iver and iver, say I." Then this letter 
 was signed Judy Corcoran, — for she too was of the family of the 
 Corcorans, — and became the matter for many arrangements, in 
 the course of which she once more was put into office as cook at 
 Castle Morony. 
 
 Then Edith wrote the following letter to her friend Rachel, 
 who still remained in London, partly because of her health and 
 partly because her father had not yet quite settled his political 
 affairs. But that shall be explained in another chapter. 
 
 "Dearest Rachel, 
 
 " Here we are beginning to see daylight, after having 
 been buried in Cimmerian darkness for the best part of two 
 years. I never thought how possible it would be to get along 
 without servants to look after us, and how much of the pleasures 
 of life might come without any of its comforts. Ada and I for 
 many months have made every bed that has been slept in in 
 the house, till we have come to think that the making of beds is 
 the proper employment for ladies. And every bit of food has 
 been cooked by us, till that too has become ladylike in our eyes. 
 And it has been done for papa, who has, I think, liked his bed 
 and his dinner all the better, because they have passed through 
 his daughters' hands. But, dear papa ! I'm afraid he has not 
 borne the Cimmerian darkness as well as have we, who have 
 been young enough to look forward to the return of something 
 better. 
 
 " What am I to say to you about Frank, who will not talk 
 much of your perfections, though he is always thinking of them ? 
 I believe he writes to you constantly, though what he says, 
 or of what nature it is, I can only guess. I presume he does 
 not send many messages to Lord Castlewell, who, however, as 
 far as I can see, has behaved beautifully. What more can a 
 girl want than to have a lord to fall in love with her, and to give 
 her up just as her inclination may declare itself? 
 
 "What I write for now, specially, is to add a word to 
 what I presume Frank may have said in one of his letters. 
 Papa says that neither you nor Mr. O'Mahony are to think 
 of leaving this side of the water without coming down to 
 Castle Morony. We have got a cook now, and a cow-boy. 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 301 
 
 What more can you want ? And old Peter is here still, always 
 talking about the infinite things which he has done for the 
 Jones family. Joking apart, you must of course come and see 
 us again once before you start for New York. Is Frank to go 
 with you ? That is a question to which we can get no answer 
 at all from Frank himself. 
 
 " In your last you asked me about my affairs. Dear girl, I 
 have no affairs. I am in such a position that it is impossible 
 for me to have what you would call affairs. Between you and 
 Frank everything is settled. Between me and the man to whom 
 you allude there is nothing settled, except that there is no ground 
 for settlement. He must go one way and I another. It is very 
 sad, you will say. I, however, have done it for myself, and I 
 must bear the burden. 
 
 " Yours always lovingly, 
 
 "Edith." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Mr. Jones succumbed altogether 
 to the difficulties which circumstances had placed in his way. 
 His feelings had been much hurt both by those who had chosen 
 to call themselves his enemies and by his friends, and under 
 such usage he became somewhat sullen. Having suffered a 
 grievous misfortune he had become violent with his children, 
 and had been more severely hurt by the death of the poor boy 
 who had been murdered than he had confessed. But he had still 
 struggled on, saying but little to anybody till at last he had 
 taken Frank into his confidence, when Frank had returned from 
 London with his marriage engagement dissolved. And the re- 
 engagement had not at all interfered with the renewed intimacy 
 between Frank and his father, because the girl was absolved 
 from her singing. The father had feared the son would go away 
 from him, and lead an idle life, enjoying the luxuries which her 
 rich salary would purchase. Frank had shared his father's 
 feelings in this respect, but still the squire had had his mis- 
 givings. All that was now set to rights by the absolute 
 destruction of poor Rachel's voice. 
 
 Poor Mr. Jones had indeed received comfort from other 
 sources more material than this. His relatives had put their 
 heads together, and had agreed to bear some part of the loss 
 which had fallen upon the estate ; not the loss, that is, from the 
 submerged meadows, which was indeed Mr. Jones's own private 
 concern, but from the injury done to him by the commissioners. 
 Indeed, as things went on, that injury appeared to be less ex- 
 
302 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 tensive than had been imagined, though the injustice, as it 
 struck Mr. Jones's mind, was not less egregious. Where there 
 was a shred of a lease the sub-commissioners were powerless, 
 and though attempts had been made to break the leases they 
 had failed ; and men were beginning to say that the new law 
 would be comparatively powerless because it would do so little. 
 The advocates for the law pointed out that, taking the land of 
 Ireland all through, not five per cent, and again others not two 
 per cent, would be affected by it. Whether it had been worth 
 while to disturb the sanctity of contracts for so small a result 
 is another question ; but our Mr. Jones certainly did feel the 
 comfort that came to him from the fact. Certain fragments 
 of land had been reduced by the sub-commissioners after 
 ponderous sittings, very beneficial to the lawyers, but which 
 Mr. Jones had found to be grievously costly to him. He 
 had thus agreed to other reductions without the lawyers, 
 and felt those also to be very grievous, seeing that since 
 he had purchased the property with a Parliamentary title 
 he had raised nothing. There was no satisfaction to him 
 when he was told that a Parliamentary title meant nothing, 
 because a following Parliament could undo what a preceding 
 Parliament had done. But as the arrangements went on he 
 came to find that no large proportion of the estates would be 
 affected, and that gradually the rents would be paid. They had 
 not been paid as yet, but such he was told was the coming 
 prospect. Pat Carroll had risen up as a great authority at 
 Ballmtubber, and had refused to pay a shilling. He had also 
 destroyed those eighty acres of meadow-land which had sat so 
 near Mr. Jones's heart. It had been found impossible to punish 
 him, but the impossibility was to be traced to that poor boy's 
 delinquency. As the owner of the property turned it all over 
 within his own bosom, he told himself that it was so. It was 
 that that had grieved him most, that which still sat heavy on 
 his heart. But the boy was gone, and Pat Carroll was in prison, 
 and Pat Carroll's brother had been murdered in Galway court- 
 house. Lax, too, was in prison, and Yorke Clayton swore by 
 all his gods that he should be hanged. It was likely that he 
 would be hanged, and Yorke Clayton might find his comfort in 
 that. And now had come up this terrible affair at Kerrycullion, 
 from which it was probable that the whole mystery of the new 
 aristocracy would be abandoned. Mr. Jones, as he thought of 
 it all, whispered to himself that if he would still hold up his 
 head, life might yet be possible at Castle Morony. " It will 
 only be for myself,— only for myself and Ada," he said, still 
 mourning greatly over his fate. " And Ada will go, too. The 
 beauty of the flock will never be left to remain here with her 
 father." But in truth his regrets were chiefly for Edith. If 
 that bloodthirsty Captain would have made himself satisfied 
 with Ada, he might still have been happy. 
 
THE LAND-LEAGUERS, 
 
 303 
 
 In these days he would walk down frequently to the meadows 
 and see the work which the men were doing. He had greatly 
 enlarged them, having borrowed money for the purpose from the 
 Government Land Commissioners, and was once again allowing 
 new hopes to spring irr his heart. Though he was a man so 
 silent, and appearing to be so apathetic, he was intent enough 
 on his own purposes when they became clear before his eyes. 
 From his first coming into this country his purport had been to 
 do good, as far as the radius of his circle went, to all whom it 
 included. The necessity of living was no doubt the same with 
 him as with others, — and of living well. He must do some- 
 thing for himself and his children. But together with this was 
 the desire, nearly equally strong, of being a benefactor to those 
 around him. He had declared to himself when he bought the 
 property that with this object would he settle himself down 
 upon it, and he had not departed from it. He had brought up 
 his children with this purpose ; and they had learned to feel, 
 one and all, that it was among the pleasures and the duties of 
 their life. Then had come Pat Carroll, and everything had 
 been embittered for him. All Ballintubber and all Morony 
 had seemed to turn against him. When he found that Pat 
 Carroll was disposed to be hostile to him, he made the man a 
 liberal offer to take himself off to America. But Mr. Jones, in 
 those days, had heard nothing of Lax, and was unaware that 
 Lax was a dominant spirit under whom he was doomed to 
 suffer. 
 
 " I did not know you so well then," said Captain Clayton to 
 Mr. Jones, now some weeks hence, " or I could have told you 
 that Pat Carroll is nobody. Pat Carroll is considered nobody, 
 because he has not been to New York. Mr. Lax has travelled, 
 and Mr. Lax is somebody. Mr. Lax settled himself in County 
 Mayo, and thus he allowed his influence to spread itself among 
 us over here in County Galway. Mr. Lax is a great man, but I 
 rather think that he will have to be hanged in Galway jail 
 before a month has passed over his head." 
 
 Mr. Jones usually took his son with him when he walked 
 about among the meadows, and he again expressed his 
 wishes to him as though Frank hereafter were to have the 
 management of everything. But on one occasion, towards the 
 latter half of the afternoon, he went alone. There were different 
 wooden barriers, having sluice gates passing between them, 
 over which he would walk, and at present there were sheep on 
 the upper meadows, on which the luxuriant grass had begun to 
 grow in the early summer. He was looking at his sheep now, 
 and thinking to himself that he could find a market for them in 
 spite of all that the boycotters could do to prevent him. But 
 in one corner, where the meadows ceased, and Pat Carroll's 
 land began, he met an old man whom he had known well in 
 former years, named Con Heffernan. It was absolutely the 
 
304 
 
 THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 case that he, the landlord, did not at the present moment know 
 who occupied Pat Carroll's land, though he did know that he 
 had received no rent for the last three years. And he knew 
 also that Con Heffernan was a friend of Carroll's, or, as he 
 believed, a distant cousin. And he knew also that Con was 
 supposed to have been one of those who had assisted at the 
 destruction of the sluice gates. 
 
 " Well, Con, how are you ? " he said. 
 
 " Why thin, yer honour, I'm only puirly. It's bad times as 
 is on us now, indeed and indeed." 
 
 "Whose fault is that ?" said the squire. 
 
 " Not yer honour's. I will allys say that for your honour. 
 You never did nothing to none of us." 
 
 " You had land on the estate till some twelve months since, 
 and then you were evicted for five gales of rent." 
 
 " That's thrue, too, yer honour." 
 
 a You ought to be a rich man now, seeing that you have got 
 two-and-a-half years' rent in your pocket, and I ought to be 
 poor, seeing that I've got none of it." 
 
 "Is it puir for yer honour, and is it rich for the like 
 ofme?" 
 
 " What have you done with the money, Con, — the five gales 
 of rent ? " 
 
 "'Deed, yer honour, and I don't be just knowing anything 
 about it." 
 
 " I suppose the Land-leaguers have had some of it ?" 
 
 " I suppose they have, thin ; the black divil run away with 
 them for Laaguers ! " 
 
 u Have you quarrelled with the League, Con ? " 
 
 " I have quarrelled with a'most of the things which is a-going 
 at the present moment." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that, as quarrels with old friends are always, 
 bad." 
 
 " The Laague, then, isn't any such old friend of mine. I 
 niver heerd of the Laague, not till nigh three years ago. What 
 with Faynians, and Moonlighters, and Home-Rulers, and now 
 with thim Laaguers, they don't lave a por boy any pace." 
 ***** 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 In a preliminary note to the first volume I stated why this last written 
 novel of my father's was never completed. He had intended that Yorke 
 Clayton should marry Edith Jones, that Frank Jones should marry Rachel 
 O'Mahony, and that Lax should be hanged for the murder of Florian 
 Jones ; but no other coming incident, or further unravelling of the story, 
 is known. — H.M.T. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. 
 
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